As Scottish as shortbread in a tartan tin

Glasgow Rangers 1 – 1 Tottenham Hotspur

Thursday 12 December 2024

I’ve always wrestled with my Scottishness. By name and blood I’m Scottish, well half Scottish, there or thereabouts. My father, as big and Scottish as they come, indoctrinated me into traditions as old as the clans themselves, encouraged all the while by his father and indeed his older sister, my Aunt Jane, possibly the most Scottish woman I’ve ever met.

And as a wee lad, I lapped it up, embracing the romantic mythology, the brutal beauty and if I’m totally honest, the opportunity to be something different. For I found myself growing up in the South East of England. To be precise as cul-du-sac of culture that goes by the name of Aylesbury. A market town nestled just above the Chiltern Hills in the county of Buckinghamshire. Possibly once a quaint delight it soon became a grey brutalist nightmare, known best as the town that masterminded the 7/7 bombings (the White Widow was two years above me at secondary school) and the backdrop used for Kubrick’s ‘A Clockwork Orange’.

The town’s much maligned bloating post WWII was caused by the fact it ultimately became a North London over flow; a suburb beyond suburbia. A commuter belt town that found first, second and now third (or possibly fourth) generation Londoners settling in it. Therefore a town that is mostly divided by Spurs and Arsenal despite being a good 40 miles from the Seven Sisters Road.

Whilst there may be a common ground of Aylesbury Utd, certainly back in the Cliff Hercules glory days (who could forget the cup run of 93!), there is certainly no love lost between the white and red halves of Aylesbury, and it may even surprise some readers to learn there are Tottenham and Arsenal dedicated pubs in my home town. So it’s perhaps not a total surprise I grew up Spurs, long before I was pleased to learn I actually had family ties to N17.

Unlike most football fans, my father is a Spurs fan because of me. For most, it’s the other way around. The following of a team passed town from father to son (or parent to child!) through the generations. In this instance, my father gave me being a Scot (even my middle name is Scott!). When I decided at the age of five that Tottenham was for me, he dutifully engaged and started taking me to the odd game. West Ham away in 1993 being my first taste.

We won 1-3, and that was that, I was hooked, and come to think of it may also explain why I have a particular penchant for away days. To say my father is a Spurs fan is a stretch, but I know he’ll always check the result with me in mind. My father’s father was a Reverend in the Church of Scotland, making my father the ‘son of the manse’ and I suppose me the Grandson of a preacher man. What does that mean…? Well, it means a number of things and may explain a lot but I feel that’s a conversation for another time. In simple terms and for this context, it means we’re Protestant.

The truth is, I grew up in the Home Counties with an English accent. If a true Caledonian heard me claiming to be from north of the border, they’d most likely tell me to ‘get tae fuck’ and who could blame them. The fact is I despise nationalism, flags and any line drawn in the sand. What’s more, I’m no royalist and I can’t stand religion and all the hate it peddles. I do however like hope, history and tradition. So what does that make me…a walking contradiction a best.

I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a Spurs fan. Tottenham is the only tribe I’ve ever felt part of.

My elders go by the name of Tel, Gazza and Teddy. I’ve written in the past of perhaps feeling more like a hostage than a fan of the club but the truth is we all support Spurs in our own ways and my love for Spurs is as pure as the lilywhite snow. And just with Yin into Yang, light into the darkness, we do of course peddle some of our own hatred for that lot down the road, but truth be told I think it’s justified, and unlike nationalism or religion, football hatred is an abstract hatred, a healthy hatred. After all where would Peter Pan be without his Captain Hook.

Far from it for me to comment but the football hatred that exists in Glasgow is far from abstract and actually quite scary, depressing even. I’m aware from my time in the North of Ireland that I can’t simply disassociate myself from the Catholic and Protestant church divide, just my name alone means it’s advisable to avoid certain public houses, something I was ignorantly failing to believe was real until shown how very real it is.

Let me make myself very clear here, I couldn’t care less about Rangers, Celtic, the crown or the Church in any carnation yet all the above dances it’s way through my mind as my subconscious prepares for a trip to Ibrox. Coming to fruition as I sit in London City Airport sipping a Guinness (which I would have assumed was a Catholic beverage but your humble reporter has just googled and is astonished to learn it is in fact a Proddy drink!) awaiting the arrival of my travelling companion for this evenings entertainment Jam, a North London ‘half-Jew’, who’s as atheist as the day is long.

