Much as I enjoy writing about all things trashy, whoreish and trash whoreish in The Trash Whore Diaries, I do also have a life to lead outwith my weblog. With a baby to change and a girlfriend to mollify (or is it the other way round?) I'm kept pretty busy these days. So busy in fact I occasionally find myself longing for the good old days in Craigie, when I could bash out two 1,000-word blogs a day and still have enough time for a gym session and a hearty nap before dinnertime. Nevertheless, this busy life I lead does have some things going for it. Like sex, which has been known to happen on occasion, when the baby is asleep, the girlfriend is at home and in the mood, it's not that time of the month and the planets have aligned to bestow me with a ball-draining. Judging by the text my girlfriend just sent me from her work, it would appear that today is just such a day. I had been planning on bashing out a blog, but after reading her lascivious message, I decided my time would be better spent bashing out a quick one and and then washing my knob before she gets home and climbs aboard, promptly dirtying it up again. But don't worry, in all the excitement over my impending emptying I haven't forgotten about you entirely. To tide you over until tomorrow, I leave you with this - the article I wrote for last month's Red Final. While I'm scoring at home, you can read all about scoring from the comfort of your own home, for the article you are about to ogle is on the subject of goalscoring celebrations. Excited? You should be, but not as excited as me. I'm hard already, but that's because I'm off for a pre-sex wank to prevent premature ejaculation when the main event commences later. Just think; by the time you've finished reading this article, my spunk will be sticking to the wash basin.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy getting to grips with my piece. I know I certainly will...
You don’t see it at Pittodrie, Tynecastle or Ibrox. You rarely see it at Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford or the Nou Camp. You certainly never see it at Allan Park or Borough Briggs. And yet it is the scourge of the modern game we like to call fitba, afflicting every club the length and girth of the country. I’m not talking about venal agents, avaricious players or endemic simulation. (That’s diving to me and you. As pejoratives go, ‘Simulating bastard!’ doesn't quite have the same ring to it.) The problem that weighs heavily on my mind is more serious than that for it strikes at the very heart of the game, spoiling the sacred act of scoring, football’s apotheosis. And yet in spite of the pervasiveness of this scourge, you won’t see it at any of the aforementioned stadiums for, like dwindling attendances, it is a problem that is conspicuous by its absence - the goalscoring celebration. As sure as sectarian singing follows Her Majesty's huns, celebration follows the act of scoring. After all, if you can’t celebrate your team sticking one past the opposition, what can you celebrate? Admittedly, if you’re Bernd Schneider, having just put the thirteenth past San Marino, the celebration might be more muted than most. Otherwise, however, it’s bums off seats and hands in the air time. It doesn’t matter which team you support, be it Aberdeen or Arsenal, if you persevere for long enough, you’ll eventually be rewarded with a goal to celebrate. Yes, even at Pittodrie it is possible to witness such a wondrous spectacle, provided you stay until the bitterly cold end. And when such a moment does transpire, it will invariably be accompanied by fists raised in jubilation, arms extended in triumph and shirts grabbed in elation, as all goals have been marked since football began. And therein lies the problem.
In recent years, football has moved on. The clothing has changed, the hairstyles have changed, the stadiums have changed, hell even the rules have changed. The only thing that is still stuck in the Dark Ages (OK, make that the 19th century) is the goalscoring celebration. And frankly, it’s starting to jar. What was once a spontaneous outpouring of elation has become an ossified exercise in banality. Instead of galvanic displays of exuberance, we are treated to enervating reprises of the previous Saturday’s half-arsed celebration, the same one that was rolled out the Saturday before that and the whole season before that. While there are only so many ways to score a goal (in spite of Jamie Langfield’s calamitous attempts to conjure some new ones), there are an infinite number of ways to celebrate one. Or at least so you would have thought. Yet what do we get, at Pittodrie on a Saturday afternoon and on the Premiership highlights on a Saturday night? Arms in the air and hugs all round. Professional footballers can be wonderfully creative when it comes to being tackled in the box, yet the moment the ball hits the back of the net from the resultant penalty, they suddenly come across all gauche, exhibiting all the grace of a Buckied-up ned pegging it from the cops, as they attempt to run the length of the pitch only to be pulled back by their team-mates, who are hell-bent on wrestling them to the ground. In the end, the exuberant scorer gets as far as the halfway line before having his jersey pulled off his back by his equally exuberant team-mates. That’s not a celebration; that’s a stramash.
