The inclusion of four Junior teams in the Scottish Cup makes putting a handful of piranhas in the kids' paddling pool seem like merely a boyish prank.
The arrival of the likes of Auchinleck Talbot, Cumnock and Tayport in Scotland's premier cup competition is so cataclysmic it should be preceded by a three-minute warning, a blaring of sirens and a full disaster alert for Scotland's emergency services.
This is not said out of any animus against the Juniors. It is said out of my mouth.
The only thing I have against Junior football is a snub-nosed revolver. Trust me, it's the only way it'll keep its distance.
It has held a life-long fascination for me. I first went to Junior football - or made my bones as it is more commonly known - in the 1960s.
At Duntocher, St Roch's and Benburb, however, the only thing that was swinging in the sixties was the right hook of a centre-half who had not been signed from the juveniles but had been defrosted after having been discovered in a block of ice in the Himalayas.
My Elysian Field was the seething cauldron of crabbitness that was Greenfield Park, Shettleston. I had a black-and-white scarf, a black-and- white tammy and black-and-white mittens. The last were designed so that I left no fingerprints in the raid of the cookie counter at the dairy before we headed to the ground.
We went with my grandpa, whose attitude to childminding was as relaxed as Tony Bennett on valium.
In those days, there was a strict protocol on taking weans to the game. It involved leaving home in time to ensure reaching the pub at opening time. Weans then formed a sort of guard of honour outside the pub as fathers, uncles and brothers trickled in and out.
The sustenance for this bunch of kids was a set menu. For lunch we had a quarter of toffees with a Mars Bar for dessert. At tea-time, it was chips, with a packet of crisps if the session went into extra-time. Ah, the food of champions.
The intervening period was comprised of a scramble from the pub at 2.40pm towards the ground.
At home games, this was no problem because Shettleston had a licensed club. My grandpa would make it slightly more difficult at times by taking his tipple in the railwayman's club before we sprinted like a cheetah on amphetamines (a species only found in Shettleston) towards the ground.
Auld Tam would find Roddy and me a place on an abandoned sleeper and wander off to talk philosophy, politics and economics with a gang of worthies who made the line-up of the Ultimate Fighting Champion-ships look as threatening as Drag Week in Brighton. Their observations on the game were pithy. Some of them had a lisp. Their shouts of encouragment would have scared a gang of Gurkhas on angel dust (the only type of Gurkha in Shettleston).
On the park, it was as pretty as Denny in the rain. However, the tremendous aspect of Junior football was that every so often a bit of skill broke out with the unexpectedness of your wife giving you a compliment. The wee winger would dribble like grandpa after five pints. A midfielder would pass with the skill of a young Jim Baxter minus five pints.
But mostly it was just fun. In the way that the Charge of the Light Brigade was a pony gymkana. The players varied in size and quality. But they shared a homicidal instinct that made Hannibal Lecter seem like just a naughty, naughty boy.
There is one aspect to the introduction of Junior clubs that the SFA will have to watch. They field more ringers than the Scotland Under-21 team. Once Baillieston picked an entire half-back line of silver-backed gorillas. Their first touch was decent but they left the club by mutual dissent after problems over passivity.
"They wanted to pick nits off each other, I wanted them to put nits into the terracing," said an ashen-kneed manager. Similarly, a rabid Tasmanian Devil was abandoned as a club mascot for Ardrossan Winton Rovers after it was faced down by a Talbot tabby.
Back at the game, or should I say the front line, events sped by like the opening scene in Saving Private Ryan, though obviously the body count was heavier. It was all completed by 4.40 so the men could drift back towards the pub with the children's army in tow.
There we stood quite happily munching chips, breathing stale beer and dodging the drunks. Ah, the romance of the cup.
I'm off for a piranha supper with extra vinegar, tastier than a Junior midfielder but with less bite.
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