Those among you who like rugby will perhaps be aware that the last ever 5 Nations was won by Scotland. Or, more specifically, by me.
Sit back, relax and let me tell you about my greatest ever sporting achievement.
I moved to London in the late spring/early summer 1998 and by the following year was fairly well settled. I had no idea what I was doing there, except that it had to be a better existence than staying in Edinburgh.
As usual, when the rugby rolled around again, I was very interested in following Scotland's progress, especially as I was now surrounded by Englishmen in the pub whenever I went to watch it.
I was working and living in a bar called the Rose of York in Richmond - just over the river Thames from Twickenham.
It's on the Petersham Road, just at the bottom of the very steep Richmond Hill and immediately adjacent to the rather large Petersham Hotel, which was halfway up the side of said steep hill.
For the weekends I could get off to catch up with friends and watch the rugby, I was out drinking, singing and generally enjoying being a feckless twenty-two-year-old with nothing better to do than shout at a referee through the pub tv.
The Championship went well for both Scotland and England, with the final results undecided by the start of the final weekend. Ireland had their weekend off, Scotland went to Paris on the Saturday to face the French and England were at home to Wales (although it was technically a Wales home game because Cardiff Arms Park had been torn down and the Millennium Stadium was still under construction).
I went out on the Saturday to watch the France v Scotland match. Don't ask me where I was or what happened during the match, because I can't remember a thing about any of it. I only know I watched it with my French-Canadian roommate, Eric. The only thing I remember is that, against all the odds, Scotland beat the French - in Paris!! All Scotland needed now was for the underdog Welsh to beat England at Wembley and the Championship was ours. An unlikely event, but I was keeping the (drunken) faith! If England won, the Championship would have been theirs, despite our heroics in Paris.
By about an hour after the match I was quite drunk, but I had made it back to our room. Eric and I were dancing around and singing and basically having a carry on when Eric heard voices out of the skylight we had for a window.
Our room was on the Richmond Hill side of the pub and, as such, the top of our bedroom wall was barely level with the lawn of the Petersham Hotel.
I lifted Eric up to have a peek out of the skylight. When I put him down again, his eyes were ablaze with mischief. "The England rugby team is up there on the lawn tossing a ball around!"
"Lemme see! Lift me up!" I slurred.
Sure enough, there they all were jogging up and down in their tracksuits and passing a ball back forward on the lawn.
That was all I needed. I broke out into a loud rendition of Flower of Scotland, which I managed about half of before I fell over backwards off of Eric's bed, where I had been standing.
The two of us howled with laughter until Eric said: "Where's your Scotland flag?"
"Oooooh! YES! Lemme find it!" I started rummaging around on my side of the room until I located my Saltire. I tried waving it out of the window, but the edge of the window was just out of arms reach for me, so I stopped and started looking for the best approximation of a flagpole I could find.
One very chunky broom handle later, and I had myself a passable flagpole, albeit a hefty one. I started waving it out of the skylight and singing Flower of Scotland at the top of my lungs. I must have been going for about ten minutes before there was a sharp rapping on the door. When I opened it, there stood my diminutive manager with a face like she was going to shit and stamp in it. "I've just had a phone call from the Petersham Hotel manager, saying that someone is waving a Scotland flag out of the window. Can you take it down, please? It's upsetting the players!"
"Yeah, no worries." I said, through the stifled giggling. Eric was behind the door, laughing his arse off.
I took the flag down and closed the skylight. The manager stormed off and I shut the door.
Since I was still pissed, it took me a moment or two to process what had just happened and then I knew what I had to do. I turned to Eric, who was still not able to stop giggling and said: "Come with me, mate - you're gonna want to see this!"
Still in my Scotland rugby shirt, I stomped out of the room and along the corridor. We made our way through the car park and up the steps in the gardens that lead into the Petersham Hotel's car park.
As I marched for the main entrance, I could see the England team on the lawn, still. I ignored them and barrelled straight up to the main reception desk of this very posh hotel. "Is the manager about?!" I demanded.
The rather pretty young lady behind the desk smirked and said: "Hang on, I'll just get him for you."
When she returned, she was accompanied by a fairly officious looking bald man with an immacualte suit and company tie on. "Is there something I can help you with, sir?" He asked, curtly.
"Has someone just called next door to the Rose of York to complain about a Scotland flag being waved?" I snapped, trying to appear as sober as possible and most likely failing miserably.
"Yes," he said, "that would have been myself."
I said: "I hope you have noted that it has been taken down, yes?"
"Yes." he replied, clearly wondering where the hell this was going.
"I wonder if you would be so kind as to pass on a message to the team for me?" I swayed a little.
"I'll see what I can do sir. What is the message?" He said.
"If one Scotland flag is upsetting them today, what the hell are 40,000 Welsh flags going to do to them tomorrow?!" I turned on my heels, nearly a little too far, and strode out of the hotel with all the haughtiness I could manage.
I don't remember the rest of the Saturday, but I think we went out again to avoid the wrath of the manager.
Eric and I went out in Richmond to watch an absolute classic of match between England and Wales on the Sunday, which a typically dogged Welsh side won with a last-gasp try and a heart-stopping crucial conversion to win the match and hand Scotland the last ever 5 Nations!
The England side that day just didn't seem themselves, despite being at Wembley. They seemed distracted. Rattled, almost. No one in Scotland knew about the secret saboteur next door to the England team hotel, but I am finally claiming the glory that is due me for single-handedly bringing the last Championship we won back to Scotland.
I know the team did the unthinkable in Paris, but without my intervention, it would have been for naught.
I know you can't see me, but right now I am going to stand up and take a bow.
Okay. The people in Costa coffee and looking at me funny.
That Sunday, after the match, Eric and I decided to carry on our drinking binge at a pub up on the hill. We made our way out and up the garden steps into the Petersham Hotel car park. As we went to walk through it and on up the hill, we walked past a BMW with the registration 'B4CKY', which belonged to Neil Back. Propped up against the 4x4 next to his car was a slab of beer.
Eric and I made it as far as the other end of the car before we both turned, without a word, walked back, picked up the beer and legged it up the hill.
I am so very proud of us for not needing to say a word on this matter. I reckon we both clocked it at exactly the same time and knew exactly what to do.
The rest of the night may or may not have been memorable, but I was far too drunk on stolen English beer and stolen English dreams to care.
