Come With Me On Journey Through Time And Space.......

Ok, let's get this one out the way, 'cos otherwise I'll just mope about it and make everyone's life a misery.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MEHEEEE............da de da da da da......

65 today folks. Woo!

Anyway, in line with the "Feeling My Age" theme, I went for a walk today and happened to pass the football pitches where I made my debut as a schoolboy footballer. Most people will tell you they weren't up to much at football, even if they were captain of the school team.....I scoff at them for the self deprecating closet show offs they are. I on the other paw was truly abysmal. Playground football was another matter. That was fun, no pressure, no positions, just run about and chase the baw. The irony is that this is how I made it to both the school team and the boys club team attached to the school. I arrived at Dunard St in 1987 (P7) and of course I'd get involved in playground games. I think I remember once getting the ball one lunchtime and beating about four guys before falling on my arse as I tried to score. It made no odds though, they thought I was dead good, so I got nominated by my peers for trials with the boys club and I seemed to be a cert for the school team too. My first fuck up was to tell the guy at the Boys Club I was a defender. I WAS FUCKING NOT!!!! I couldn't pass water, I couldn't tackle a fish supper and quite frankly, I had my eyes shut a good two seconds before I attempted to header a ball. Why did I say I was a defender when I was quite obviously a winger or a centre forward? Fuck only knows.....Maybe it was to do with confidence. Maybe I thought I could hide in defence, not be too conspicuous as a right back.....

How wrong I was. I don't remember much, but what I do recall is not seeing much of the ball and when I did have the ball, passing it to the guys in the wrong shirts. I also once tried tackling someone with disastrous results. The poor cunt probably still has the stud rash to this day. The thing I remember most was his team mates talking about and pointing at me like I was Jack The Ripper. I also hated training nights. The five-a-side games were ok I suppose, but even then I was probably dreaming of fulfillment that didn't involve running about a blaze pitch on a Sunday morning in a nylon shirt and shorts.

Anyway, back to my walk this afternoon. The Clouston Street pitches are no more. There used to be two sets of pitches and a set of floodlight pylons for each, as well as a club house. The area seems to be designated for housing now and consists of nothing more than the rusting and dilapidated floodlight pylons, young trees, overgrown grass, beer cans and smashed bottles. If you take notice of the path through it used by dog walkers and short cutters you will see what remains of the original red grit surface familiar to many Scottish schoolboys of a certain age. I'm not sad to see the back of the red blaze pitches. Ok, so astro turf can give you nasty burns, but the old grit pitches could lift more than just a layer of skin, I've seen it.



It was more than just nostalgia though. It was the realisation that it was over twenty years since I'd trotted out onto the very same ground I was revisiting and that in some ways it felt like the distance between what had happened in my life and what had happened to the pitches was somehow disproportionate.