A much longer piece on the Euros of 1996 is posted below, capturing the flavour of our 8 games during the group stages, but with England playing Scotland again at the delayed Euro 2020 competition, I pull out this particular days diary entry by way of reliving the last time around.
SATURDAY 15th JUNE
This morning there is an air of boyish excitement, mingled with a degree of apprehension as the early start south to London commenced. Failure was not contemplated, Scotland were going to do it!
After picking up Andy and Nancy, we headed for Scots Corner in London, the time honoured take over of Trafalgar Square, where anything up to 3,000 of us had gathered. The local pigeons were flying around somewhat miffed that they’d lost their territory for a day. We enjoyed the spectacle for some time, alas with my need to drive, partaking of a bevvy was scuppered. Andy and I headed off to Wembley, leaving Martin to field Nancy and find a bar where it would be safe to watch.
The fans of both teams mingled and chatted en route, all very reminiscent of prior matches at the tournament. The media had been hyping the whole game as a potential flashpoint, but this seemed out of proportion, thankfully there would be no trouble.
The walk up to Wembley is more spectacular than the ground itself. We met Murdo MacLeod, saw Alex Smith and actor Tony Roper, as well as a couple of cultural photo exchanges with a group of Czech’s excited to be going to this encounter. Kenny Campbell spotted my Caley shirt (I wouldn’t wear a club shirt now, but we were a wee team then, and it was a winner, with slaps on the back and handshakes from random passersby) and came running across, which was brilliant to see him.
The game itself will be documented elsewhere, suffice is to say we were perhaps just one kick from happiness. Alas it was not to be, another sporting tragedy in the pantheon of Scottish failures. It just felt we were perennially losers, sadly. I know Martin had a difficult time fielding quietly anti Scottish chat in the bar they had been watching, and by the time we rendez-voused, his anger hadn’t abated very much.
Wembley is a creaking old football arena. Perhaps it was once the pinnacle of any English player’s career to play on it’s hallowed turf, but for the fans turning out to watch, it’s in a desperate dilapidated state. Have I been spoiled by my visits to the San Siro or the Olympic Stadium in Roma? Either way, the walk towards the twin towers is a better experience than being inside! (Andy and I’s next match together was a few months later in the Azteca, Mexico City, an awe-inspiring venue).
The numbers didn’t come up for Scotland, upon the final whistle we had come up short of the trees, and we weren’t hanging around to applaud another plucky loss. One moment changed the game’s direction irreversibly, and whether the ball moved just as Gary trotted up to hit it is debatable, but the moment was shoved down our throat and some as Gascoigne scored a wonder goal moments later. 2-0, we were dead in the water, no way back.
The menacing presence of “casuals” and police on the streets afterwards made the notion of being Scottish a dangerous thing for a short time, but we sped out of London deflated, but it had been an incredible experience. The half-time period will live long in the memory, where the music, coupled with the Tartan Army who ended up as the entertainment. It was both hilarious and absolutely superb, you could see the English fans smiling and laughing at our dance moves to Tequila!
Thanks to Andy for this rare opportunity to be at this game, it didn’t go our way, but it will never be forgotten.
Football Adventures with James Rendall 