Your first-born won’t support your football team? Just have more children
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Version 0 of 1. It’s not too often, I suppose, that I feel the prime minister’s pain. But David Cameron’s lament that he had failed in that most vital of fatherly tasks – to entice his son, Arthur, to support his own side, Aston Villa – struck a sad chord. This is nightmare stuff for dads everywhere, and I live through a regular postmortem: where did it all go wrong? Mr Cameron, bravely trying again to improve his man-of-the-people act, this week told Rolls Royce workers in West Sussex that he had taken young Arthur along to Loftus Road four years ago to see QPR and Villa struggle to a boring draw. The boy, now nine, was unimpressed, and imparted the body blow that, henceforth, he was a Chelsea fan. The PM then dutifully took him along to Stamford Bridge when Villa were next in town. Amusingly, he was spotted on the telly and the crowd chanted: “Cameron, Cameron. Give us a song.” Rather less entertainingly, one imagines, son’s side beats dad’s 8-0. My plight is rather more complex: in the first instance, I am a true fan. There is then the considerable difficulty that the lovely Cappielow Park – home to the blue-and-white hooped object of my intense affection, Greenock Morton, since you ask – is 421 miles away from where I live. And there is the then international dimension. Not just the awful affliction of being a Scot in London for three decades, but also being married to an Irishwoman with three menacing, patriotic brothers, and having two out of three of my children being born in England. My paternal duty was not only to deliver, initially, my first-born as a Morton fan. It was also to ensure he embraced all things Scottish. Pull that off, and the future was mine. In years to come, we would stroll happily to club or international match, perhaps sharing a manly joke. Afterwards, we would toddle off to the pub for some good-natured post-match analysis. And then, maybe one day, he would have a child of his own, and our duo would become a joyous trio. I think, in retrospect, I might have been a tad desperate. Billy was precisely three weeks old when we first ventured forth. It was January 1997, and it was lashing (well, it is Greenock). Folk – and they don’t exactly breed softies there – looked at me as if I were mad. I feared a call to social services. And, of course, Morton lost. We once raced up for a promotion decider early one Saturday. Morton won! Billy’s lasting memory? Me being pulled over and given a speeding ticket somewhere on the M6. I’ve tried loads more: strips, videos, sponsoring a player with him, getting him to be mascot. To no avail. He ridicules Morton (and me), and claimed to be a Manchester United fan for a time. Worse: I overdid the Scotland thing. Billy proclaimed himself Irish. And he once even tried to change to his mother’s surname! True, there was some consolation in this when Scotland beat Ireland in the Euro 2016 qualifiers in November, and he’s only just started speaking to me again. But if at first you don’t succeed … I took Ruby, then 10, and Bella, seven, to watch Morton play at Partick Thistle on Boxing Day two years ago. This was a top of the table clash. It was packed. When you live down south, you can forget how brutal Scottish football can be. And there were my two beautiful girls in the midst of it: the noise, the swearing, the viciousness, the humour. Into one of those pin-drop moments following an aggressive, oath-laden chant, Bella piped up, in an unbelievably posh accent: “They’re so terribly rude!” The stand convulsed in laughter. She’s an Arsenal fan now – *shrug* – and we went to our first game the other week. They demolished the PM’s side 5-0, and she loved it. And what of Ruby? While Billy thinks he’s Irish, and Bella calls herself English, Ruby – born in Edinburgh – proclaims herself 100% Scottish and proud of it. I asked her what she wanted for Christmas. A Scotland top, and a Morton top. No prompting. No bribes. Finally, I had got something right. That’s my girl! |