Jam and I quickly get on to the topic of Scottish Spurs players, delighting in memories of Calderwood, Durie and Hutton. Of course the greats; Mackay, Archibald, Conn and Gilzean get a mention too. Our pre-game giddiness abates somewhat as the conversation shifts on to the current situation and the position our Greek Orthodox former Celtic manager has found himself in. Second only to the Emirates, I dare say the Blue half of Glasgow is the last place he’d like to visit right now.

I last saw Jam, 5 days ago, getting the bus home after witnessing, for me one of the worst games under our Australian’s tutelage. I’m sure technically there has been far worse but it somehow felt like the beginning of the end. We shouldn’t sack Ange and we won’t (not yet anyway) and the world doesn’t need another article addressing the matter, but I do seem to have a habit of partaking in away days that more often than not arise when dire straits are in play, and I’m not talking about a Mark Knopfler concert. It’s far worse than that! Alas, I like it that way, maybe it’s self sabotage, maybe it’s gallows humour, or maybe I am Scottish after all.

Up to Lexington, 125. Not sure if I’m dead or alive. Not quite, more like Paisley and Edmiston. Either way, I’m waiting for my man. The tickets do finally arrive via WhatsApp of all things and we’re on our way. As we approach this iconic stadium, I’m struck by the unfiltered hostility and bleakness of this dark, cold Thursday night, just south of the River Clyde. There isn’t a Spurs fan in site and my blue and white scarf is firmly tucked away staring up at the world from deep under eiderdown. We brave a pint in the Park Bar and after a few aggressively friendly exchanges, swiftly move on for a quick bite at the Beirut Star where a painter decorator inexplicably forces some commercial weed on us.

Not wanting to stay in one solitary place for too long, we keep things moving and as we approach the stadium, take in the vast red brick wall that unequivocally holds the Bill Struth stand in place through thick and thin. Ibrox is one of the greats and I’m delighted to be visiting for the first time, not least to see my beloved Spurs in what has become a fairly meaningful fixture. This feeling of awe, quickly transitions to concern as it becomes clear our seats are not in the Spurs away end. We’re filed in with the home supporters as my scarf shuffles deeper still into the nooks and crannies of my torso, of which there are more than I’d care to admit.

As it turns out we’ve been put in the ‘Club Deck’, a section of Spurs fans, friends and family within the home support but cordoned off by stewards high above the halfway line supported by those very same red Ruabon bricks. We find ourselves sat with Brennan Johnson’s parents and a young woman, I assume is his girlfriend. You have to be careful what you involuntarily shout when sat with in friends and family section, we had a similar experience at the Champions League final almost having a fracas with Kieran Tripper’s relatives. Luckily our young right footed attacker wasn’t the worst player on the pitch this evening, I’m just glad Timo Werner didn’t bring his loved ones.

Rangers were the better team and probably should have won by a couple of goals. We had enough quality to squeeze an equaliser out of the fixture but this performance for me highlighted how lost we can look when we’re not at the races. Sure, the first team is depleted and Levy hasn’t improved the squad when he’s had the opportunity but this wasn’t Ange-ball. I’m not sure what it was. The goal we scored actually reminded me of Conte, more than anything. Rangers wanted it more, all over the pitch. It’s a cliche but such adages exist for a reason, never more so within football. Without former Celtic big man, Fraser Forster we would have been dead and buried. The atmosphere in Ibrox is truly fantastic and whilst I find the royalist, nationalism jarring, it’s certainly and site and sound to behold. Ange just about lives to fight another day but Southampton away on Sunday looms large ‘mate’.

Never let the football get in the way of the football. Before embarking on our travels back home, we stop for a delightful lunch of Scottish seafood accompanied by anchovy tinged Bloody Mary’s and white wine. Life is life.

What can we do as Spurs fans? We just have to keep going. Your life is your life, don’t let its be clubbed into dank submission. Be on the watch, there are ways out, there is light somewhere. It may not be much light, but it beats the darkness.

Cease to hope and you will cease to fear. Yet it’s the hope that kills you, you know that? It lingers there every day. Maybe I am religious after all…