It begins with a spare, pulsing electro beat, as if pacing the centre circle before kick-off. When it repeats, another layer drops, then another, the tension thickening bar by bar. Next comes the voice: deadpan and insouciant, yet capable of soaring.
The lyrics, their ennui thick with irony, name-check Kenny McLean, Kieran Tierney and others, reckoning with decades of Scottish footballing failures and a controversial World Cup held in North America (“The USA kinda sucks but we’ve got to go there anyway...”).
