A shirt with horizontal bands, neckerchief, black beret, black tash and a string of onions over my shoulder; the French were playing in Edinburgh and I had to play the part. In the mirror I looked ridiculous, and around town the French fans seemed to appreciate my gesture, but not so the two guys from Dundee who entered the toilet at the Murrayfield Hotel. How do I know they were from Dundee? I don't think there's an equivalent in England or Ireland, you'll just have to ask one of your Scots friends. Unlike most people I'd met that day, these guys were convinced I was French. As not to disappoint I went along with them. They started to snigger and whisper to each other, then tested me out by asking if I could speak English, and probed with lots of simple little questions, which became more and more insulting as I looked more and more puzzled and laughed along with them. In the end they were shaking my hand, hugging me, smiling and laughing in hysterics as they told me what a small penis I had, how they were going to kill my father and rape my mother, then make me have sex with my sister before decapitating her. I've left out the worse bits! I met them at the bar later and even when they saw me they again broke down in tears of laughter. That changed when I went up to them and thanked them in crisp English for such an entertaining time in the toilet earlier. I know, that didn't sound well to people nearby, but these guys were from Dundee so nobody was going to question anything.


England to win, it has to be!

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