A good celebration makes a bad goal good and a good goal better. It is the Wonderbra of football, covering a multitude of sins. Just scuffed a mis-hit cross that fluked in? Expiate it with a memorable celebration. Unleashed a 40-yard screamer into the postage stamp corner? Ice it with an equally stunning celebration. A good celebration can both atone for and complement everything that has gone before, be it a penalty-box scramble or an unstoppable piledriver. Robbie Fowler’s penalty spot-snorting celebration has been etched into football folklore but who can recall the goal? And everyone remembers the drug-crazed phiz of Maradonna charging towards the camera at World Cup 98 (except for Maradonna of course) but what about the goal that precipitated it? Goals, by their very nature, are ephemeral. One is quickly forgotten about as soon as it is supplanted by the next, unless you’re Gary Dempsey, in which case every goal is to be celebrated as if it were the last night of your life, the stag do that precedes 50 years of wedded hell. (I had been intending on making Darren Mackie the butt of all my goal drought jokes but the sleekit bastard appears to have rediscovered - or rather discovered - his scoring touch in recent weeks.) And yet, in the 21st century, the goalscoring celebration has become more hackneyed than Setanta’s football punditry. As a case in point, pick a football match - any football match - and watch what happens when the ball hits the back of the net. If I was a betting man (which I was until my missus cut up all my cards and cancelled my Ladbrokes account), I’d lay a tenner that the goal will be accompanied by one of the following celebrations:
1. Hands Up.
2. Bodies Down.
3. Babies Out.
Hand Up incorporates all celebrations in which arms are raised in jubilation; punching the air, salutary waves to the crowd and other such scintillating variations. Bodies Down covers all celebrations in which the players end up prostrate on the pitch, either by sliding along the grass, diving on top of one another or simply lying on their backs with their arms in the air. Babies Out is a unique celebration that used to be reserved for special occasions - i.e. following the birth of a child - but now seems to be wheeled out every weekend. One can only assume that it has become as common as Cockneys due to the high number of illegitimate kids fathered by professional footballers these days. The Babies Out celebration consists of one or more players extending their arms and moving them from side to side as if rocking a baby to sleep. The perpetrators of such choreographed observances clearly know nothing about parenting or they wouldn’t simulate rocking a baby to sleep with a violent action more akin to lobbing it into the canal inside a bag of bricks. Rock a baby like that in real life and you’ll get charged with infanticide. Perhaps a more appropriate celebration would be an exaggerated signing motion, as if writing a cheque to pay for child maintenance. Not only would this gesture signal that the father was absolved of all other parental responsibilities, such as rocking the baby to sleep, but it would make for a more joyous celebration, smug in the knowledge that the goalscoring bonus will easily cover the child maintenance and still leave some for champagne and strippers. It’s certainly one for Neil Lennon to bear in mind, for the next time he manages a goal, the chances are he’ll have spunked out a few more illegitimate brats of the ginger variety.
To find a celebration that doesn’t conform to the three trite models described above requires a trip to the most incongruous location - The City of Manchester stadium. Not known for their scoring prowess, Man City are one of the few Premiership clubs to eschew mealy-mouthed celebrations for making a three-course meal of it. Recent notable flourishes include City’s late equaliser at Everton, in which Joey Barton mooned at the crowd. The gesture came naturally to the Scouser, who is accustomed to baring his arse, albeit in the cop shop for a rubber-gloved official to reach in and remove the narcotics stashed within. The Everton fans were less enamoured with Barton however, possibly because they feared he was going to follow through and ruin their pristine pitch. Then there’s Man City’s commemorative corner flag series. First came Corradi’s in the 3-1 victory over Fulham. After scoring, the Italian removed the corner flag and knighted his team-mates with it. A few days later, against Villa, Corradi again interfered with the corner flag after scoring, this time playing it as a guitar. Sadly, most Premiership footballers are more blasé when it comes to celebrating. Consider Thierry Henry, whose celebrations are so nonchalant that they are hardly worthy of being called celebrations; acknowledgements would be more appropriate. Henry doesn’t shrug off his achievements because they come so easily to him. Rather, he plays it cool because he doesn’t want to look like a dick for over-celebrating if the effort is subsequently disallowed, as happened to Didier Drogba. After hitting the back of the net, the Chelsea striker ran the length of the goal line gesticulating wildly to the fans to share in his moment of glory. The only trouble was, the fans weren’t gesticulating back, for like everyone else in the stadium, they had seen the linesman’s raised flag. But there’s also another reason why Thierry Henry and his ilk serve up such lacklustre celebrations - because they are not obliged to. You see, teams like Arsenal don’t need stunning goals complete with matching celebrations to enjoy the game; they’ve always got the dainty passes and pretty stadium to ooh and aah at. At Pittodrie, goals are essential in order to restore circulation to fingers and toes and erase all memory of the preceding 80 minutes of shite. (Incidentally, if you’re wondering why this article is so Anglo-centric, it’s because theirs is the only football available to us mortals who can’t afford Setanta. I would love to comment on the goal scoring nuances of the Scottish game, but between attending Pittodrie on a Saturday and watching Scotsport’s blink-and-you-miss-them highlights on a Monday, I’m not party to many SPL celebrations.)
