THE FA Cup Final Escape Committee (and Scotch Pie Fest) met on Saturday in unusual circumstances, which is to say that the crowd was more than 100 and there appeared not to be a manic Scotsman running up and down the touchline shouting "Hey, wee man" at a 6ft 4in striker.

These annual excursions began in 1999, a northwards migration from the land of hype and glory to what the Scots still call "junior" football.

Hitherto they had been characterised by extensive reference to Oor Wullie, by mass consumption of mutton pies and by the ability of the average Scottish football follower to swear with quite breathtaking insouciance.

Will ye no' come back again?

They couldn't keep us away.

Saturday was different. Gretna, not so long since playing Northern League football against the likes of Willington, Whickham and West Auckland, faced Hearts in the Tennent's Scottish Cup final at Hampden Park.

Brooks Mileson, the raggy arsed entrepreneur from a council estate in Sunderland, was their unlikely benefactor, their Rob Roy of the Rovers.

The Arngrove Northern League, which Brooks sponsors in perpetuity, bought 110 tickets, sold the lot and laid on two buses, or executive coaches as these days they are known. An executive coach is a bus with a netty. It was the day of the lowland fling.

ALL went well, save for the apparent non-appearance of Mr Lee Stewart, secretary of Esh Winning FC, at one of the departure points.

As others stood around waiting, Mr Stewart was found asleep on the back seat.

"I wondered why we hadn't gone, " he said.

Mr Peter Sixsmith, an Escape Committee regular, was on the other bus. Several people had brought him food parcels, lest he waste away to 20 stones. A Tesco van followed, in case of emergency before Motherwell.

At the Welcome Break services at Gretna, the only banner proclaimed that KFC - Kilmarnock, presumably - would be coming there soon. There was also a bit of bridal party, one of 27 Gretna weddings that day, though it seemed oddly irrelevant. A far greater romance was afoot.

The M74, in turn, was littered like second hand confetti with the discarded puns - the love stories, the honeymoon periods, the going hammer and tongs - of shotgun marriage with the incredulous world media.

Hearts bypassed, the spotlight had been all Gretna's.

Brooks was on the radio, interviewed while feeding his porkers.

It meant he had to find clean jeans for the big occasion. "The others are covered in pig muck, " he explained.

The queues began five miles out, a lone polliss waving his arms ineffectually at the traffic. "I bet this never happened in Taggart, " someone said.

It wouldn't have happened in Oor Wullie, either. They'd have sent for PC Murdoch.

Finally in orbit, the coach circumnavigated Hampden like a lunar probe looking for a picnic spot, the sat-nav gibbering ineffably, like Houston in meltdown.

It was never like this when they played Ferryhill Athletic.

THE scotch pies are horrible. A Geordie would say they were kizzened; a Scotsman, invective inventive, would call them very much worse.

The Hampden snack bars also sell macaroni pies, 30p extra, and Mars bars at £1 apiece. Whether they are deep-fried Mars Bars isn't made clear, but is the Pope a Celtic supporter?

Gretna's female supporters are wearing cotton wool haloes, perhaps we're up in the gods and perhaps because this season they seem to have been on the side of the angels.

Some of the lads wear flapping white coats with a rosette on the front and "Deuchar 9" on the back.

Kenny Deuchar, Gretna's star striker, is a doctor. The lads look more like cattle class judges at a minor North country agricultural show.

Pre-match, the music is all heavy metal, or Ir'n Bru, or some such.

No pipes, no skirl talk, no Scotia the Brave.

Though Gretna manager Rowan Alexander marches out in Highlander's full fig, there are many in bonny blue blazers, yet more in black and white wigs. The game is becoming homogenised. It's why it desperately needs men like Brooks Mileson.

HE'S been asked in the programme if he'll sit in the posh seats. "Will I hell, " he says, and takes his customary place among Gretna's faithful and in the queue for a noonday fish supper.

The stadium's non-smoking, he's inadvertently left his Crafeaways - the simulation ciggies he used at the semi-final - back at Raydale Park. Brooks, perversely, looks fag ashen. Though his side has adopted the slogan "Living the Dream", Marlboro man's own nights tend to be sleepless.

Gretna are only the second side from Scotland's third tier to reach the cup final, Hearts are second in the Premier League. The Tow Law contingent gets 8-1 against the underdogs.

Gretna start like men possessed, Rambos v Jambos. Though Hearts swiftly seize supremacy. It's still 38 minutes before the favourites score, rich pickings from a long throw-in.

The Gretna end falls weirdly silent, as if the referee has asked if anyone knows just cause or impediment and they're hoping to hell that someone can come up with something quick.

Mr George Brown, West Auckland and England, has a mobile phone to his ear and announces amid the hush the score from the Millennium Stadium. Since no one gives a shortbread, he is advised to desist or to be put on the next train home.

The second half 's wholly different Gretna, perhaps re-energised by the Lucozade on which the munificent Mr Mileson is himself said to be sustained.

After 67 minutes David Graham, a substitute, Gay Gordons through the defence, side steps the goalkeeper but is denied, beta blocked, by Hearts. Eight minutes later, Gretna get a penalty.

Ryan McGuffie's shandystrength kick is parried back to him. He looks up, sees his bride approaching, consummates the moment and runs, ecstatic, towards the corner flag.

Nine team mates flop one on top of another on him like white coats at a kiddies' Christmas party; five television cameras seek out the scorer, a dozen follow the man in the clean jeans.

He's waving his arms like Fulwell Windmill but, curiously, his hands appear invisible. Probably he's eaten them.

IT goes to extra-time and then to penalties. The atmosphere's extraordinary, the occasion epic, the match magnificent. Hearts are the wearier team at the end, Gretna the better one.

Hearts lead 3-2 on penalties when Derek Townsley, who'd scored for Gretna in the FA Cup at Bolton Wanderers 13 years earlier, strolls towards the spot as casually as a man taking his dog for a Sunday afternoon stroll. The goalie could have saved it with a poop scoop.

Gavin Skelton's fourth kick for Gretna clips the bar - skelps it, as the Scots would suppose - and ricochets off into history.

Hearts sing; Brooks bonds. It is the ultimate penalty, but truly the great Escape.