I had come north for a week to help out at home while my dad recovered from heart surgery. I took a few hours off on this bitterly cold Saturday to travel through to the terminal shitehole of Brockville. As I observed in an earlier post, the antedeluvian home of Falkirk had the kind of quality that archaeologists value in prehistoric middens.
The sleet forced the hardy Hibs contingent of the 6,000 crowd up against the rickety back wall of the uncovered terracing to watch the team battle valiantly against a workmanlike Falkirk team and a pitch that looked like the archaeologists had already been over it. Continue reading