It may seem fatuous to list lame goalscoring celebrations as the greatest malaise affecting football in the 21st century, but then isn’t the game supposed to be about entertainment? If so, then surely such embellishments are as essential as the strike that precipitated them. Despite the attempts of football’s killjoy governing bodies to regulate the act of celebrating, there is still much fun that can be had without players leaving the pitch, removing their tops or flicking a middle digit in the direction of the opposing fans. It’s high time professional footballers stopped celebrating their achievements in insalubrious nightclubs and began celebrating them where it matters - on the pitch. I don’t want to see goals marked with back slapping and handshakes all round; I want celebrations that are actually celebratory; effusive, ebullient, flamboyant or - to put it in plainer English - fucking crazy. Chefs spend hours perfecting their signature dishes, so why can’t more strikers spare a few minutes on the training ground to develop their own signature celebrations? Robbie Keane might have his two-gun salute and Peter Crouch his robot, but these efforts are too lame to count. Coming from the land that invented Morris-dancing however, we should expect nothing less. Surely though the home of Scottish country dancing should be able to conjure up something better? The English clubs might enjoy hegemony over TV rights, media coverage and pecunious foreign investors, but the one thing they can’t monopolise is goal celebrations. Whoever said that the best things in life are free was a scrounging cheapskate, but when it comes to goals, he’s got a point. The ceremony that follows a net-bursting strike should be an unfettered and unmetered celebration of one of life’s best things. No matter which rich oligarch buys out the club, the one thing he can never control is the manner in which goals are memorialised. The day has yet to come when, after opening the scoring, the players line up on the turf to spell out their sponsor’s name. Thus when it comes to celebrating, all teams are on an even playing field. For once, Aberdeen Football Club find themselves in a position to become trendsetters by developing the neglected art of goal aesthetics. Where they lead, other clubs will follow. To perfect their celebratory techniques need only take a few weeks of double training sessions. In the morning, Calderwood and Nicholl can put the squad through their paces, concentrating on fitness and ball control. Then, after lunch, Redz & Co can help the first-team work on their synchronised goal celebration routines. The number of permutations is virtually limitless. They could develop their own corner flag technique for instance; Mackie scores, pushes the flag between his legs and pretends to wank it off. Or better still, offers it to Nicholson to deep throat. Such homoerotic celebrations could win the Dons a whole new fanbase amongst the gay community. Admittedly, some diehards might not be too happy at the idea of sharing Pittodrie with a bunch of limp-wristed turd-burglars, but frankly the club can’t afford to be choosy right now. It’s got to be preferable to opening the whole of the South Stand up to the old firm. If Mackie wants true immortality however, he first needs to stick one past the huns before celebrating by launching the corner flag into the visiting section. As the missile bounces off a blue-nosed coupon and the referee reaches for a card, Aberdeen’s prodigal son can proudly troop off the pitch to chants of ‘Nice one Mackie, nice one son.’ In one fell swoop, the Dons’ most infuriating striker would have become the talk of not only the town but the entire footballing world. Remember when the Klinsmann celebration first caught on? One German dives onto his front and skids across the pitch and suddenly it’s ubiquitous. (Trivia geeks may be interested to know that the correct term for this is a meme; ‘a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition analogous to the biological transmission of genes.’ In other words, Mackie performs his flag-throwing celebration and the next thing you know, kids all over the country are being rushed to A&E with projectiles lodged in their craniums.) Of course, Mackie et al don’t have to resort to flinging corner flags. There are all manner of props that could be used to mark the occasion; they could dry-hump Angus the Bull; perform a pole dance on the goal frame; dive into a puddle and pretend to swim; pick up a sod of turf and apply it like war paint. Aberdeen might not be able to afford 50-foot plasma screens or even a toaster for the players but they can afford a decent celebration. Admission to the game might be a wallet-busting £21 and the match programme a hefty £2, but witnessing Darren Mackie remove the corner flag and pretend to machine gun the visiting support with it would be truly priceless.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy getting to grips with my piece. I know I certainly will...
