ray, a drop of golden sunnnn..." Still, if Chelsea fans can make "One man went to mow" sound threatening, and if England fans can spend 90 minutes humming the theme tune of The Great Escape, then anything can happen And when I say anything... I would never, for instance, have backed myself to favour Scotland over England in a sporting encounter, but as full-time approached last week I found myself silently urging the Scots to score the equaliser they so richly deserved. Rod Stewart sings Rodgers and Hammerstein - it's an album waiting to happen. It would certainly be no less improbable than several thousand hard-looking Scots in see-you-Jimmy wigs bringing The Sound of Music to Wembley And not only Wembley. "Damn silly accent for a man with such a damn fine name," the great man growled. Ditto Rod Stewart, raised in norf London but, as everyone knows, a passionate follower of the Scotland football team. During half-time at Wembley I went to the loo, and there he was, peeing into the adjacent urinal. As claims to musical fame go, this almost puts me up there with the guy in Liverpool who boasts of the day that Ringo Starr's mother's dog mounted his bitch Anyway, Rod was in good cheer at half-time.

A bit of a shame that their goalscoring hero, Don Hutchison, is considerably more at home on Tyneside and Merseyside than Tayside or Clydeside, but at least he has an unarguably Caledonian name. Which reminds me of the late Keith Mackenzie - formidable, charismatic secretary of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews - who once sat next to my friend Douglas Alexander at a sporting dinner. Although Doug's lineage is half-Scottish, his vowels are pure Maidenhead He introduced himself to Mackenzie. But undaunted, or only slightly daunted, I ploughed intrepidly into conversation. Was he brought up hereabouts? "Hereaboots, aye." Had he lived here all his life, then? "No, I lived abroad for six years." Really? Abroad? Somewhere nice? "No' really. Word quickly got round that there was a sassenach in town - "town" amounting to the inn, three houses, a trout smokery and a Local Hero-style telephone box. At the bar, one man in particular - a brute wearing a threadbare tammy, with Popeye forearms and crabsticks for fingers - eyed me with great suspicion.

Ten years or so ago, I stayed for a few nights in a decrepit little inn beside a remote sea loch on the west coast of Scotland. Accrington Stanley - never a top English team, I hasten to add - fielded a complete team of Scots in 1955! Kevin Keegan now looks forward not only to some hard work in preparation for the Euro 2000 finals next summer but also, in the meantime, to the World Cup 2002 draw on 7 December.. Ten years or so ago, I stayed for a few nights in a decrepit little inn beside a remote sea loch on the west coast of Scotland. Word quickly got round that there was a sassenach in town - "town" amounting to the inn, three houses, a trout smokery and a Local Hero-style telephone box. For technical ability - judgement of intent and ability to keep the game flowing - 10 out of 10; for personality, 11 out of 10. Craig Brown, realises that the supply line of top-class players is becoming increasingly thin. Whereas Señor Diaz had recourse, possibly correctly, to 10 yellow cards at Hampden, a piercing glare or a hint of a smile from Signor Collina was usually sufficient to keep on-field passions in check.

The Scots very nearly succeeded in their cunning ploy to lull us into a false sense of security. The handful of English morons who briefly chanted "No surrender to the IRA" in Hampden disgraced themselves, and the radio host who thought the capacity of the Scottish National Stadium was "about 100,000" also showed himself up. The Italian referee, Pierluigi Collina, policed the second leg superbly. I have previously come out in favour of re-instating the Auld Enemy clashes in the football calendar. But what the fixture needs is a context, if we are to justify packing an already crowded schedule even further. I agreed with the coach's assessment, for not even the defeats by the United States in the 1950 World Cup or by the Hungarians in the '50s could have matched the desolation of failing to reach the last 16 of Euro 2000 after holding a two-goal lead. So, all in all, it was an uplifting five days for British football, if the relentless hype can be overlooked. Beforehand, I predicted a 1-1 draw; it was never going to be a coast for England, but I could not quite see Scotland winning 2 or 3-nil.