All Aboard the Team Bus

Tomorrow is a day off work for me. Or at least a day off from the job that provides me with a wage slip once a month. The job that pays the mortgage, and the job that keeps the cat in food.

Those that know me, I assume my reader from Brazil stumbled across this blog by accident, will tell you that my other job is Programme and Website editor for Partick Thistle Football Club. It’s something of a misnomer though to label it a job. Writing about the football team that I love is a pleasure, and while there is no pay packet from Partick Thistle come the end of the month there are perks that come with the position that money simply can’t buy.  

One of which is being allowed to travel to away games on the team bus.

(some people, not me , getting off the Thistle team bus)

There was a time when I dreamed that I would climb aboard the Partick Thistle team bus, sign saying ‘Players and Officials’ displayed in the window, with boots and shin pads in my bag rather than the laptop that I do. Given that it is unlikely that Jackie McNamarawill look my way and think that a fat 43 year old is a solution to Thistle’s problems and shout “right Hosie, you are starting up front today”, travelling with the team is the closest I’m ever going to come to being a professional footballer.

I may be 40 plus with responsibilities and bills to pay, but part of me has never grown up, I doubt us men ever truly do. As such travelling with my heroes remains a real thrill. A chance, through them, to vicariously live out my dream of being a footballer for Partick Thistle.

I first travelled on the team bus, a suited and booted nervous individual, on December 27^th 1999 for a trip to Arbroath. The Thistle side of that season wasn’t the greatest ever to represent the Club and I remember the players rushing through their pre-match meal so they could catch part of the old firm game on TV before heading to the game. There were some players that displayed more passion in the hotel watching that game than they did on the park later in the day.

It might not have been the most auspicious of starts to my time on the team bus but there have been some fantastic memories since.

There were goose bumps on my arms when,  after the Second Division title had been clinched at Forfar, the Thistle fans came onto the street to clap the team bus as it pulled away. Okay, I know they weren’t clapping me. It’s back to that vicarious dream again. 

The journey back from Peterhead after the play-off victory was an experience that will stay with me for life. As will the sight of Scott McLean eating a raw pot noddle on a journey back from Stranraer or an, unnamed former player, throwing a strop when the dvd of ‘Sulmdog Millionaire’ froze just at the crucial stage of the film.

This brings me to the main downside of travelling with the team.  Something far worse even than the smell that can emanate from the more flatulent members of the squad, namely, the almost universal appalling taste in films that footballers have.  The more puerile the humour or louder the explosions the more they will love it. If I’ve seen ‘Dumb or Dumber’ or ‘The Wedding Crashes’ once then I’ve seen them dozens  of times. Gerry Britton provided ‘The Life of Brian’ once but you expect that kind of thing from the cerebral King of Spain.

I can, however, live with the poor choice of in-bus movie. Being allowed close to the team is a thrill and a privilege, but all the same spare a little thought for me tomorrow travelling through the night from Dingwall trying to grab even a few winks of sleep. A Jags victory would help make the miles go that bit quicker. 

Red Dog

It’s been a good year thus far to be an animal in the movie business.

We’ve had ‘War Horse’, ‘The Artist’, where the human actors were upstaged by a ten year old Jack Russell by the name of Uggie, and we’ve also had ‘Red Dog’.

Not familiar with ‘Red Dog’? That’s perhaps no great surprise.

‘Red Dog’ is an Australian film that has had a relatively limited release here in the United Kingdom.

A very, very brief synopsis could label this movie as Greyfriars Bobby moved to the Australian outback.  ‘Red Dog’ is based on legendary true story of Red Dog who roamed the outback in search of his master John (played in the film by Josh Lucas) who dies in a motorbike accident.

Just how much of this film is based on legend and how much is based on fact is open to debate but it provides the viewer with a highly emotional journey all the same. This isn’t a film that gently tugs at the hearts strings, rather it is one that gives them a good old yank and leaves you to face the consequences.

You would have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by Red Dog’s story. Following the death of his beloved master he sits outside the homestead for three weeks staring down an empty dirt track patiently awaiting for his never to return master.

At the end of those three weeks Red Dog abandons his lonely vigil and sets out to find John. An, unsuccessful, journey that takes him across Australia, and into the hearts of countless Australians. Not for nothing has there been a statue of Red Dog erected in what is the closest, for such a nomadic dog, to what could be considered his home town.  

I don’t want to give too much of the story away but if you are in any way an animal lover then I suggest taking a large box of hankies with you to the cinema.

