Birds, booze and broken dreams

I'm thinking I've made a bad choice. The women, the drink, the cigars, the hours spent doing nothing.

Not a bad life being an Old Firm keeper. There are drawbacks, of course. Artur Boruc for one must regret a few of those Polish lagers when he's pulling on Celtic's figure hugging shirt. Not so much a rippling physique as a wobbly belly like jelly.

And Allan McGreggor must sometimes think life's just far too complicated to even bother showing your appreciation for the young ladies. But still, you know you're living the dream when your life becomes an Eagles lyric.

And sometimes I think that could have been me. Not that I dreamed of playing for the Old Firm. But, many moons ago, as I picked myself up from the patch of mud that passed for a pitch, grasping the ball that I'd plucked from the air to make my second penalty save of the afternoon, that dream was within touching distance.

Alas it was not to be. The eight goals that I conceded from open play dented my confidence. And I'd have looked truly shocking in a skin tight Nike jersey.