Hugh MacDonald

NOW’S the day and now’s the hour. Well, not quite, as it all kicks off for Scotland at 2pm tomorrow but the sense of being involved in a major football finals has grown over the past few days and surely justifies a reference to Scots Wha Hae as well as Yes Sir I Can Boogie.

THE ascent of the stairs in a series of closes in Ruchill may be an unlikely starting point for self-determination. The next step, though, is independence.

IT was just another day at the fitba’. Until it wasn’t. My remembrance of the awful events of January 2, 1971, are forgivably slight but chillingly sombre.

FOOTBALL isn’t important. Until it means everything. The magnificent frivolity of sport can signify little in its sound and fury until it suddenly matters. And then all is changed. Utterly.

THIS is a time of plague and agitation. The prophets of doom scour the land. They preach that empty football stadiums are soulless. They are heretics. They blaspheme.

The Medal Factory: British Cycling and the Cost of Gold

Images of an Australian Enlightenment

From Russia with Blood, Heidi Blake, Collins £20

THE road to independence wound up a close in Ruchill. That, at least, was my father’s view. It was vigorously prosecuted in the early 1960s as he stood as a candidate for the Scottish National Party in the council ward in north Glasgow.

In this regular Sunday feature, we ask people about 10 things that changed their life. This week, tennis coach Judy Murray.