Remembrance Sunday makes me think of my own story.

In February 2016, I was in Northern France, checking up on some family history. On the way there, I stopped off in London to see my oldest son. We watched the first Cup game against Hearts in Quinn's. As one who had never experienced its delights, it was a bizarre feeling watching grown men (including my son) dancing up and down a pub in Camden when the equaliser went in.

On to France. The main purpose of the trip was to see memorials to two of my great-grandads, both of whom were killed in WW1. One of them doesn't have a marked grave, like so many others; there's "just" a plaque on a wall near Loos.

The other, who is a paternal great-grandad, and thus a direct link to me, was killed in Dunkirk in August 1918... 3 months before the Armistice, having volunteered for extra service when his regiment was sent home.

No-one could ever say for sure whether he was a Hibby, but he lived in Leith, and his son turned out one, so it's a fair assumption. I had my scarf with me, which was meant for a trip to Contalmaison ( which didn't happen, another story), so I draped it around the headstone. I had a word with him...." see if you're a Hibby....." etc etc. A few selfies, lots of tears, and that was that.

I got back on the day of the replay. Wasn't in the mood to go, but my younger son convinced me. Thankfully.

21st May. We're 2-1 down. I'm contemplating yet another long drive home along the M8....and we get the first of those corners.

I looked up above the South stand and said "right, great-granda, if you're a Hibby.....".

Boom.

Holy ****....this **** works!!!

So...the next corner..... I lined up:-

My great granda
My granda
My dad's brother
My mum's brother
My Australian cousin

All of them gone, and all Hibbies, but forever now known as my Famous Five.

They all delivered