You don’t see it at Pittodrie, Tynecastle or Ibrox. You rarely see it at Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford or the Nou Camp. You certainly never see it at Allan Park or Borough Briggs. And yet it is the scourge of the modern game we like to call fitba, afflicting every club the length and girth of the country. I’m not talking about venal agents, avaricious players or endemic simulation. (That’s diving to me and you. As pejoratives go, ‘Simulating bastard!’ doesn't quite have the same ring to it.) The problem that weighs heavily on my mind is more serious than that for it strikes at the very heart of the game, spoiling the sacred act of scoring, football’s apotheosis. And yet in spite of the pervasiveness of this scourge, you won’t see it at any of the aforementioned stadiums for, like dwindling attendances, it is a problem that is conspicuous by its absence - the goalscoring celebration. As sure as sectarian singing follows Her Majesty's huns, celebration follows the act of scoring. After all, if you can’t celebrate your team sticking one past the opposition, what can you celebrate? Admittedly, if you’re Bernd Schneider, having just put the thirteenth past San Marino, the celebration might be more muted than most. Otherwise, however, it’s bums off seats and hands in the air time. It doesn’t matter which team you support, be it Aberdeen or Arsenal, if you persevere for long enough, you’ll eventually be rewarded with a goal to celebrate. Yes, even at Pittodrie it is possible to witness such a wondrous spectacle, provided you stay until the bitterly cold end. And when such a moment does transpire, it will invariably be accompanied by fists raised in jubilation, arms extended in triumph and shirts grabbed in elation, as all goals have been marked since football began. And therein lies the problem.
In recent years, football has moved on. The clothing has changed, the hairstyles have changed, the stadiums have changed, hell even the rules have changed. The only thing that is still stuck in the Dark Ages (OK, make that the 19th century) is the goalscoring celebration. And frankly, it’s starting to jar. What was once a spontaneous outpouring of elation has become an ossified exercise in banality. Instead of galvanic displays of exuberance, we are treated to enervating reprises of the previous Saturday’s half-arsed celebration, the same one that was rolled out the Saturday before that and the whole season before that. While there are only so many ways to score a goal (in spite of Jamie Langfield’s calamitous attempts to conjure some new ones), there are an infinite number of ways to celebrate one. Or at least so you would have thought. Yet what do we get, at Pittodrie on a Saturday afternoon and on the Premiership highlights on a Saturday night? Arms in the air and hugs all round. Professional footballers can be wonderfully creative when it comes to being tackled in the box, yet the moment the ball hits the back of the net from the resultant penalty, they suddenly come across all gauche, exhibiting all the grace of a Buckied-up ned pegging it from the cops, as they attempt to run the length of the pitch only to be pulled back by their team-mates, who are hell-bent on wrestling them to the ground. In the end, the exuberant scorer gets as far as the halfway line before having his jersey pulled off his back by his equally exuberant team-mates. That’s not a celebration; that’s a stramash.
