Mony a mickle maks a muckle at Christmas

Liege Christmas Market (Genuinely)

Twas the minutes before market, when all through the square,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a bear.

The stalls were set up, goods placed down in rows,

In hopes that the shoppers would appear in their droves.

What the sellers didn’t expect, however, was a knackered old blue and white bus. It was the 6^th annual SMACK function, SMACK being the Scottish Manager’s Annual Christmas Knees-up, and the German Market in Liege was this year’s chosen destination. Once a year, club rivalries are put to one side, club crested shirts are lovingly screwed up and dropped on the floor, Tartan Army shirts are donned and the Tam O’Shanter is placed carefully upon yer heid.

As the tyres screeched to a halt, the rumble of the engine ceased, and the black smoke from the exhaust cleared. The doors opened slowly and Bruin was the first to stumble out, closely followed by Walter Smith, the Messrs McKenzie, Jimmy Gouldie, Kevin McGregor, Niall Taylor, Kevin Wallace and Alex McLean, Tenants Super still in hand.

“Let me count yer wee nappers, 1, blue, 3, D, 5, 6, G, 8, 9 including me.” Bruin was in charge of counting after getting an early Christmas present from his parents, a Gold Stars Starting to Count book. “We’re 2 short. Where are Gino and Garry?”

An almost inaudible shout came from inside the bus, “Haud yer wheesht!” then, slightly clearer, “It’s sweltering on the continent int it no? Taps aff lads!” Garry Crawford and Gino Kinnear confidently strode down the steps, bare-chested smearing factor 50 on themselves.

“Ach man it’s startin to get heavin’ here, don’t be getting oot yer nut lads, we’ve got a full night here and we dunnae want anyone acting a radge oot on the skite. Once you find a swick boozer, ge us guys a call and we’ll get tae finding ye. Nae-where expensive though right? Afterall, mony a mickle maks a muckle.”

With Gino’s advice ringing in their ears, the Scots splintered into groups in search of cheap Belgian lager.

On the opposite side of the square, Vendendriessche Waffles had queues starting to build up. This was Davy’s 3^rd year as a stall holder. After struggling to get any substantial transfer backing from the president of Club Brugge, Davy turned to his second passion, tasty desserts. Crepes and waffles, loaded with strawberries, chocolate sauce and whipped cream provided a great supplemental income. His stall had very quickly become a firm favourite at the Liege market, with his popularity in the City starting to surpass that of local legend James Foster. 

In his queue were Beddows, Balotelli, Nick Wheels and Big Barbs. The foursome had made it an unofficial tradition to double date at markets around the globe, ever since that fateful night in Sao Paolo. Christmas markets aren't quite as magical in South America's largest city, mainly due to the lack of snow, but waffles, waffles are universally adored regardless of the weather. After collecting their seperate orders, the quartet bonded after realising all four of them were reaching for spoons from the cutlery tray.

As usual, it was Beddow's who ended up with cream all over down his chin, and as usual it was caused by him trying to gobble Balotelli's piece. Big Barbs handed Wheels a napkin and he got to wiping Beddow's face for him.

"Hou's it gaun Steven?" Unaware to the lovestruck foursome, Walter Smith, Niall Taylor and Jimmy Gouldie were stood behind them, awaiting their deep fried crepes.

"Errrr it's not what it looks like" Beddows stuttered, "I fell over holding my waffle and got cream on my chin..."

"Aye right, yer aff yer heid if you think we're gon te believe that" Walter scoffed, "Onyhoo we're aff te get a hot dog, Crawford said they're pure dead brilliant."

As the lads weaved their way through the crowds of festive shoppers they heard commotion up ahead. They passed the sweet stalls, past the Art stall where Doug Earle was trying to peddle his brother's latest psychedelic Christmas Pudding piece to James and Scott, even past Santa's grotto, who everyone kept confusing for Tom Parfitt due to his big bushy beard.

Soon they found themselves staring in amazement at an argument between 2 customers and a Bratwurst seller.

"What do you mean you don't sell burgers?! Do you know who I am?!" Marsden was seething. "Burgers are the foundation of any nutritious diet. Chicken burgers, steak burgers, turkey burgers, cheese burgers, veggie burgers, well maybe not veggie burgers..."

Walter Gogh tried in vain to drag Marsden away from the throng of onlookers, "It's not worth it David, they don't know what they're missing..."

"Just a Hamburger, that's all I'm asking for, with some sauce, raw sauce!!" a sobbing Marsden was finally subdued by Walter and placed into the nearest taxi with distinct orders to get him to a McDonalds pronto.

The argument had caused a few of the crowd to become rowdy and a riot was starting to break out. The locals wanted rid of the visitors. Mulled wine was thrown at the Germans, cheeses at the Swiss, and a small band of Belgians attempted to wrestle back the waffles and crepes from the Scots.


"Ah dinnae ken what's goin on here, you're all oot yer face, it's geein me the boak. Yeh can take my freedom, but ye cannae take my waffles. We're off lads. Yeh dinnae get behaviour like that in Glasgow, the bampots." Gino had decided enough was enough. This year's SMACK function had come to an end. The lads made their way back to the bus, bemoaning the lack of drinking on the trip. Aside from the 22 crates they'd had on the way down to the Chunnel, the wine and stubbies they bought and drank in France, and the Buckfast they'd stored on the coach for the return trip, they'd not touched a drop.

"We're goin tae the pub when we get back, you're a long time deid and we've nae got te feeling pished yet" the Kevin's cried.