When I was a kid in the 70s, I used to love watching the BBC's Final Score.

In our family, it was my mum who followed football. We'd sit and listen to the results, while my dad brought us toast and cakes. Unlike my mum, who supported Aston Villa, I didn't care about the scores. I just liked the teleprinter and announcer Len Martin's hypnotic intonation.

The best part was the Scottish Football results. The romance of those names! Queen of the South, St Mirren, Hibernian: they conjured up images of a misty, heathery country far removed from the bricks and mortar mundanity of Millwall and Sheffield Wednesday (which, it must be said, is a pretty exotic name by English standards). My mum, whose father was Scottish and who did her nursing training in Edinburgh, was proud of her Scottish ancestry. I was too. Who wouldn't be proud to have roots in the land of Partick Thistle, Hamilton Academical and Stenhousemuir?

Whenever I share these memories with Glasgow friends, they are quick to point out that what is now my local team is actually called Partick Thistle Nil. So it seemed particularly auspicious to learn that the Jags had been promoted to the Scottish Premiership just in time for my arrival in G20.

As an adult I've developed what might be called a mild enthusiasm for football. I enjoy watching a match and almost understand the offside rule. My interest dates to my move to Islington in the late 80s, back in the day when Arsenal regularly acquired new silverware. In those heady days I could name all the players and I turned out to cheer their homecoming when they won the league or the European Cup Winners' Cup. But although I've been to watch the fabulous Arsenal Ladies at their annual appearance at the Emirates stadium, I've never been to see an Arsenal first team match. For someone like me who doesn't care that much, it's too difficult and too expensive to get a ticket.

Not so at Firhill. The stadium is a short walk from my home, and if I decide 15 minutes before kick-off that I want to see a game, I can simply turn up and buy a ticket. And - even better - I don't need to take out a bank loan to do it. As a result, I've already been to two matches. OK, this doesn't exactly make me season ticket holder material, but it's definitely more impressive than my zero attendances during 25 years as an Arsenal supporter.

My first Thistle match was an evening League Cup fixture against Cowdenbeath. Play was lacklustre, and it was easy to be distracted by the view of the hills to the south. But in extra time the match came to life. With four goals in 30 minutes, there was no opportunity to take one's eye off the ball, view or no view. The Jags won 3-1. I wandered home dreaming of footballing glory.

Sadly, however, my next sortie to Firhill offered a full-on Partick Thistle Nil experience, with opponents Aberdeen winning 3-0. As the wee lad sitting behind me put it, there was "too much Aberdeen". The supporters in the home stands - exasperated or stoical - were subdued and outvoiced by the Dons' crowd. A group of Thistle fans in the corner did manage a chorus of what sounded like "cheap shaggy bastards", which puzzled me. Listening carefully, I became even more confused until my neighbour explained they were shouting at the opposition. You live and learn; I've always thought of Aberdeen as cattle country.

At the end of the match, my other neighbour asked if I'd be coming again. Could I cope with the inevitable disappointment? Well, as an Arsenal (and, by heritage, Villa) supporter, I'm used to disappointment. And, anyway, I like my new club. I like the intimate size of the stadium, the local ads and the stall that sells macaroni pies. (You know how I feel about macaroni pies.) I also like the supporters. Defamatory animal husbandry insults notwithstanding, they're a friendly bunch.

Most of all, I'm glad my postcode gives me an obvious club allegiance that avoids the Old Firm enmity. Of course, coming from north London, I'm used to local footballing rivalry. But although I've been known to cheer on occasion when Spurs have lost at home, I'm not really a partisan creature and I'm more than happy to give the whole Celtic-Rangers thing a miss. Give me Partick Thistle Nil any day.