flinging in the highlands

For most of you, semi-final day was no doubt either spent at Wembley, in a local pub or at home with a six-pack and the TV remote control. Unfortunately for me I was picked from a cast of one to work up in the highlands of Scotland that weekend.

And so it came to pass that on the most important day in Villa's recent history I was in a place called Portree on the admittedly picturesque Isle of Skye, a place I had previously only connected with whisky and the Skye Boat Song, "Speed bonny boat, like a bird on the wing. Over the sea to Skye", Dreadful stuff.

Getting There. I was feeling slightly the worse for wear on the Saturday morning after a night in the Black Eagle, Hockley with several assorted H&V editors, contributors and purchasers but I managed to get to Birmingham airport on time to catch the plane to Glasgow. A kindly stewardess with the unfortunate name of Kylie recognised my state and prescribed a double vodka as a hangover cure. What a girl! I had a couple of hours to spare in Glasgow airport and so more beer was drunk.

And, oh boy was I glad I had drunk those extra pints. The flight to the Isle of Skye was a nightmare. The plane looked like it has seen service in World War One and there was a storm brewing. We spent over an hour alternatively climbing then diving. Blackpool's roller-coasters will forever seem tame in comparison. But we got there and I had the evening free to do a reconnaissance of the local bars to make sure I could watch

tomorrow's proceedings somewhere if not at Wembley.

Portree. If you have never been to the Highlands I can fully recommend it. The scenery around Portree is magnificent. The sun was just setting over the mountains and the sky was a wonderful purple (almost claret!) colour.

I had phoned ahead to one of the pubs to ask if he would show the football, bearing in mind that the Scotland v England rugby match kicked off at 2 pm.

I found the pub overlooking the harbour and bought the landlord a pint to get in his good books. I needn't have bothered because he had planned ahead and got two tellys in so the locals could watch the rugby and we could see the semi. So we drank a few more then retired to our hotel.

The Big Day. Up at 6am. I had been told that if I wanted to knock off at 2 o'clock then I had to start work at 6.30. It had started to snow overnight and was starting to settle on the grass and pavements. By the time we finished work it had reached blizzard proportions.

We battled our way through the snow, cracking very bad Captain Scott jokes and reached the bar just before the rugby was due to start.

The place was packed and all of them were on their feet singing Flower of Scotland. I tell you what, as an anthem it pisses all over God Save the Queen. Fair bought my goose bumps up. So we got the beers in and I handed the landlord Jimmy (honest) a Villa shirt to wear as he had promised to become a honorary One Of Us for the day. I watched the rugby, all the time glancing at my watch and making sure that no-one nicked the other telly.

It was here that I made my first stupid bet. I stupidly said that if Scotland won the Calcutta Cup I would wear a kilt for the rest of the day - D'oh.

The Match. 3 O'clock. We left the Jocks to the rugby and settled down in front of the semi-final. I was the only Villa supporter, my workmates being three Leicester fans, a Baggie, a Wolves fan and a Chelsea fan. So I was pretty much alone in wanting Villa to win.

Well, the game has been extensively reported elsewhere, and most of the bar were pretty bored whilst my fingernails were becoming a thing of the past. Injury time, Holdsworth's miss, Dion hits the post, oh shit, penalties.

Now before I carry on I will just say that I had drunk a lot of beer and whisky so it was under the affluence if incahol that I made the following statement: "If Villa win the shootout I will throw myself naked into that snowdrift!"

As a speech it may not be up there with "I have a dream", or "Friends, Romans, Countrymen", but it certainly had an effect. Suddenly the whole bar wanted Villa to win, and the barman promised me free drinks for the night if I had the balls to do it.

The rest is history. Jamesy saves two and up steps Dion. Now obviously I wanted it to go in, but my whisky addled brain was now yelling at me that it looked awfully cold in that snowdrift. As Dion ran up I tried to spot an escape route, but I was surrounded by several rather large Scotsmen.

Dion shoots, the net bulges, I catch a glimpse of Villa players leaping with joy, I am lifted off the ground, a large whisky is forced into my hand. I feel my trousers being pulled off, my shirt follows, they kindly leave my socks on, I am propelled to the door and pointed towards the snowdrift.

"What the hell" I think, I throw back the nip and with a yell of "Wemmmmmmbbbeeeeeeerrrrr lllllleeeeeee" I throw myself into the snow. I am followed by at least seven hairy-arsed naked Highlanders and we are cheered by a large crowd of locals who had obviously been tipped-off.

I got back into the bar to find that my clothes have been confiscated and in their place was a full Highland dress outfit. No underwear of course, because I had to be a true Highlander for the rest of the night.

To be honest I don't remember much more. The alcohol was starting to take effect and I woke up in my hotel room the next morning still in the kilt, extremely hungover and with a note selotaped to my forehead telling me to take the day off.

I have since contacted Jimmy at the bar to ask if any pictures were taken, and he says that they have pride of place on his notice board. He is sending me some copies; they may find their way into print one day.

Dave Cooper