Going to bed: "Now of course for Scotland's chances of qualifying all that needs to happen in tonight's games is for Alan Shearer to remain bald"
Waking up:
Actually never mind. I retract every nice thing I ever said. He deserves the absolute worst mildly inconvenient traffic forever, stepping in puddles with socks on, and every shopping trolley having one wonky wheel. This is stage 2 of denial and I am thriving terribly.