Sandstone Press

Nothing is final, anything is possible (1)

Posted by RLD on 27th May 2010

For some reason Ben Lomond, one of the more benign Munros, defied me. For reasons of my own fitness, which has gone up and down more than most over the years, or that of my companion, or having to assist someone else, it took me five attempts. This is the same number as the much more formidable Ben Cruachan. Cruachan has several distant, challenging tops and I had to visit for a record sixth time to do the Taynuilt Peak in winter. Low visibility and a solo effort required pinpoint navigation that gave me real satisfaction and pride.

The hills close to Glasgow always felt different since it is my home city and I did not take to hillwalking until I had been away for quite a few years. They had been a sort of submerged ambition through my twenties, probably longer, since my first trip, a school trip, to Iona. That trip altered my outlook on the world since all our family journeys had been to the south. All of a sudden a new country opened to me, new possibilities, alternative lives.

For years the desire to move to the Highlands lived inside me, nourished by holidays and reading. The desire for the hills was masked however, by active competitive sport, in my case Rugby, which changed and enriched me and which I have never regretted, and also by a great enjoyment of professional sport which, in Scotland, is almost inevitably football. I come from the south side of Glasgow, from an arc reaching from Paisley through Govan into the Merchant City, an area which is sometimes referred to as the Orange Crescent. The men in my family (father’s side) have been Rangers supporters since the boys in the rowing club pulled their boats out of the water onto Glasgow Green and started kicking a ball around.

To contextualise for the benefit of all but especially those who have also lived, perhaps still live, inside this stormy teacup, the degree of commitment in my immediate family was as a mild church adherence is to a monastic, religious commitment. That is to say, it remains within the bounds of sanity except, occasionally, in the presence of The Other. It could have been worse but was still a lot to carry and, like many heavy loads, is difficult to walk away from. Please join me in noting the change of tense within that last sentence.

Religion is by no means an unfair analogy, although I believe, and have frequently argued, that nationality is a better one. To further contextualise, the nationalisms are British and Irish and their territory needs further explaining. All over Europe, and also Africa which has fared even worse, territories and identities have been subsumed by Nation States. Mostly these are 19th century developments.

I do not project back to a golden age when territories and identities were neatly defined and there was no conflict, far from it. There were always invasions, genocides, rape as a weapon of war and political tool (see The Iliad). In terms of mixing the populations, if we look on that as desirable (as we should), love matches were actually more problematic (see Romeo and Juliet).

If you should be so unwise as to ask me where I come from or, more accurately, what I come from, I will take you to a map of the British Isles and Ireland and draw on it a broken line in roughly the shape of an egg. This egg will contain West Central Scotland and the provinces of Northern Ireland, including those now politically within the Republic. The effective history of this area predates the past half century’s Troubles, and even the plantations that put so many Loyalists onto Irish soil. Powerful influences come from other areas, influences that not only put the word ‘London’ before the word ‘Derry’ but put a lot of Others into that City.

Over on my side, we fight and resent over recent memories of insult in a great to-ing and fro-ing and not for any reason that could be described as important beyond itself. In Glasgow there are the two football clubs, Us and The Others. Let me put it that way. You can decide for yourself who ‘We’ and ‘They’ are.

On the days of Derby games the ferries from Belfast are full of rival supporters. After the games Accident and Emergency at the Southern General is a busy place. For all that we are not the worst, not in world terms. Comfortably, the worst place is Belgrade. Step forward Red Star and Arkan’s successors. Man the barricades and prepare to receive them, Partizan.

In Barcelona, FC Barcelona represents Catalan identity, and is, ironically, a more successful club than rivals Espanyol (Real Club Deportivo Español de Barcelona), which represents the subsuming Spanish culture. To get an idea of how deep this one goes the reader might try Barca: A People’s Passion by Jimmy Burns, taking particular note of behavior during the Spanish Civil War.

I left Glasgow for a job in Highland and a period with Highland Rugby Club, later a profound exploration of the hills and their literature which was, of course, an even more profound exploration of the self. To make the exploration also an extension I did my best to lay all other elements of self down and walk away. As you will see from everything that leads to this point, this necessarily included football.

The process seemed quite successful until one day, after a joyous solo round of Meal a’Chrasgaidh, Sgurr Mor Fannich and Beinn Liath Mhor Fannich, I turned on the car radio to discover a Scotland game was being played. My defenses were open and I listened, gripped, all the way home, not just to the end of the game but to the analysis, the talking heads, the pickers-over of entrails, the doom-saying predictors of the future.

That was probably when team sport recaptured a me who was now rather changed, restored and returned as Auden said. The problem was always going to be Rangers. There was no problem in distancing myself from those Rangers fans whose motto might be, ‘You always hurt the ones you love (as an example to the rest)’, but what did I think I was? Changed, yes, but not completely.

I made my successful climb to the summit of Ben Lomond on a Saturday afternoon when Rangers were playing Aberdeen in what would probably be a League decider. My mother was, at that time, living in sheltered accommodation not far from their ground at Ibrox. At that time we had no Highland sides in the National Leagues. Some years would pass before Inverness Caledonian and Inverness Thistle would be merged as Inverness Caledonian Thistle and enter the Scottish League at the same time as Ross County.

Aberdeen represented the North, and by extension Highland. Driving back to Glasgow I listened on the radio, surprised, staggered would be a better word, by my strength of feeling in their favour. When Rangers scored I struck the steering wheel in frustration with the flat of my hand, but there was still time for an equaliser, which was all Aberdeen required for the title. If I timed my return journey well, I could listen to the whole game before getting back to Mum.

There was a long extra time and the game was still in progress when I parked. At exactly the moment I got out of the car a huge roar went up from across the road. Rangers’ superb centre forward, the big Englishman Mark Hateley, had scored with his head and put the result beyond doubt. The title was staying in Glasgow.

I told myself, and my bewildered mother, that I didn’t care and that I didn’t mean just about which club was ascendant but about football generally. I did a better job of fooling myself than I did her, incidentally. She knew me too well. It seemed I still had some travelling to do, travelling that was as much about perspective as distance.

That night we watched a retrospective of the season that featured Mark very strongly. I don’t think I had fully appreciated what an all round athlete he was, how skilled, how quick, how ruthless. Rangers got the best of him. The most effective use Mark put his head to was when he struck a ball with it (or whipped his long mullet-cut into the eyes of opposing defenders) but he was soon to make a thoughtful remark that would change my way of thinking about professional sport, especially football, in ways I could not have guessed. Ways that matter, really, quite a bit.