''A shock half-time score from Division One up in Scotland'' announced Capital Radio Sports, ''Dundee nil, Partick Thistle three!'' An almost-interested expert added: ''I suppose you get these results at this time of year.'' Not for me you don't. Not live and in the flesh at any rate.

Thistle were thumping their way to their biggest away win this season and I was stuck 500 miles away at Craven Cottage watching Fulham v Watford. We've all been elsewhere when our heroes have faced important tussles and since I was in London anyway, this fixture seemed too tempting to miss. It would take my mind off events on Tayside. For a mere nine quid I'd get to witness Kevin Keegan, Graham Taylor, Ray Wilkins and Peter Beardsley in person (although admittedly only one of them was actually playing).

Watford's supporters also offered me the prospect of seeing people with red'n'yellow scarves celebrate a championship (even if it was only Nationwide Division Two). Plus I couldn't get a Spurs ticket. The stadium was filled with 17,114 people, a surprising figure, although not half as surprising as me being one of them. Beardo produced a Ronaldo finish, stylish enough to make Hi-bee fans wonder what might have been, although at full-time Watford triumphed 2-1.

By 4.52, however, the whole ground was rejoicing. First the away end went barmy as news filtered through that The Hornets had indeed snatched the title thanks to Bristol City floundering at Preston. Fulham's faithful had barely time to jeer before Gillingham's goal-less draw with Wigan became the next unlikely inspiration for merriment. It ensured play-off football at Craven Cottage and the home players who'd been sitting anxiously in the centre circle got up to applaud. I turned to remark on all this to my pal Bussy but found him dancing a merry jig all of his own.

The exiled-Celt had tuned in to some good tidings on Radio Five. ''They've just gone live to Ibrox!'' he beamed, ''Richard Gough's got his head in his hands!'' I felt a buzz in my pocket. As promised, my co-Jag Noddy was ringing my pager from Dundee. The ''shock'' confirmation I'd barely dared hold-out for shone through the machine's tiny window . . . ''Thistle win 3-0.''

Now I was at liberty to join in the celebrations. After all, it wasn't every day Thistle, Kilmarnock and Watford taste victory, Wigan draw, and Fulham don't lose heavily enough. The sun shone over Putney Bridge and lit up the Thames. Everybody felt like a winner.

The next evening my bus through Islington attempted to make slow progress through swarms of cars beeping their horns Milano-style. Arsenal had just scooped the Premiership and out the window, North London was being painted red and white. Champagne was popped and inflatable trophies were bounced off heads amidst much hugging, kissing and shouting of ''Gooners''. From nowhere, a disgruntled figure, oblivious to the ensuing delirium, shuffled on to the bus, his face almost tripping him in the process. I recognised him as my buddy Phil, another Parkhead-exile. He grunted a greeting and slumped into the seat behind, still trying to get to grips with some heavy news from home. ''Are you alright?'' I ventured. ''Aaaah . . . Celtic . . .'' he groaned.

q Today is a good day to be a Spider. While Celtic, Rangers, Clyde, and Thistle face 90 mad minutes of death or glory, Queen's Park sit nestled nicely in the middle of division three. This afternoon's trip to Arbroath provides an interesting wee end-of-season distraction for the Hampden faithful. Indeed, the Amateurs are currently so calm and comfortable they can afford generously to donate their goalie to those more needy than themselves.

Lindsay Hamilton is the keeper in question and Partick Thistle the eager recipients of his helping hands. Not only have the Jags won three and drawn one since his arrival, but in every match he's kept a clean sheet. I remember him taking an earful of haircut abuse from Thistle followers behind his goal at Methil last season. There might be a moral here - don't slag the East Fife goalie too hard, you never know when you might need him.

Anyway, today you can forget London. Swinging Glasgow promises to be soccer's capital city no matter which way the results swing. Every seat at Parkhead, Ibrox and on the Rutherglen Clyde Supporters' bus will certainly be filled, so if you can't find a space, you could do worse than visit Firhill. Radios won't be required to work out the possible permutations there. If Ayr lose, they go down, if Thistle don't win, Ayr stay up. It promises to be an afternoon of gut-wrenching, panic attack-inducing, tense, tight, thrilling, frantic insanity. Gripping enough even for a part-time diehard like me. Pie, bovril, and a valium please.