Big Jock's Trebles of 76 and 78 were great occasions and, being of an age to swally-swally as well as follow-follow, I partied big time. But we all knew that Big Jockstrap's reign at Bhoystown was coming to an end, their tea was oot, and it was just a matter of time before we put them in their place. It was great when we did it but there was a sense of inevitability about it all, it was what we expected, nothing more and nothing less.
We had to wait another 15 years for our next Treble, suffering plenty along the way, but by the time Walter's team wrapped it up against the Sheepies on Sash-In-The-Jungle Day, there was never any doubt about who would be partying that night. And the 92-93 Treble went hand-in-hand with a ten-game unbeaten run in Europe so it might have been my major memory if we'd gone all the way to Munich. Ah well!
Tricky Dicky's Treble of four years ago was made especially memorable by clinching the League at Breezeblock Boulevard, then gilding the lily by doing them again in the Cup Final. But once more the Mhanky Mhob were in disarray, we knew we were so much better than them, everybody did, so all the team were doing was underlining our superiority. No big deal.
So what is so different this time around? After all, since Big Eck arrived at The Brox, he has had the measure of O'Kneel, they are the ones who have been playing catch-up, and I feel a warm glow all over when I see pics of them and theirs overcome with grief (tee-hee!) at the realisation that the Gers were still out of reach. And that is what makes our latest success so special. They really reckoned they could catch us, right up until the dying seconds of their last game, fancying their chances of combining the "moral victory" of Seville (?!) with a dramatic late goal rush to clinch the SPL flag.
Even now, as the dust settles and the aspirins begin to work on my hangover, they still can't believe it all went belly-up for them. Not so very long ago, they were crawing about doing the Treble AND winning the UEFA Cup and, as our lot showed signs of going off the boil, the head-in-the-oven option was worthy of consideration. Of course, they shafted themselves with their own arrogance, repeated the mistake of selling Caley Thistle short, then after beating us at the Piggery, reckoned they were sure-fire certainties to brush us aside a week later, only to find it was their bum which was getting felt.
When the Jambos beat them in April, they were looking up Plans C and D, using the UEFA Cup as an umbrella against the rain, demeaning the same domestic domination they had been bragging about not so very long ago, telling the world the big picture is all about success in Europe. Success in Europe? So refresh my memory, what did they win?
Rugby Park on May 25 was their last chance saloon. A couple of sloppy performances from Rangers had allowed them to draw level and it would all be decided by who scored the most on the day. In terms of drama, nobody could have scripted it better and that brief period, when they were 3-0 up and we needed Stefan Klos at his best to stop Dunfermline from pegging us back to 3-2, when it didn't look too bright at all, certainly had my ticker racing. A couple of goals for the Sons Of, one for the Scum Of and a missed penalty, it was white-knuckle stuff until Mikel Artista finished them off right at the death. Phew! What a finish - and what a party!
In normal circumstances, the Cup Final would have been a massive anti-climax and, in terms of the quality of football, it was. But with just a one goal lead, our guys were out on their feet and watching them cling on was a nerve-jangling experience. My head was spinning as I checked my watch time after time and I could picture the Great Unwashed, screwed-up faces pushed up against the unlicensed black-and-white TVs, waiting and wishing for us to let it slip. Just like Sellick had been in Seville and again at Killie, Dundee were so close, close enough to touch, but just when they stretched to snatch the prize, it moved beyond their reach. Oh dear, what a shame!
And that fellow Bears and Bearesses (with bare-arses?) is what set last season apart from the rest. On the afternoon of March 16 we were told we would win hee-haw, only to discover a few hours later that the League Cup didn't really matter. Fast forward seven days and it is the Scottish Cup's turn to find out that it doesn't count either. When it looked like the SPL title was beyond them, they played the Euro card, buggered off with their sombreros, li-lows and beach balls to a town which is as close to the beach as Jamaica Street is to Jamaica. And guess what? Losing in Seville didn't really matter either, just being there was enough. Aye, so it was!
Then they headed for Ayrshire, ready to acclaim a never-say-die victory in the best traditions of the Septic fairytale (copyright W.McBungle 2003). But it didn't happen. And as the cameras panned around the ground, the glum faces, the tears, the pathetic defiance, the hatching conspiracy theories and the hollow triumph jibes, I asked myself one very simple question: Does it look like it doesn't matter to them? I rest my case.
Special? You bet! Or am I twisted?
LITTLE BOY BLUE