How patter and a crossword pulled me out of Italia 90 abyss - McCoist

Sometimes you have to laugh . . .  

It is 1990, Scotland have qualified for another World Cup, and we’re feeling good about ourselves in our picturesque base camp in the exotic seaside town of Portofino on the Italian Riviera. It is one of our better squads. The likes of Richard Gough, Paul McStay, Roy Aitken, Alex McLeish; a very good set of lads.  

Our qualifying group included Norway, Yugoslavia and France. We beat the French two-nothing at Hampden and Mo Johnston got both goals. (I scored one as well but it was chalked off for offside.) Mo and I played a lot together in those qualifying rounds and I scored the goal against Norway that clinched qualification.  

We have a great squad, but I am confident that Mo and I will start the opening match against Costa Rica. The night before the game, the manager Andy Roxburgh and his assistant Craig Brown, for reasons known only to themselves, decide to name the team in sections. The keepers will be called to a room, told who was playing, then the defenders, then the midfielders and finally us forwards.  

McCoist scored the goal that send Scotland to Italia 90 but suddenly wasn't a first pick at the tournament itself (Image: SNS) It comes to our turn. That’s myself, Mo, Alan McInally, Gordon Durie and Robert Fleck. Andy and Craig are at a desk and us five are sat in front of them. It feels like a job interview and I am probably sat there amongst my four pals with the demeanour of a man who has already got the job. I’m pretty sure my name is going to be called imminently.  

Andy is talking away, explaining his plans, he’s going to go 4–4–2, he names the team, and then comes to the strikers. What I hear is, ‘I’m gonna start with MoandAlly.’ It comes out as one word. ‘MoandAlly’. That’ll do me. That’s what I thought he’d say. Thank you very much. Time for my first World Cup start. 

I am sat there, looking slightly smug. Andy is chatting away. I have a wee smile on my face. I notice Craig Brown looking at me with a strange expression. What I haven’t realised is what Andy had said (albeit in a very fast and confusing way) was, ‘I’m playing Mo and McInally.’ So I’m sitting there, smugly contemplating my World Cup finals debut, with a grin I’m struggling to conceal, all the while I have completely misunderstood him. Craig is looking at me and he must be thinking, **** me, Coisty’s taking this hell o’er well.  

 I’m tuning into every word, listening to the boss’s words of intent, but then the penny drops, he meant Alan bloody McInally and I’m benched. I’ve gone from scoring the goal against Norway that gets us to Italy, to not playing. Fuming.  

I’m absolutely fuming. Devastated. I stay professional for the rest of the chat, but then I am off, out the room and up the stairs. To make things a million times worse, my roommate for the duration of that summer is Alan McInally. I’m away to the room, and as you do, when you’re pissed off, you phone your dad.  

Available from all good booksellers. (Image: Hodder) I’m sat on my bed, the bedside lamp is on and my dad is on the phone. He can hear my devastation, the many swear words coming out of my mouth give that away a wee bit, and he’s trying to calm me down. ‘Relax, son, calm down, Ally.’ How can I calm down? Instead I am ranting away.  

‘That b****** has dropped me.’ All of that. Of course, it’s all about me. At this point the team can do one, my head is battered and Dad is getting all the anger. And then, midrant, I hear someone coming out of the corridor lift and walking towards the room, and they’re singing. They’re singing ‘Flower of Scotland’, but in the style of a drunk Scotsman. It sounds like Vic Reeves’s club singer. ‘Oooooh Floooower ooof Scooootland . . .’ It’s that b****** McInally. He’s belting out the national anthem. I tell my dad, ‘I’ll have to go, I’ll phone you back.’  

‘Just stay calm,’ he says one more time. The phone goes down and into the room, still singing, walks Alan. I pick up my wee crossword book as I am thinking, I can’t look at this b******, and I start to pretend to be doing it. So I am sat on my bed, pretending to do this crossword, and he marches right in, ‘Oooooh Floooower ooof Scooootland . . . When will weeeeee seeeeeee . . .’ He turns, he looks at me in my bed, he stops singing, and he says, ‘Hey you.’  

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I don’t want to look at him. ‘Hey, you . . .’ he says again. I lift my eyes from the crossword, and I slowly turn to look at him. ‘What is it?’ I say. There’s a pause. ‘Get tha’ ****in’ light oot, some of us have a game tomorrow.’  

 Honest to god, it is one of the best lines I have ever heard, and suddenly I am on the floor laughing, and the pain and the anger have disappeared. Alan then starts pushing it. He’s gone to his bag, pulled out his boots and asked if I can give him a hand cleaning them. He is hilarious, and I have gone from sheer despair to crying with laughter and thinking life is no’ bad after all.  

That’s the thing. Sometimes you just have to laugh. If Alan had come into the room and been solemn, and tried to console me, I’d have gone off my head at him. The only way to deal with the situation was to make a joke of it. Alan made quite a few jokes to be fair, going in a bit two-footed, but it worked. Absolutely magnificent.  

Juan Cayasso scores the winner for Costa Rica in Italia 90 (Image: SNS) I watched mostly from the bench against Costa Rica (I got on for the last fifteen minutes), as we were beaten one nothing. It wasn’t a great start, we all knew the flak we’d get for letting such a minnow beat us, and we headed back to our base in Portofino with our tails between our legs. 

The next game was against Sweden, and once again Andy Roxburgh and Craig Brown named the team in sections. Once again, I am not playing. But, and this is the thing, neither is Alan McInally. The big man is fuming. Now it’s time for him to march up the stairs, and he’s on the phone to his old man, Jackie McInally, who once won the Scottish title with Kilmarnock. A wonderful guy, Jackie, and this is his turn to try and calm down his son. 

I am walking along the corridor, and from our room I can hear big Al, effing and blinding on the phone. ‘How can I be dropped? I was the only one to play okay against the Costa Ricans! Why has he taken it out on me?’ All this stuff. 

I walk into the room, Al politely says goodbye to his dad, and stares straight ahead, looking as if he is ready to fight the entire world. I should say something encouraging about knowing how he feels. Instead, I stand there and say, ‘Hey, you.’ He turns slowly and looks at me. ‘Wha d’you want?’ he says. 

I take my crossword book, fling it at him, and say, ‘You’ll be able to ****ing help me with that tonight.’ 

As I say, sometimes you have to laugh . . . 

You can read Ally McCoist's new book, Dear Scotland here.