A good celebration makes a bad goal good and a good goal better. It is the Wonderbra of football, covering a multitude of sins. Just scuffed a mis-hit cross that fluked in? Expiate it with a memorable celebration. Unleashed a 40-yard screamer into the postage stamp corner? Ice it with an equally stunning celebration. A good celebration can both atone for and complement everything that has gone before, be it a penalty-box scramble or an unstoppable piledriver. Robbie Fowler’s penalty spot-snorting celebration has been etched into football folklore but who can recall the goal? And everyone remembers the drug-crazed phiz of Maradonna charging towards the camera at World Cup 98 (except for Maradonna of course) but what about the goal that precipitated it? Goals, by their very nature, are ephemeral. One is quickly forgotten about as soon as it is supplanted by the next, unless you’re Gary Dempsey, in which case every goal is to be celebrated as if it were the last night of your life, the stag do that precedes 50 years of wedded hell. (I had been intending on making Darren Mackie the butt of all my goal drought jokes but the sleekit bastard appears to have rediscovered - or rather discovered - his scoring touch in recent weeks.) And yet, in the 21st century, the goalscoring celebration has become more hackneyed than Setanta’s football punditry. As a case in point, pick a football match - any football match - and watch what happens when the ball hits the back of the net. If I was a betting man (which I was until my missus cut up all my cards and cancelled my Ladbrokes account), I’d lay a tenner that the goal will be accompanied by one of the following celebrations:
1. Hands Up.
2. Bodies Down.
3. Babies Out.
Hand Up incorporates all celebrations in which arms are raised in jubilation; punching the air, salutary waves to the crowd and other such scintillating variations. Bodies Down covers all celebrations in which the players end up prostrate on the pitch, either by sliding along the grass, diving on top of one another or simply lying on their backs with their arms in the air. Babies Out is a unique celebration that used to be reserved for special occasions - i.e. following the birth of a child - but now seems to be wheeled out every weekend. One can only assume that it has become as common as Cockneys due to the high number of illegitimate kids fathered by professional footballers these days. The Babies Out celebration consists of one or more players extending their arms and moving them from side to side as if rocking a baby to sleep. The perpetrators of such choreographed observances clearly know nothing about parenting or they wouldn’t simulate rocking a baby to sleep with a violent action more akin to lobbing it into the canal inside a bag of bricks. Rock a baby like that in real life and you’ll get charged with infanticide. Perhaps a more appropriate celebration would be an exaggerated signing motion, as if writing a cheque to pay for child maintenance. Not only would this gesture signal that the father was absolved of all other parental responsibilities, such as rocking the baby to sleep, but it would make for a more joyous celebration, smug in the knowledge that the goalscoring bonus will easily cover the child maintenance and still leave some for champagne and strippers. It’s certainly one for Neil Lennon to bear in mind, for the next time he manages a goal, the chances are he’ll have spunked out a few more illegitimate brats of the ginger variety.
To find a celebration that doesn’t conform to the three trite models described above requires a trip to the most incongruous location - The City of Manchester stadium. Not known for their scoring prowess, Man City are one of the few Premiership clubs to eschew mealy-mouthed celebrations for making a three-course meal of it. Recent notable flourishes include City’s late equaliser at Everton, in which Joey Barton mooned at the crowd. The gesture came naturally to the Scouser, who is accustomed to baring his arse, albeit in the cop shop for a rubber-gloved official to reach in and remove the narcotics stashed within. The Everton fans were less enamoured with Barton however, possibly because they feared he was going to follow through and ruin their pristine pitch. Then there’s Man City’s commemorative corner flag series. First came Corradi’s in the 3-1 victory over Fulham. After scoring, the Italian removed the corner flag and knighted his team-mates with it. A few days later, against Villa, Corradi again interfered with the corner flag after scoring, this time playing it as a guitar. Sadly, most Premiership footballers are more blasé when it comes to celebrating. Consider Thierry Henry, whose celebrations are so nonchalant that they are hardly worthy of being called celebrations; acknowledgements would be more appropriate. Henry doesn’t shrug off his achievements because they come so easily to him. Rather, he plays it cool because he doesn’t want to look like a dick for over-celebrating if the effort is subsequently disallowed, as happened to Didier Drogba. After hitting the back of the net, the Chelsea striker ran the length of the goal line gesticulating wildly to the fans to share in his moment of glory. The only trouble was, the fans weren’t gesticulating back, for like everyone else in the stadium, they had seen the linesman’s raised flag. But there’s also another reason why Thierry Henry and his ilk serve up such lacklustre celebrations - because they are not obliged to. You see, teams like Arsenal don’t need stunning goals complete with matching celebrations to enjoy the game; they’ve always got the dainty passes and pretty stadium to ooh and aah at. At Pittodrie, goals are essential in order to restore circulation to fingers and toes and erase all memory of the preceding 80 minutes of shite. (Incidentally, if you’re wondering why this article is so Anglo-centric, it’s because theirs is the only football available to us mortals who can’t afford Setanta. I would love to comment on the goal scoring nuances of the Scottish game, but between attending Pittodrie on a Saturday and watching Scotsport’s blink-and-you-miss-them highlights on a Monday, I’m not party to many SPL celebrations.)
