I feel queasy.
Scotland are playing with that familiar air of panicked desperation. Georgia are lording it over them like a playground bully who's stolen your conkers and is twirling them contemptuously, just out of reach.
I haven't seen that since ...
AGGGHHHH!!!
He's coming towards me, arms outstretched, wearing that inane yet malevolent grin.
He sings, puntuating each utterance with a taunting, drawn-out, sibilant 'z'.
"We are ze cheeky boyzzz! We are ze cheeky boyzzz! Touch my bum! Don't be shy!"
NOOO!!! IT CAN'T BE!!!
BERTI LIVES!!!