I’m a big, strapping lump of a 43 year old and I’m not prone, as a rule, to outward displays of emotion. I would be lying though if I said there wasn’t a lump in my throat and a distinct moistening around the eyes when watching this. Indeed even that would be a lie. It wasn’t a single tear that gently rolled down my face during the film. It was a veritable flood of tears that gushed down my normally stoic visage. At one point I was even desperately fighting the urge not to emit a pitiful sob. That my girlfriend (yes dear reader I am hetrosexual) was sitting next to me going through the same gamut of emotions didn’t exactly help me in my fight, which I lost, to avoid becoming a gibbering wreck.

If you feel brave enough then this film is well worth taking the time to see it. And if it doesn’t make you cry then nothing ever will. 

A Taxing Issue

Only a fool wouldn’t acknowledge that the events this week at Ibrox has been the biggest story to have hit Scottish Football since, well, since forever to be perfectly honest. Equally only a fool wouldn’t realise that the implications of it extend well beyond the boundaries of G51 2XD.

It is understandable, therefore, that the odd column inch or two has been devoted to the remarkable story as it has unfolded over the course of the week. We are promised further revelations next week, and they too are bound to shock and grip in equal order.

I’ve been watching football in Scotland for 35 of my 43 years and in that time I’ve become used to the fact that two clubs, Fergie’s time at Pittodrie notwithstanding, have dominated the game almost entirely. I’ve got used to football writers desperately trying to shoe horn the ‘old firm angle’ into their reporting no matter how far removed the actual story is from either club. So used to it in fact that it now raises no more than a wry smile rather than my ire as it once did.

Until yesterday that is.

Yesterday found me, as usual if Thistle are at home, at Firhill. Morton were the visitors and while the goalless draw wasn’t a classic it was still a reasonably entertaining, if from a Thistle perspective frustrating, afternoon.

At the end of the game I trooped round the side of the pitch to hear what the two managers had thought of the 90 minutes.

On an afternoon where the icy wind cut you in half, the warmth of the new Firhill press room was most welcome. Morton manager Allan Moore was the first to speak and as usual he rabitted on at a fair old rate with a pretty accurate assessment of the game.

Next into the room to share his thoughts on the game was Morton’s Archie Campbell. Now you can understand the logic of wanting to speak to Campbell whose pace had troubled the Thistle back line all afternoon and it was Campbell after all who had blazed a penalty high into the sky.

(ex Ranger Archie Campbell sends a penalty over the bar - pic by Tommy Taylor)

Now Campbell, if you are unaware, had been on the books of Rangers until the end of last season though he had spent much of the season on loan at Cowdenbeath. Comment on the game he had just played in was pretty perfunctory before the press moved onto what they really wanted to hear; Campbell’s thoughts on what was happening at his old club and I don’t mean Cowdenbeath.

Next to speak was Thistle manager Jackie McNamara and like his Morton counterpart his assessment of the game was more or less spot on.

There was just one Thistle player left to speak before the press’ job was done for the afternoon.

Their choice? Darren Cole who is on loan at Firhill from, yes, you’ve got it – Rangers.

It could be that they wanted to hear what Cole thought about moving back to centre defence after playing left back the week before but I doubt it. At any rate I didn’t hang about to find out and headed off to the pub.

I’ve already acknowledged the significance of the situation at Ibrox but, and it is a pretty big but, these guys were at Firhill to report on Partick Thistle v Morton not Glasgow Rangers.

There were 2,500 or so people at Firhill yesterday and their primary interest was the fortunes of either Partick Thistle or Greenock Morton. Is it unreasonable of them to expect to open up their papers and read what their club representatives thought of the game they played in rather than at events elsewhere?

I’m aware that this has been nothing more than a rant but this ‘old firm at all costs’ sums up so much of what is wrong with Scottish Football and how it is reported on. I accept that both Rangers and Celtic are much bigger clubs than Partick Thistle. I accept that as a consequence of that they will dominate the media as much as they dominate the game itself. I’m not asking for a disproportionate amount of space to be devoted to Partick Thistle. I’m just expecting those sent to cover Partick Thistle v Morton to report on the game that took place in front of them.

Rant over.  

Ticket to Ride Back in Time

A recurring theme running through these infrequent blog entries is that of obsession. Or to be more precise the multitude of obsessions that have afflicted me over the years. One from my youth that hasn't previously been mentioned is that of time travel. Like, I hope, a lot of young boys I was intrigued by the thought of being able to travel in time. Ever the classicist I was more HG Wells' 'Time Machine' rather than Michael J Fox's DeLorean. That said, I'm still eagerly anticipating the flying cars and hover boards that lie just around the corner for us in 2015. 

Anyway, I digress. Given the gift of time travel where, or more accurately when, would I go? As a Partick Thistle supporter then October 1971 would have to feature on any time travelling itinerary. Note to any non Thistle supporting reader who has stumbled across this blog, check out what happened on the 23rd of that month 41 years ago and you'll understand the desire to head back to that particular date.

