It’s the sort of classic pub conversation I’ve engaged in before Scotland games in various locations around the world, from Lichtenstein to Mexico and Kazakhstan.
“Would you sacrifice a finger if it guaranteed Scotland’s qualification for the World Cup?”
For me, this hypothetical scenario nearly became a reality.
I have been a devoted supporter of the Scottish national football team for over 40 years.
The national side has always held paramount importance for my family, superseding any club allegiance, stemming from generational pride in my great-great-grandfather, William Dinsmore, who served as the surveyor for the current Hampden Park upon its opening in 1903. You can attribute the distance from the pitch to him.
My father took me to my inaugural match in 1984, a 3-0 victory for Scotland against Iceland. Two goals from Paul McStay, one from Charlie Nicholas – a captivating experience for a 10 year old.
I vividly recall the thrill of holding my father’s hand while navigating the cold, dark streets towards the stadium, maneuvering through tartan-clad crowds towering above me, imbibing beverages I was unfamiliar with and uttering words I had never encountered. The radiant floodlights held the promise of wonders to come. It was pure magic.
Dalglish weaving his way to his 30th Scotland goal against Spain, James McFadden’s stunning 40-yard strike in Paris, Ollie McBurnie’s miskick against the post during a 1-0 defeat in a meaningless friendly at the Azteca. I witnessed them all.
In recent years, my role as the BBC’s entertainment correspondent, coupled with becoming a stepfather to two boys ineligible to play for Scotland (adoption, apparently, doesn’t count), has reduced my attendance at matches.
Yet, my heart remains firmly with the team.
On the day of our crucial World Cup qualifier against Denmark, I was reporting for the BBC1 One O’Clock and Six O’Clock News on the government’s plans to outlaw the resale of tickets to gigs and live events at inflated prices.
I may have subtly incorporated one of my old SFA Travel Club Scotland badges into my report, displaying it on my coat outside the Brixton Academy in London.
I received several messages from observant Scotland fans who appreciated the gesture.
However, earlier that day, while interviewing Gus from Mercury Prize-winning band alt-j, regarding his response to the ticket price news, I noticed the back of the badge was missing. I placed it in my pocket for safekeeping.
Later that afternoon, I reached into that pocket and pricked my finger. I dismissed it as a minor incident, though it was briefly quite painful.
That Tuesday night was simply one of the greatest ever.
I was present in St Etienne in 1998, the last time Scotland participated in the World Cup.
Now, watching alongside my friend Johnnie – the same companion who accompanied me to that disastrous Morocco game – it was difficult to articulate the sheer joy of Scotland’s 4-2 victory over Denmark.
This was the Scotland match we had been anticipating our entire lives.
Three of the greatest Scotland goals ever scored in a single game, at the most crucial moment. Had Shankland not touched Ferguson’s corner – which was already destined for the net – it would have been four.
The most un-Scottish of Scottish performances.
The following day’s Reporting Scotland broadcast was extended to an hour – 60 minutes of spectacular goals, singing, dancing, and cheering. I have never witnessed my country so jubilant. It was truly wonderful.
Two days after the match, a small bruise appeared beneath my fingernail.
The situation escalated rapidly.
After the weekend, I consulted a pharmacist, who recommended ibuprofen to alleviate the swelling.
On Tuesday, a week after the prick from the badge, I had an online consultation with a general practitioner and was prescribed antibiotics for a skin infection.
On Wednesday, I had to travel to Gloucestershire to interview David Tennant and Danny Dyer on the set of the second series of the Disney+ hit, Rivals.
The night shoot and sub-zero temperatures exacerbated the pain in my right index finger. The following morning, the same finger repulsed my colleagues from their Premier Inn breakfast sausages.
On Thursday, I visited the hospital for an X-ray of my finger.
And on Friday, it evolved into a situation reminiscent of the worst Craig David song of all time.
Overnight, my finger had become more unsightly than Antony Ralston’s backpass against Switzerland at last year’s Euros.
I proceeded immediately to the hospital, was placed on an IV drip, and transferred to another hospital, where I was required to stay overnight while doctors discussed a serious infection and the need for me to sign waivers.
I awoke to the less-than-ideal news that the ward had hosted its Christmas party the previous night. The staff coffee machine was experiencing, shall we say, “brisk business.”
Thankfully, at 13:40, a mere 20 minutes before the cut-off for new operations (“cut-off” was not a phrase I wished to hear at all), I was informed I would be seen that day.
The entire procedure lasted only eight minutes, roughly the amount of time it took Mansfield 103.2 FM to play Tom’s Diner by Suzanne Vega and Sheryl Crow’s If It Makes You Happy – a winning combination of local radio and local anesthetic.
The operation appears to have been successful. My nail has been removed, along with a considerable amount of skin, and the doctors’ pronouncements – “That is a lot of pus” – will linger in my memory for quite some time.
My finger is now encased in a bandage as large as that worn by Richard Gough in the 1990 League Cup final. It is no longer painful, but I will not be resolving Scotland’s goalkeeping issues anytime soon.
I am somewhat ashamed to have consumed so much NHS time due to a minor prick, but as my brother Michael helpfully pointed out, “It has been a long time since we qualified for a World Cup. That badge had accumulated 28 years’ worth of bacteria.”
The offending item has now been sterilized and will accompany me to the USA next summer, albeit with a new clip attached.
Would I endure this ordeal again if it meant Scotland progressed beyond the group stages? If we’re talking about reaching the last 16, then perhaps.
I am genuinely pleased to retain as many fingers as the number of players Denmark had on the pitch at the end of that game.
But, please, one request – refrain from purchasing Subbuteo for me this Christmas.