Imagine this scenario, September 18th, polling day for indyref.
After a gruelling campaign, everyone sits up for the count.
It goes on all night, really close, but No win by half of one percent after a dozen recounts.
The country is knackered, exhausted.
David Cameron gleefully announces that ‘North Britain has spoken’.
All the yesser team gutted, folk crying, the lot.
Then… on September 19th at ten o’clock, a call comes through to the SFA offices at Hampden Park.
‘Mr Regan? … Er, think it’s Mr Blatter for you’
‘Fuck.. Er.. Hello?’
‘Heello, Meester Raygun, your country said No, so you can’t play as Scotland any more’
12:00 Friday 19th September.
Jim Spence, clad in black, mournfully announces the news from outside Hampden.
Total fucking bedlam erupts.
The Royal Scots Dragoons have, within the hour, 40 tanks on the autobahn headed from their base in Germany towards FIFA HQ in Switzerland.
Eventually Alec Salmond calls for calm in a TV address…
Monday 22nd September
The referendum is rerun. All parties agree.
Yes win by 119% , suspicious sightings of men in wigs and dresses are remarked upon by some polling clerks.
Reports that primary schools given an exercise in drawing kisses on individual ballot papers are hurridly denied.
Gordon Strachan calls for Calm in a TV address