Grass Roots.

I'm often tempted to give up following 'a big club' and, instead, come to places like this to watch fitba.
Fitba as it was always meant to be played. Hairy-arsed window cleaners and plumbers who withstand bone-crunching tackles with no Premiership shrieks nor gesticulations; the lunatic at centre half with no teeth who's basically crap but is the manager's nephew; the £2.50 ticket; the pies.....oh the pies; the mercurial left winger who they'll miss next season because he's "aff to that fuckin' art college"; cross-eyed Maggie who mans the single turnstile and will offer you 'a lift home' after the game; the mud.....how I miss the mud; real clothes.....none of those disastrous 3-piece fitted suits; and haircuts that cost a fiver and make you look like a man and not a ponce. Real fitba.
I once went to watch Fort William play Deveronvale. Seven goals (all for Deveronvale), two sendings off (after a proper fist fight.....no handbags at dawn here) and the Fort William 18-stone goalkeeper who simply walked off, probably never to return, after the fifth or sixth goal.
Tempting, very tempting.