It may seem fatuous to list lame goalscoring celebrations as the greatest malaise affecting football in the 21st century, but then isn’t the game supposed to be about entertainment? If so, then surely such embellishments are as essential as the strike that precipitated them. Despite the attempts of football’s killjoy governing bodies to regulate the act of celebrating, there is still much fun that can be had without players leaving the pitch, removing their tops or flicking a middle digit in the direction of the opposing fans. It’s high time professional footballers stopped celebrating their achievements in insalubrious nightclubs and began celebrating them where it matters - on the pitch. I don’t want to see goals marked with back slapping and handshakes all round; I want celebrations that are actually celebratory; effusive, ebullient, flamboyant or - to put it in plainer English - fucking crazy. Chefs spend hours perfecting their signature dishes, so why can’t more strikers spare a few minutes on the training ground to develop their own signature celebrations? Robbie Keane might have his two-gun salute and Peter Crouch his robot, but these efforts are too lame to count. Coming from the land that invented Morris-dancing however, we should expect nothing less. Surely though the home of Scottish country dancing should be able to conjure up something better? The English clubs might enjoy hegemony over TV rights, media coverage and pecunious foreign investors, but the one thing they can’t monopolise is goal celebrations. Whoever said that the best things in life are free was a scrounging cheapskate, but when it comes to goals, he’s got a point. The ceremony that follows a net-bursting strike should be an unfettered and unmetered celebration of one of life’s best things. No matter which rich oligarch buys out the club, the one thing he can never control is the manner in which goals are memorialised. The day has yet to come when, after opening the scoring, the players line up on the turf to spell out their sponsor’s name. Thus when it comes to celebrating, all teams are on an even playing field. For once, Aberdeen Football Club find themselves in a position to become trendsetters by developing the neglected art of goal aesthetics. Where they lead, other clubs will follow. To perfect their celebratory techniques need only take a few weeks of double training sessions. In the morning, Calderwood and Nicholl can put the squad through their paces, concentrating on fitness and ball control. Then, after lunch, Redz & Co can help the first-team work on their synchronised goal celebration routines. The number of permutations is virtually limitless. They could develop their own corner flag technique for instance; Mackie scores, pushes the flag between his legs and pretends to wank it off. Or better still, offers it to Nicholson to deep throat. Such homoerotic celebrations could win the Dons a whole new fanbase amongst the gay community. Admittedly, some diehards might not be too happy at the idea of sharing Pittodrie with a bunch of limp-wristed turd-burglars, but frankly the club can’t afford to be choosy right now. It’s got to be preferable to opening the whole of the South Stand up to the old firm. If Mackie wants true immortality however, he first needs to stick one past the huns before celebrating by launching the corner flag into the visiting section. As the missile bounces off a blue-nosed coupon and the referee reaches for a card, Aberdeen’s prodigal son can proudly troop off the pitch to chants of ‘Nice one Mackie, nice one son.’ In one fell swoop, the Dons’ most infuriating striker would have become the talk of not only the town but the entire footballing world. Remember when the Klinsmann celebration first caught on? One German dives onto his front and skids across the pitch and suddenly it’s ubiquitous. (Trivia geeks may be interested to know that the correct term for this is a meme; ‘a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition analogous to the biological transmission of genes.’ In other words, Mackie performs his flag-throwing celebration and the next thing you know, kids all over the country are being rushed to A&E with projectiles lodged in their craniums.) Of course, Mackie et al don’t have to resort to flinging corner flags. There are all manner of props that could be used to mark the occasion; they could dry-hump Angus the Bull; perform a pole dance on the goal frame; dive into a puddle and pretend to swim; pick up a sod of turf and apply it like war paint. Aberdeen might not be able to afford 50-foot plasma screens or even a toaster for the players but they can afford a decent celebration. Admission to the game might be a wallet-busting £21 and the match programme a hefty £2, but witnessing Darren Mackie remove the corner flag and pretend to machine gun the visiting support with it would be truly priceless.
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