As Scotland make their final preparations for France '98, HUGH MacDONALD reviews five World Cup books.

IF the World Cup is the biggest party on the planet, then the Scots are the most uncomfortable guests. We arrive nervously, bolstering a fragile self-esteem with alcohol and drugs. We depart early, softened by self-pity and temporarily chastened by defeat. The fans are just as bad.

The first shafts of summer are punctuated by a ray of hope every four years. As expectations crumble before the might of Iran and Costa Rica, we turn child-like to the mantra: ''It's still mathematically possible to qualify.''

Scotland, if nothing else, promote an arithmetical dexterity in their supporters. Fermat's last theorem was accidentally solved by a Scottish punter working out the sequence of results that would see his team qualify from another Group of Death.

However, the knowledge of how precisely not to qualify for the second stage seems in-bred in our footballers.

If Brazil epitomises flair, if the Germans personify organisation, then the Scots are world-class losers.

There is a certain style in being gubbed by Peru, humiliated by Iran and then cuffing Holland, later to contest the World Cup final. This all happened in a

fortnight in 1978, the zenith of Scotland's achievement as non-achievers.

A nation's ego wrote cheques the players could not cash. Mike Wilson's Don't Cry for Me Argentina (Mainstream, #9.99) is a mesmerising account of how high hopes can come to the earth with a crash.

As one participant wryly observes: ''It was a fantastic time in Scottish football - fantastic until the football started.''

Wilson's work has an addictive quality. It is soul-destroying and self-destructive but holds a fascination which makes the reader crave for more.

His simple, straightforward style is deceptive. Wilson lets the players speak for themselves, knowing they cannot hide behind words.

The result is a refreshingly honest account of how Scotland, intoxicated with false hope and misdirected optimism, took on the world and got a doing.

Twenty years on it is easy to see why we travelled in hope.

This was a squad which could omit John Wark, Davey Narey, and Andy Gray at the peak of their powers.

Qualification may have owed much to the Hand of Jordan, but impartial observers attested that Scotland were impressive.

Given a rousing farewell at Hampden, the Scotland squad, burdened by great expectations and dodgy perms, were destined for failure.

Accustomed to the role of underdogs, the weight of favouritism saw us buckle to Iran and Peru.

Despite an epic win over Holland, the one-time underdogs went home with their tails between their legs.

The disintegration of Ally's Tartan Army and the retreat from Cordoba carry all the controversies of great military campaigns.

In success, nothing is questioned. In failure, there is little that can not be blamed.

There is, however, a strand of unalloyed honesty. Kenny Burns admits Peru and Iran were under-estimated: ''They were good teams.

''We were a good team, but we didn't play to our potential.''

Derek Johnstone concurs: ''Once the players cross the line it is up to them.''

The shame of Argentina was personified by Willie Johnston.

The little winger went out to the World Cup as a potential match-winner.

He returned early after failing a drugs test.

Johnston, guilty of naive ignorance rather than of any premeditated criminality, returned to England to be greeted by his club manager, Ron Atkinson.

There was one piece of good news. ''I've got you a contract with Boots the Chemist,'' Big Ron breezily informed a chastened Johnston.

Graham McColl reminds us in Scotland in the World Cup Finals (Chameleon, #14.99) that if Argentina was the nadir, there are still plenty of other failures to wallow in.

He captures splendidly that mixture of outlandish hope and grim reality that bedevils Scotland. ''Our boys are raring to go,'' said Tom Reid of the SFA of the unlucky 13 who travelled to Switzerland in 1954.

He added: ''They have found a fine, old confidence . . . they are not in the least worried about the much-ballyhooed opposition.'' Uruguay skelped Scotland 7-0.

In 1958, Matt Busby thundered: ''I aim to have a team that will take the field with the aim of winning the global trophy.''

The Munich disaster meant Busby missed the Swedish adventure. We were belted by Paraguay.

In 1974, there was a change in the pattern. We had a good team. West Germany manager Helmut Schoen said: ''You really will be among the favourites.'' We contrived to go out the tournament without losing a game.

After Argentina, McColl detects a new realism.

Stein, Ferguson, Roxburgh and Brown have formed a fire-fighting team to dampen expectations.

We may still be stuffed by Costa Rica but Argentina was a cathartic event. The pain of losing would never be as great again.

We now paddle in the low waters of expectations and stare at the stars, knowing that none of them wears a Scotland shirt.

With an innate perversity, my favourite World Cup was Mexico '70 when Scottish players were happily ensconced in Europe.

Scotland's failure to qualify left me able to relax blissfully in the presence of beautiful Brazil.

Brian Glanville's magisterial The Story of the World Cup (Faber, #9.99) refers to the

tournament as one won with ''panache, elegance and artistry''.

This verdict could apply to Glanville's chronicle. With the composure and grace of a thoroughbred, Glanville gallops through history with a dignified nod to both winners and losers.

The description of Didi as having ''the remote brooding aspect of a great negro jazz musician'' is worth the admission money alone.

The price of entry to France '98 may be beyond most of us, but this chance to travel hopefully will be taken by many Scots.

European Football: The Rough Guide (Rough Guides, #14.99) will fit neatly into the novelty sporran.

Peterjon Cresswell and Simon Evans present an informative and good-natured look at the grounds and facilities.

The advice is not patronising and the Rough Guide will even be re-usable in the two-week spell that Scottish football fans refer to as ''the cup run in Europe''.

Something more cerebral is provided by The Agony and the Ecstasy (Sceptre, #6.99).

Nicholas Royle has selected 22 writers who form an impressive pool of talent which reflects the diversity and strength of football writing in the nineties.

It would be unfair to pick out top players, so I will. Football, after all, is anything but fair.

Steve Grant's portrayal of life as a journey punctuated by the milestones of World Cups; DJ Taylor's meditation on the media and the message; and Ben Richards' soulful soliloquy to Chilean football are contenders for man of the match.

However, Christopher Kenworthy's inability to deal with happiness makes him the ideal Scotland fan. His Let Your

Feelings Slip is the move of the match.

The top prize is reserved, however, for Pete Davies, a wily veteran of football writing.

He traps the zeitgeist deftly. He bemoans the tide of salesmen washing over both football and politics.

''The effect,'' he writes, ''is to reduce what ought to be important (politics) or merely enjoyable (football) to a kind of hysterical blandness, a monotonous ersatz gibberish of empty hype, a tabloid froth in which politicians become indistinguishable from pop stars and soap actors.''

The money-men are distancing the fans from the game.

But in the era of the commercial imperative, wouldn't it be wonderful if Scotland finally did the business.