DJ KT

Date: 17th November 2020

The latest blog from SFSA writer Donald Stewart:

DJ KT makes his mark…

It’s 4am in da toooooown!!!

Boom, boom, we are in da room!

Picture the scene…

“Can ah take ma decks da? Can ah da? Can ah?”

It is 4am in the typical Scottish household, the early morning after the win, the night before.

We are all confusion.

We are all panic.

Forget the need for toilet rolls, this is a serious debate needed as to what to pack for the Euros.

There are two protagonists in the room. One a 17-year-old idealist with the enthusiasm of a boy who has just seen Clyde win the Premier League. The other a sanguine chap, his faither, who has seen it, done it, and drank it aw…

Or so he thinks.

He is in his mid-40’s and he has not seen this since…

He was close enough to his son’s age.

The 2002 campaign with only one loss – to Belgium and we didnae qualify.

The 1974 world cup with no losses and still being on a plane home.

Sliding past 1978, the bumping up against each other with Russia, the toe poke that annoyed the Brazilians, not managing to beat Switzerland by enough, Norway and Morroco, Costa Rica… and the rest…

It was all flooding back as his son, the apple of his eye, the disappointment of his thirties as he has nae joab, is standing with an eager face, looking for advice as to what to do.

There is very little to tell him as to what comes next.

There is little by way of a memory bank.

If having weans does not come with a manual, then being a Scotland supporter about to go to a major competition equally has no recent template.

“Da, can I take ma decks? Ahm just asking, like Ah want tae. Like DJ KT did!”

Showing your son all the videos online of how people celebrated getting to the Euros, especially the squad that just did it, is one thing but then having it flung back at you as if it is a gateway to the Tartan Army is quite another.

“We won’t have room son. You will need tae work out how tae fly without it. Ah ken it’s a blow but we have tae sacrifice some things to make the journey. They might no get past customs and aw that.”

His boy starts to look crestfallen and then he disappears behind the decks to start them up.

“Da! Da! Da! Ah’ve been working oan the dance an that!”

His father looks up in bemusement and wonders what he is now going on about. Just then a blast of Black Lace and “Do the conga” hits the room with that unmistakable opening that makes his da sick. He suddenly remembers why his maw left them a few years back…

“Gonnae switch that aff afore yer sister wakes up.”

Crestfallen, the son turns the decks off but immediately lightens up, with his explanation. “Da! Ah saw it oan YouTube, this is the new official dance fur the Scotland squad. It’s a cracker. We can learn it and when we get tae the Euros, in Europe, we can know it and teach the wans that don’t? Eh?”

Father turns to him and smiles the smile of a man who realizes that his son may not have managed to get to the top floor of the bus on time before it set off and smiled, “Maybe son, aye, maybe we will.”

The son then sits, a little bemused and like many teens, upset because his father has agreed with him. He prefers the banter when he disagrees. He likes a wee debate. In fact, he quite likes a big one so when he rounds on his father with his final request it is one that is clearly a step too far.

“Da?”

“What?” His father looks at his son’s baby like face, all innocence and hope, and thinks what now?

Impatient with the child he cradled in his arms and fought for through primary school to get the support from teachers he needed before spending hour upon hour with homework until his son got the grades and the qualifications that should have him ready for the world, he steeled himself for the comedy triple. If he knew his son at all it would be that he had something up his sleeve for the punchline that he was not going to like.

“Ah’m gonnae dae a Paterson!”

For a moment, the light did not go on.

A Paterson? Dae they no do shortbread? He had seen wee tins in the supermarket at Hogmanay… and then it dawns…

“Will you $%^&! There is nae way I am going anywhere wi you wearing that $£%^ing thing oan yer tap lip. A Paterson! It’s an abomination, and it’s rank. You get up those stairs and shave afore ah belt yer $%^&ing $%^! You muppet! No child of mine, boy or girl, shall be seen wi something like that oan their face!”

A smirk on his face begins to appear as the son has got the reaction he was after. He had no intention but as the atmosphere settles a little, he asks the one question he really wanted to know. He knew that in the aftermath of a really good shout from his da, his da would be in the right place to ask it.

“But da, wan mair thingmy? Where are the Euros next year? Ahm gonnae need ma passport and ah don’t know where it is.”

Father picks up the phone, googles and realizes that of all the things that could go wrong, he has found the one thing he never expected.

“Aye son, about that – where are they going tae be held. I think ye need tae sit doon…”

 

The author asserts his right to this as an original tale. Unlike in previous weeks, there is no clear basis upon which it has been placed and in a week of such momentous fitba, there is little point in taking the mickey out of the heroes whop went, saw and conquered our past. There was a DJ Kieran Tierney on the decks in the hotel, the squad did do a conga and Calum Paterson needs a shave.


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