Football, don’t you just love it.
The beautiful game.
Nothing could be worse, than on a freezing winter’s day, standing, fucking freezing, watching twenty-two freezing footballers, two freezing linesmen and a freezing fucking referee, all obsessing about the flight path of the bouncing ball and its destination. If it’s hoped for final trajectory impact is in the back of the goal, this then causes a great emotional uplift by the attendant crowds, depending which team you support, whereby an immature ejaculation of joy occurs, and men hug each other with love, a love not even witnessed in their own homes.
Back in 1974 Scotland qualified for the World Cup in Germany and exited unbeaten ( even by Brazil) but truly gubbed.
In 1978 Scotland qualified again, and, as a small nation, had the audacity to think they could possibly go through to the second round, and even win the World Cup, this all manageable by the charismatic Ally Mcleod.
Iran and Peru were no walkover but the Scots rallied against Holland in one of the great battles of Scottish History, but again exited truly gubbed.
That attracted my patriotism, but never much since, and club football, I never really was into that at all.
The whole Rangers/Celtic mutual hatred and bigotry of my native part of the world, always scunnered me.
There was a time, though, I attended a football match on a weekly basis, but couldn’t tell you where the football ground was or who was playing, as I was just following the big cairry oot.
In those days there was no seats and no problem taking alcohol into the match. After much hilarity, camaraderie, and unity, fellow supporters within close proximity of each other, would take out their Willie Hendersons or Johnstones, and pish on each other. I never quite understood that tribal ritual, or how I should react to the feel of warm distilled Eldorado urine, hot on the back of my legs. I soon learned that the typical response was, for one to smash the bulkier part of whatever handy bottle was available, and with a skill that would result in the long neck of the vessel remaining intact, with its razor sharp jagged end held out, for jutting into the cheek/neck/face/throat of the urinator.
Today, with the football grounds having been cleaned up of all alcohol consumption taking place, what happens now, usually, in bars after the match, in conversations, the phrase , “Christ, that cunt’s pishing doon yer leg” can be heard prior to drunken brawls erupting, up and down the length and breadth of the country.
Then there is the ‘Tartan Army’.
The days of drunken quarrelsome Scotland fans, going abroad, wrecking and terrorizing continental towns, are a thing of the past. Now when our ‘troops’ are supporting Scotland’s Bravehearts, they are no longer quarrelsome, but really, really, really friendly and a right good laugh.
So, for example, if a local Spanish family were out enjoying a midday tapas, and around the corner, two hundred drunken not-quarrelsome-at-all Scottish fans, appeared, singing ‘If you hate the fucking Spanish, clap your hands’, well, it would be such an enjoyable experience for the street cafe goers, and footage of those ambassadors of Alba on Reporting Scotland being such a right good laugh would simply fill the Scots viewer’s back home with such pride. It’s just a pity we are not attending South Africa this year. Those townships could have had a right good laugh too.
I was for, a season, a seasoned ticket holder for Inverness Caledonian Thistle, which is where I did most of my freezing. They finished the bottom of the 2008-2009 Premier League and I took that opportunity to abandon my support for them and spend more time in my world of pretentious arty farting. ( For the record, well done ICT for getting back into Premier League football, and again the fans will be able to shout at a better class of manager to get back into his fuckin box, when he stands outside of it).
I like my Arty Farty world, and of course, there are many who can mix the sporting world with the cultural.
The thing that pisses on my leg is, if a film fan knows the director, screenwriter, the music score composer and the actors etc of a particular film, then it seems, that, for a typical football fan, that is all too much information.
As a football fan once said, “A don’t need to know all that stuff, if A go tae the movies, A go tae enjoy it.”….
Of course , if he were to be asked who scored at the August 1963 match between Raith Rovers and Queen of the South, there is a good chance he would know what the score was, who the manager’s were, who the ref was, what the weather was like, and whose pies they sold.
Another scenario is when first meeting any typical male in any new situation, whether it be work, pub, or any other occasion, the ice breaker is usually a question to me referring to a goal, a player or a result of a recent big gemme. This, of course is in response to hearing my West of Scotland accent and an assumption that football is the common denominator in that part of the world and with all us guys.
No one (male), has ever asked me, “Oh your from Glasgow, so what do you think of Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream?”, which hunners and hunners of people from Glasgow have seen, or no group of men has ever given me big hugs and held me aloft because my favourite film of 2009, won an Oscar.
So, there you have it, I don’t like football, just give me a classic movie anytime.
Tonight’s choice….. Yes…. The Acclaimed, Legendary Director John Huston, The International, Brilliant Max Von Sydow, The Inspiring story of Endurance and Bravery ………...Escape to Victory