My fiancée, the lovely Marion, remarked the other day that I was something of a creature of habit. I wasn’t entirely surprised by her less than complimentary comment as Saturday has always meant going to the Hearts game, something my first wife was only too keen to point out to anyone who would listen. Even when my two daughters were born, this didn’t change. Marion qualified her statement somewhat by opining that as Hearts weren’t playing last Saturday I was something like a fish out of water. However, it got me thinking about how predictable I’ve become by maintaining the ritual that is following the Hearts. For instance, here’s my schedule for a typical game at Tynecastle:
12.30 Arrive at The Station Tavern, Gorgie Road. Barmaid sees me arrive and instantly begins to pour a pint of foaming ale.
13.30 Three pints in and already there’s the first reference to how no one can lace Rab Prentice’s boots.
14.45 Leave the pub in a much more expectant mood than two hours previously.
14.50 Negotiate the steps up the Wheatfield Stand, trying to evade a middle aged woman bawling ‘Half Time Draw Tickets’ at the top of her voice. I get enough of women bawling at me…
15.00 Game kicks off with the last strains of Hector Nicol fading away.
15.05 First shout from the crowd urging the referee to go forth and multiply.
15.07 First comparison of said referee to famous biblical figure as in ‘Jesus Christ, ref!’
15.20 Callum Paterson’s attempt on goal likened to the contents of the overflowing urinal in the downstairs gents.
15.21 Member of Masonic Lodge of dubious parentage wearing luminous yellow shirt and struggling to keep up with play is identified as a Mr Collum…
15.40 Mass exodus of fans head for the toilet, pie, hot dog or any combination of the three in a usually failed attempt to beat the queues.
15.45 Half-time arrives – it’s generally agreed that football isn’t what it used to be as auld Bill and I remember our ‘heroes’ from a bygone age – in truth, these were players we used to hurl abuse at thirty and forty years ago.
15.55 Several hundred crumpled pieces of paper are collectively tossed into the air as the winning ticket for the half time draw is announced. My mate gets within ten thousand of the winning number. He’s rather sceptical as less than five thousand tickets were sold….
16.00 Second half kicks off to loud cheers – stadium announcer par excellence Scott Wilson announces that Hibs are two goals down at half-time.
16.02 The vast majority of those who sit in our section of the Wheatfield Stand return to their seats.
16.20 I remark that this game is tedious and has goalless draw written all over it. The forwards haven’t got a clue and Ryan Stevenson has done absolutely nothing of any significance. I make my view known that Mr Stevenson might well have sat next to us in the stand.
16.21 Ryan Stevenson scores a wonder goal from twenty-five yards after beating three men on the edge of the penalty box. I always knew he was liable to score a goal out of nothing. I make my view known that Stevenson is a valuable member of the team…
16.35 The part-time Hearts fans head for the exits. The fiftysomethings mutter something about having to pick up the wife from the Gyle Shopping Centre while those with kids argue their case for getting home in time to watch Ant and Dec…
16.40 Obligatory ‘how long is there to go’ question – particularly prevalent if Hearts are leading by a single goal.
16.45 The referee blows for full-time right on cue – unless the fourth official is Mr Brines who always adds three minutes of additional time (check this the next time he officiates at your team’s game) Hearts have scraped a victory and all’s well with the world. We join the cue for the exits.
17.02 We finally snake our way down the steps of the stand and head for The Station Tavern. The general consensus of opinion is that the game was rubbish, Hearts were rubbish and there must be better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.
See you next week then!
Happy New Year, readers…