13/06/2026
Super Squirrel sprinted along Princes Street on his way to the museum.
“He shoots it to the left, he kicks it to the right, he headers it off the noggin, all of the other side have gone for a lie down, it’s an open GOOOOOAAALLLL!”
“If only I had a two-piece super suit I would be wearing it over my head right now, but if you try that with a onesy it’s like a terrible accident with a cheesewire.”
Super Squirrel shuddered at a memory he’d tried to supress. He wouldn’t try that again.
“Are you actually getting excited about the football, Super Squirrel? I’ve never heard you express any interest at all in football until now?”
“Generally, I care not a jot, there’s too much standing in the cold with nothing but a cup of Bovril for pastoral care, but when it comes to the national events, I’m suddenly the world authority on the beautiful game of kickyball! I know so much that I reckon I could be Scotland’s manager. I’ve been practicing my shouting- do you want to see?”
Super Squirrel hopped onto a managerial looking chair. He started to speak in a strangely Glaswegian accent which made Museum Assistant wonder if Super Squirrel had been possessed by the spirit of Jock Stein. Perhaps that explained what the squirrel had been doing standing in a circle of candles and chanting the other night, they thought to themselves.
“Awright lads, gonnae no lose for once? Kick the baw, dunnae let them other wans get the baw, sook the half time oranges, and no wan dae that fawing o’er and grabbing yer knee stuff unless we’re losin’, then ye can raw aroond acting daft aw ye like? Kicky kicky, scorey, winny. Aye?”
Museum Assistant made a mental note to buy some white sage and have Super Squirrel exorcised.
“Any other sound advice, Super Squirrel?”
“If you take your time with your serve at the end of the set you can throw your opponent’s concentration?”
“That’s tennis” said Museum Assistant.
“That’s nitpicking” huffed Super Squirrel.
