The chants of In-ger-land! were already reaching a crescendo with the occasional defiant Scot-land!

The chants of “In-ger-land!” were already reaching a crescendo, with the occasional defiant “Scot-land!” emanating from small units of the Tartan Army stationed around the room.Tribalism thrives 12,000 miles from home, and here was a perfect excuse for reviving hostilities: not just a crucial match, but the arch-rivals’ first encounter since England beat Scotland 2-0 at Wembley in 1996 Scotland’s Tempe outpost was praying for revenge. “It would be the sweetest thing,” said Jimmy Thomson, a lugubrious Glaswegian.But it was England fans who were given a night to savour. When Paul Scholes scored his second goal, they danced frenzied jigs and embraced with the passion of long-lost lovers. “Wembulee – we’re the famous Tartan Army and we’re going to Wembulee”.Neil GibsonTHE HARP BAR, SYDNEYAmber nectar lubricates hopes for sweet revengeTEMPE (pronounced Tempie) is a dismal suburb of Sydney whose sole claim to fame is that it is the site of the city’s largest municipal rubbish tip. But, in the early hours of yesterday, Tempe was Shangri-La to hundreds of England and Scotland fans pining for Hampden Park.With the rights to screen the Euro 2000 qualifier bought by a Dublin- based distributor, the only way to watch the match in Australia was to head for one of a select number of pubs – just seven in Sydney – to which it was being fed live.Hence the dash to the Harp Bar, an Irish pub in Tempe that would never win prizes for ambience, but at 11pm on Saturday night had one great virtue: two hours before kick-off, it was the only Sydney venue that was not yet turning away queues of crestfallen supporters.By midnight the Harp was heaving with expatriate soccer fans who, as elsewhere, had paid pounds 8 to congregate around a big screen. He said: “Do you think I’m going to die?”
I said: “No.” He said: “If I do die, I want you to do it properly and I want my friends there.”
After the operation when they discovered that the cancer had spread, he said: “Mum, I don’t want to know any more.” I was frightened and worried.

Inside The Horseshoe the beer continues to flow and the home support improbably begins to look forward to Wednesday.”Wembulee” the chant goes up. In the Horseshoe a tartan-clad girl is jigging to the refrains of Abba “I was at the game” she laughs. “It was pure brutal.”Thirty years ago when we still had genuine world-class players of the likes of Law and Baxter we would have been in the pits of despair. We love baiting and (very occasionally) beating the English, but today defeat is not the end of the world.Outside, darkness is descending and an army of police are dealing with skirmishes between rival soccer “casuals”. In the Horseshoe Bar and across the land reality bites: it’s going to be one of those days.The second half is an anticlimax as Adams and Keown put the shackles on Dodds and Gallacher. “It’s all part of our cunning plan to lull them into a false sense of security for Wembley” says one fan.At full-time we seek solace in more beer.

“A pint of lager and a pint of sour grapes please,” says another supporter.”At least we’re not English,” says one fan grasping at straws as he echoes Napoleon’s famous quote: “The English may have conquered us but they are far from our equals.”An hour later and fans are returning from Hampden They are in good spirits. The cacophony of boos reaches its peak as the national anthem is played “Flower of Scotland” is belted out with fervour and passion. The referee blows for kick-off and it’s all downhill from then on.Twenty minutes into the game silence descends as Paul Scholes puts the English one up. Attention turns to the six television screens and a chorus of boos greets the sight of any Englishman. Emlyn Hughes, Beckham and Shearer get particular abuse.Fifteen minutes to go and the pub joins in unison to the refrain which has united Scots supporters around the world for 25 years: “We hate Jimmy Hill, he’s a poof, he’s a poof”. A slip of a lass orders 28 bottles of Becks and four pints of Thistle heavy That’ll be pounds 56 please.

Along with the pies and filled rolls at 50p each they’re selling St Andrew’s flags at pounds 4 a go.The sound system is blasting out Tartan Army anthems of bygone years – classics such as “We’re On the March with Ally’s Army” and “Yabba Dabba Doo, We Support the Boys in Blue and It’s Easy”.An hour to go and the crush eases only slightly as those fans with tickets depart for Hampden. Standard uniform is the kilt, a “see you, Jimmy” bunnet and ginger wig, swathes of tartan and a Saltire flag drape around the shoulders.Inside it’s like being back on the terraces – a raucous, swaying mass of people and a mixture of beer, patriotism and hope that we will send the English homeward to think again. They’re standing six deep at the 104ft long horseshoe shaped bar, the longest continuous bar in the UK.Saltires and Lion Rampants hang from the oak-panelled walls and kilted barmen and barmaids dressed in Scotland football tops are pulling pints at a rate of one every four seconds. While the Union Jack is displayed on a coat of arms above the door of this famous Victorian pub it’s the only symbol of Britishness on show.Outside on the cobbled lane a battalion of latter-day Bravehearts muster as the Tartan Army prepares to take on the auld enemy once again.