FIVE GO TO The Scottish Cup Semi Final

The alarm clock rings, bloody thing. A quick keek through the blinds; it's chucking it down. Brilliant, not. Amazingly, the wife volunteers to drive me to the pick up point. Amazingly because she's a Partick Thistle supporter (a typical one too, she's never been to see them) and thinks that any decent husband should be going to Tesco of a Saturday afternoon.

She drops me on the wrong side of the roundabout at Junction 6 on the M61 - a muddy walk ensues followed by a handshake with Allan Stewart who's also waiting. It's as grey as an old pair of underpants and as cold as an Easter Road pie but at least it's not raining now.

The bus is late so we speculate on the result. I'm an optimist, Allan is a realist.

"Seen the worst happen too often to hope for the best...".

Here comes the coach at last, up the slip road and round the roundabout.

"Where have you been? We nearly went without you!" Joke.

Well, here we are, some of us, on the coach. Who's the wally taking the photographs? For some of us it's our first time - please be gentle. Some good chat and a chance to get to know the newcomers (and the oldcomers). The video isn't working, but hey, gaze on those seats, you could look at them for hours and not get tired!

Hmm, we're making excellent time, so what the heck are we going to do in the three hours before kick off?

Silly question.

John has booked us into Ibrox's premier nitespot - the Benburb Juniors Social Club. Security is tight, this place makes Fort Knox look distinctly slack. Come to think of it, this place looks like Fort Knox. The natives must be restless.

A native appears.

"Youse cannae come in, we're full!"

John's cultured Edinburgh tones ring out."We're the Manchester Hearts Supporters Club, we're booked in".

"Awright, in youse come, but ye'll huv tae pay pay the entrance money". Another local (we can tell) rattles a tin labelled 'Childrens Party'.

"Pit yer money in here afore ye go in". This is starting to shape up like my first visit to a Soho strip joint; any minute now another bruiser will tell us that the drinks aren't really here at all but in another club just round the corner. But no, perhaps there really is a childrens' party. Now it's time to join the queue for drinks, but I'm tempted by the mutton pies on sale in the corner. No, must be single minded, back to the drinks queue.

Perhaps you thought that Rab C. Nesbitt was an exaggerated view of life in Goven? Well, we're here to tell you that Mary doll was serving at the bar and Rab and Jamesie Cotter were marshalling the punters.

"Clearra wey furra bloke wi ra drinks!". I look round, nobody there with drinks. Hmm, plainly a precautionary measure. These guys are obviously imbued with foresight. We cleared ra wey and started knocking back the pints of heavy. Now Chris and I remember why we like a good pint of Boddies!

Alan Edington has his young son and his friend with him - this place is a degree course seminar at the University of Life for them! Up to now they'd led a sheltered existence....

Time to go to the game. A quick handshake and "good luck" to a friendly Falkirk supporter. Of course, we don't really mean it.

"Do you think Hearts can win the league constable?"

My first visit to the new Ibrox. It looks smaller than I'd expected. It's amazing what a difference a wide angle lens makes. When you come to think of it, all stadiums (stadia?) must be the size of a football pitch.

Big crowd. All of Falkirk must be here but we outnumber them by more than three to one.

KICK OFF! Hearts score then go to sleep for the next eighty minutes. Did we pay all this money to watch Falkirk run all over us? Still, they never look like actually scoring. Until Rousset decides that Kevin Mcallister's speculative effort is drifting past the post and leaves it to plop into the top corner.

YES IT'S HEAD IN THE HANDS TIME AGAIN!

But wait, what's this? Hearts have forgotten to read the script and score twice in the last two minutes. 3-1. How can this be?

Still never mind.

"I feel sorry for the Falkirk fans", yes but that's easy to say when your team has just pulled off the most outrageous win in cup history.

Back to the coach, hoarse, talking over the game again and again. A busload of Falkirk fans passes. They all stick one finger in the air as a gesture of derision. We all hold up three. Game, set and match!

The journey back is enlivened by the Off the Ball phone in programme which comes over the speakers.

CALLER: "I'm a housewife. How do I clean my son's blazer when he won't take his Hearts badges off it in case he spoils their run of success which began when he put the badges on?"

PRESENTER: "Hoover it madam. Next caller!"

Coming off the motorway at Preston a girl flashes her boobs at us from another coach. The perfect end to a perfect day.....

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