On Being a Fan
On Being a Fan by Robin Erskine
“Alright pal? I’ve not heard from you for a while. How’s it going?”
“I’m in Latvia…”
“You’re where now?”
“Latvia. Been here since Monday. Heading to Lithuania for a couple of days then back to Glasgow via London.”
“Erm… why?”
“Ach, you know...”
“Right. Okay. Well, I suppose it’s a good time of year. Apparently in the winter it’s Baltic.”
Okay, so the last part didn’t happen but the rest is true. And before you ask, I have already collected my coat and am headed for the nearest exit.
As it turned out, my travelling pal had decided, in the aftermath of our latest east-end shit-show that the only sensible course of action was to book the first available cheap flight to flee the fury and folly of the fallout. Hiding in mainland Europe to escape the inevitable tedium of the post-match post-mortem. This wasn’t his first rodeo to be fair.
The dates possible of Rangers-free title clinching weekends or cup finals are calculated or noted, investigated and acted upon. Flights and hotels are booked; bags and passport packed. It is now a ritualistic exile into which Rangers have forced him all too often inrecent years.
Despite the extremity of these actions, I am certain that there will be at least a part of us all which understands and perhaps even approves. It can’t be argued that it doesn’t display a sort of commitment. In fact, it feels like there ought to be some sort of uber-staunch MyGerspoints awarded for going above and beyond in the avoidance of Rangers-related depression. However, whether we like to admit it or not, we are all, in our individual ways, my travelling pal.
Being a football fan is undoubtedly one of the most irrational pursuits we will undertake in our lifetimes. To the uninitiated, the outlook of the football fanatic is as inexplicable as its manifestations are wildly unpredictable.
On an April Saturday night in 2016, I tried in vain to explain to my wife the reasons for my pained expression, constant pacing of the living room and generally unpleasant mood:
“It’s them tomorrow. Hampden. Semi-final.”
She didn’t get it. How could she? We agreed that night that as much as it was to me, it meant nothing to her and that never the twain shall meet. It’s the only way. She seemed to understand the champagne on the Sunday, mind you.
In the end, there is little point in trying. We can’t rationalise this thing of ours. And while there might not be a gun and dagger on the table, we have still made our own sort of blood oath: a lifetime commitment.
We will continue to accept that our mood will be largely dependent on the performances and results of a group of players whom we do not know and probably dislike. Significant percentages of our disposable income will disappear into a blue hole to fund a pursuit which often offers only the briefest moments of exhilaration and joyamidst the swamp of turgid tedium and downright despair. We have paid for seats we in which we could not sit and still apply for tickets we’ll rarely receive. It’s never really a question, is it? It’s just what we do.
In the last two weeks as we’ve collectively licked ourwounds from another damaging defeat, the international break, for once, has seemed like welcome relief. However, at the weekend the away end at Tannadicewill be full and noisy. Soon, three, then four stands at Ibrox will hopefully be the same. The show will be back on the road and we’ll be able to experience – and exhibit - all of our collective mental deficiencies in ultra HD andcrystal clear sound. I can’t wait. Who knows, the good times might be only around the corner….God, I hope so.
My travelling pal will be there and so will I. I’ve heard through the grapevine that he is considering - and I shit you not – North Korea as a future destination. Apparently, it offers something different.
Rationality? Who needs it?