So where else would I visit on my merry jaunt through time? With the music of The Beatles one of my current obsessions then I would need to take the opportunity to see live a band that split up while I was a mere toddler and stopped touring before I was born.

Sadly, I haven't, as yet, managed to discover how to create a flux capacitor and I can't drive, far less get a DeLorean up to 88mph, so October 23rd 1971 will remain a date that I can only visit via DVD.  

So too am I denied the chance to experience Beatlemania first hand.

The proliferation of Beatles tribute bands though does provide a good alternative. We are fortunate here in Scotland to have in the shape of Them Beatles one of the very best on offer.

(pic nicked shamlessly from www.thembeatles.com)

Them Beatles are much more than a band that play cover versions of Beatles songs. For a start their attention to detail is quite remarkable. To help create an authentic Beatles sound they perform without any pre-recorded music relying on their own skill and craft as musicians, they use instruments from each era, to recreate the music that so thrilled a generation in the 1960s and is still much loved to the present day.

Such is the desire to create as an authentic sound and image as possible 'Paul', expertly played by Joe Kane, even learned how to play his hofner bass left handed. Indeed all four do an astonishing job in creating their Beatle Alter ego. Clark Gilmour, with knees slightly bent, brings to life John's cheeky on stage persona and his gravely vocal, particularly on 'Twist and Shout' is so close a reproduction of Lennon's own performance that an audio recording could fool all but the keenest of ears.  

Craig McGown's depiction of George Harrison, the so called quiet Beatle, is quite remarkable and at the O2 last November provided the audience with a touching tribute to Harrison. Grahame Critcher meantime gives a virtuoso performance on drums and replicates Ringo's laconic vocals when it is his turn to take the mic.

It's not just the music from Them Beatles that sets them apart for other Beatle tribute acts. Their costumes are faithfully reproduced, with the best probably those from the Sgt Pepper era (see above pic).

I've had the pleasure of catching Them Beatles live on four occasions now and each gig has been different in some form. Last night at Platform Three in Bellshill they concentrated on the Beatlemania era with Paperback Writer, recorded in 1966, the latest of all the tracks they performed. They do, however, focus on the entire Beatles career up to, and including, the famous Apple rooftop performance in 1969, the last time The Beatles performed together. 

Them Beatles are perhaps best enjoyed as part of an audience that truly appreciates the effort that has gone into re-creating the sound and look of The Beatles but their performance never disappoints. Do catch them in action if you get the chance.

For more information about Them Beatles and tour dates check out www.thembeatles.com

Young Adult

Take a trip to the cinema these days and you will most likely encounter an advert where Ray Winstone will wander up down a cinema listing, in his own inimitable delivery, why he enjoys a trip to the cinema before declaring, with pause for dramatic effect, that he goes to the cinema for “the experience”.

That “experience”, in Cineworld Glasgow at any rate, will regularly involve being disturbed by people chatting and playing with their mobile phone. No number of inane ‘adverts’ from Orange will persuade people to switch their phones off for the duration of a film. My suggestion that those who insist of checking their facebook status while in the cinema should receive a poke from a high voltage cattle prod has so far fallen on deaf ears. I do, however, continue to live in hope.

A knowledgeable, appreciative audience can enhance the cinema experience.  Not a sound could be heard, to site an example, during the powerful adaptation of Lionel Shiver’s novel ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’.

Alas that wasn’t the case at yesterday evening’s screening of ‘Young Adult’ at the aforementioned Cineworld. Whether the audience were expecting something in the ilk of ‘Bad Teacher’ I don’t know, but this film seemed to go over the heads of the vast majority of them. The result was that it didn’t  hold their attention and played to almost constant low level, but annoyingly audible, babble.

That was a shame as this was a film that deserved better. Charlize Theron gives an excellent performance as Mavis Gary the ghost writer of a series of books aimed at the Young Adult market. With a failed marriage behind her, a drink problem and a bad case of writers block she receives an e-mail from her High School sweetheart, Buddy played by Patrick Wilson, announcing the birth of his baby son. In attempt to recapture what she perceives as her glory years she returns from the big city, in this case Minneapolis, to her small time home town with the avowed aim of winning Buddy back.  

On arriving home she encounters High School contemporary, although she barely noticed him, Matt Freehauf (Patton Oswalt) a “fat geek” who was beaten so badly by at High School by some jocks who, mistakenly, believed he was gay that he was left crippled.

As good as Theron’s performance is, in my opinion it is Oswalt, a leading US stand- up comedian, that steals the show here.

