EVER since I was a little boy - and that’s a long ago - I seem to have had to live with the fact that people who were raised in the City of Glasgow have the greatest difficulty in getting their heads round the fact they are perhaps not from Scotland’s number one city.
Weegies seem - at least to me - to spend much of their waking hours bemoaning the basic fact that their place of dwelling has to play second fiddle to the nation’s capital which, as we all know, is the more stately city of Edinburgh.
This basic inferiority manifests itself in various ways, not least being their insistence that are the nation’s comedians, and second to none Jimmy...!
They also have the long held belief that their city not only invented the beautiful game of football, but that it has the two best teams ever brought together to play the noble sport.
This, of course, is borne out by having one of its sides riding high in the Scottish Third Division, its status confirmed last Sunday with a stunning 1-0 mauling of the North-east’s second best who play out of Balmoor Park, Peterhead.
I have no bother with mixing with football fans, having been one of them in my silly years in the late 1950’s and through part of the 60’s.
My separation from my own favourites came when they resorted to playing a 4-2-4 system which, far from brightening up its play, resulting in fans like me turning away from a side who were scoring three goals a game before the new set was introduced.
And before you ask they were not from Glasgow.
But despite my disenchantment with the game I still watch the odd game on TV - is there a choice - but won’t be seen dead at a live game, at least in the full-time professional ranks.
Give me the good old fashioned match in the junior and amateur game where playing for the jersey actually means something.
I do, however, enjoy the banter that comes with the game, especially in your local pub where we can fully let rip with our educated ignorance, but then just occasionally it all becomes just too much, as was the case for me last weekend.
When the SFA bowed to the pressure of police forces throughout the land, introducing lunch time kick-offs it seemed the way to go, reducing drunken behaviour at matches.
The only problem with such an initiative was what you do with the supporters once the game has finished.
The majority are in fact law abiding, sober supporters who would be unhappy to see their team embarrassed by loutish goings on.
There are of course exceptions who manage to escape the net, heading for a pub where in some cases they can roundly chastise the locals for not having a team worthy of note, not fit to lace the boots of their heroes.
Normally I would take such supporters on, if only to prove that I know just as much of the history of the game, while taking time to point out that I was at Palmerston Park on the day when Glasgow’s finest lost its only league game of the season.
Stick that in your pipe Jimmy would have been my cry, but perhaps I have too old for such nonsense, and might just welcome drinking in a hostelry that does not welcome football colours.
No, on second thoughts I still like the challenge of a debate, but not in the spirit which some diehards bring to the table.