IT’S on mornings like this that I miss a little ritual that became a big part of my life as a footsoldier.

Some of you will remember a larger than life character called Peter Steinle – the big Aviemore hotelier who graced every Scotland match in his familiar tartan top hat . .  until cancer took him to the great North Enclosure in the sky.

From Riga to Reykjavic, you could guarantee your hotel room telephone ringing about 9.00 am and a voice booming out from the other end – “I-I-I-I-I-I-IT’S MATCH  DAY !”

This was Big Pete’s signal that he was up and ready for action. He’d have had his breakfast and already persuaded some hapless member of the staff to open the bar and pour him his first large voddie and orange of the day!

On one trip to Paris – I think was Berti’s inaugural gubbing – the hotel refused to pander to the big man’s early morning thirst.

He stomped off in a rage . . . and on a mission.

Ten minutes later my mobile rang and it was Peter mumbling a set of directions – “turn left, turn right, up the alley, cross the road . . .” etc.

Accompanied by a still-pished platoon from the Armadale Sons of Wallace, we followed our instructions to a simple green door up an alleyway.

I knocked once and a smiling Frenchman in a uniform beckoned us all in. The air was thick with Gauloise smoke and the noise of laughter and clinking glasses.

Over the corner, Big Pete was having an animated conversation, trying not to spill the flower vase full of Smirnoff and orange juice someone had poured for him.

It was barely 9.10 in the morning.

“Where the f**k are we?” I managed to ask him.

“It’s the Paris Post Office Workers Social Club, “ he grinned, pointing at the room full of blue shirted postmen, all getting whacked into beers and pastis.

Mere mortals could have spent days finding this oasis of swally deep in the bowels of Paris. It took the Big Man about eight minutes.

Yes . . . it was Match Day right enough.

And here we are, waking up to another match day. It can’t come soon enough.

A certain well known chef called Gordon has been on looking for a ticket for a mate.

Sadly, I can’t help him.

But while we all have different opinions about Walter Smith, the SFA would have to churlishly admit that if it wasn’t for him – there would probably be plenty of tickets around for a match against a team of Georgia’s stature.

A win today is a must. As somebody said in the papers, defeat would mean that the magnificent victory over the French was worthless. Sacre f****n bleu!

We’ve no Faddie, Fletcher or Elvis – but we’ve still got enough to see off this lot.

And it will set up the trip to Italy perfectly.

Boarding the flight on Tuesday with three more points in the bag would be the perfect send-off to meet the World Champions – or the divin’ cheatin’ b*****ds if you saw the same final I saw in Berlin!

Anyway - let’s hope for a “Match Day” Big Pete would have been proud of.