Either this is the longest and most wonderful dream ever (and I'm in no mood to wake up, thank you) or, 24 hours on, we really did beat France. In France. Oh yes.
Who gets the plaudits? Everyone, really. James McFadden, for, after an hour of desperately chasing scraps, deciding to take his frustration out on the ball by hitting it as sweetly as it could possibly be struck; I'm well aware the keeper should have saved it but do you think I care even the slightest bit?
Stephen McManus, who played like he was two men, half human, half brick wall, or so it seemed, as time after time the French could not get past him.
Scott Brown and Paul Hartley, for their tireless running and harrying, for giving every ounce of their being just to make it difficult for France to play football.
But ultimately they should be for the boss. Big Eck made the big decision by playing McFadden as a lone forward ("he's not a lone striker!" we all cried), and almost as big a decision by playing Hartley in midfield. And don't forget the decision to replace the injured Fletcher with the unheralded Pearson, who joined the ranks of those who motored round the pitch like giant human Duracell bunnies.
Let's face it, we are still nowhere near qualifying for this group. It's perfectly possible that we might fail to win another match in this group. But let us savour, for the month until the next game, the fact that eleven Scotsmen went out against the odds and gave all they had, just so that an entire nation could, for just a little while, feel like our chests could burst with our pride for them.
Doo doo doo doo, James McFadden, doo doo doo doo, James McFadden...
L.
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