This dark comedy, more ‘feel bad’ than ‘feel good’, explores the impact your school years, in particular those immediately before adulthood, can shape your life. Mavis and Matt form an unlikely friendship. Or perhaps, given that both have, for entirely different reasons, been unable to escape from their adolescent years, not quite so unlikely. Mavis, made bitter by life’s disappointments, yearns for the return of her youth while Matt’s injuries seem as much mental as they are physical.

The humour in this film is often uncomfortable and while you won’t leave the cinema with your mood lightened do go and see it if you get the chance. Don't forget your cattle prod. 

Valentine’s Day Massacre

I touched on my obsessive personality in a previous blog entry. There have been a whole host of things that I have become obsessed with during my 43 plus years on the planet but the dominant, all consuming, one has always been the fortunes of Partick Thistle Football Club.

Calculating the amount of actual time I devote to Partick Thistle is a task that I’m simply too scared to perform lest the men in white coats take me away. And therein lies my greatest fear. Not so much that my obsessive, compulsive behaviour will end up with me sectioned for my own good, but that the consequence of that would mean I would miss a game.

You see I simply can’t miss a Thistle match. I can no more get up on a match day and not go to the football than I can avoid blinking.

January 1^st 2005 was the last time Partick Thistle played a fixture without myself being in attendance. While I like to think that the players stopped, took a look up in the stands and wondered, maybe even worried, where I was the world didn’t stop turning simply because I was on the Isle of Mull that day rather in Paisley where I should have been. 

It was, however, an uncomfortable afternoon. The scenery on the Isle of Mull is desolate yet beautiful. As we took a trip round the island I should have lost myself in the beauty of the countryside, yet all I could do was worry about what was unfolding at Love Street. The fact that for much of the afternoon I had no signal on my mobile phone didn’t help.

When word eventually came through that we had drawn 1-1 I was relieved that we hadn’t lost. If truth be told I was equally as relieved that the 90 minutes had passed without anything out of the ordinary, my non-attendance aside, occurring.  

Since that afternoon over 7 years ago I have made sure that wherever Thistle are playing you will find a fat, overly intense, grey haired man there watching and worrying.

That means that every social engagement has to be arranged with where Thistle are playing in mind. Want to book tickets for that show at the theatre? Better not, we might have a re-arranged league game or cup replay that night.

In moments of rare self-analysis, which I suppose the blog is a kind of, I hate the fact that I get so wrapped up in the fortunes of a mere (did I really say that?) football team. I hate too the fact that I have involved others in my obsession as well. My better half has gone since meeting me from someone with no interest in football to someone who spends every second Saturday at Firhill. She can be found in the Jackie Husband Stand selling programmes and when she calls Thistle “we” I love her all the more.

She understands the massive role that Partick Thistle play in my life, which is why when she learned that instead of a romantic tete-a-tete somewhere on Valentine’s Day I’ll be making a 250 mile round trip to watch Partick Thistle play Ross County she just shrugged, laughed and said “never mind”. She probably knew that given an ultimatum between spending time with the woman I love and 22 hairy arsed footballers, the hairy arsed footballers would win every time. And that is just plain wrong.  

Window Shopping

Excited about the imminent closing of the transfer window?

If, like me, you follow a team in Scotland then the answer will almost certainly be ‘no’. With the window about to slam shut (or any other similar transfer window cliché you can think of to the describe the last day of January) only one deal has taken place in Scotland in January that has involved a transfer fee. Even then the £35,000 that took Dougie Imrie from Hamilton to Paisley was hardly at the top end of the market.

Given the perilous financial state of Scottish football it can hardly come as a surprise to anyone that January has been largely free of transfer activity in Scotland. Few film crews camped outside grounds in Scotland with hoards of expectant fans swarming around them as the midnight deadline draws ever closer.

Transfer Window Deadline Day (such an important event in football is surely deserving of capital letters) is supposed to be a day of high drama. Sky Sports News displays a clock ticking down with the logo ‘time remaining’ next to it just in case we couldn’t figure out for ourselves what it means.

It’s the media circus that surrounds TWDD that truly irks this writer. What compels people to go and stand outside a stadium or a training ground on a cold January night? Were there no TV cameras there would they still turn up in the hope of seeing some star speed through the gates in a car with tinted windows? Are Sky Sports merely reporting the news and, ahem, drama of the day or are they, by turning up with film crews and cold looking reporters in tow, actually creating the drama that they then report on and declare ‘dramatic’?

Just as Christmas Eve can induce panic and generate some injudicious purchases so too can TWDD. The difference is that on Christmas Eve the worst you can do is spend a few quid on a jumper with a garish design upon it that will languish in a drawer until it goes in the charity bag. On TWDD you can spend £35million on Andy Carroll. Just about as useful as a Christmas sweater but a damn site more expensive.