The imminent approach of the new football season has reminded me of the fact that it’s been quite a few years now since my last competitive game of footie.   How I miss it.

By footie of course, I mean football, our game, the one we invented, the game of legends like Dalglish, Law and Joe Jordan as well as numpties such as Peter Grant, Davy McPherson and the utterly crap but brilliantly named Crawford Baptie.

Back home, no such clarification would be necessary, but here in Australia, football means different things to different people, depending on which part of the country they live.  In Victoria for instance, footie always means Australian Rules Football, whereas in New South Wales it refers to Rugby League or at pinch, Union. 

In fact, when Aussies talk about football, the one thing that’s for sure is they never actually mean football.

Soccer is what the game is called around these parts, a term which seems to annoy various Pommy pedants of which, you might not be all that surprised to hear, Australia contains more than a few. 

‘Soccer?’ they say.  ‘And what’s that?’

Personally I don’t see the problem since ‘soccer’ is an abbreviation of the official name for the game, the traditional, slightly archaic – but I quite like that – Association Football.

Like a lot of Scots of my generation and background I was born kicking a ball, which must have made it particularly painful for my poor old mum and possibly explains why she burst into tears of relief the very moment I emerged.  (At least I assume it was relief.)

As soon as I could, I pitched myself head first into real football, The Life Boys, strips and Mouldmaster number 4’s on a Saturday morning, goalpost and nets, occasionally, on the various red blaes and ash pitches which, in those far off days, seemed to be just about everywhere. 

Playing on surfaces which were definitely not soft and lush was a great leveller; it didn’t make the games any more competitive but everyone, whether they could play or not, came away from a match played on red blaes with an abiding physical reminder of the game.  Two knees and a lower buttock which had been ripped to shreds more effectively than if some mad sexual pervert had gone at you with a cheese grater.

My football career never really scaled the heights it has to be said, only ever achieving the heady levels of amateur football on a Saturday afternoons and the pub leagues on a Sunday.  Rip-snorting contests made all the more intriguing by the fact that nearly everyone was still drunk from the night before, a half time fag and can of export replacing the traditional quartered orange preferred by the serious, not to mention soft-as s***e so called professionals.

And so much for that guff about everyone being friends after the final whistle, I can well remember having to make a number of swift exits the second a number of tousy encounters ended, a mad dash for the bus to escape the wrath of our vanquished opponents, leaving no time for the niceties of a post-match hot shower.

Not that there would have been any hot water anyway. 

Or showers come to that.

Strangely enough, I did actually manage to resurrect my footie aspirations when I first came to Oz, being selected to play for the over 35’s in the coastal town of Byron Bay, famous for its surfing beaches, laid back attitude and ready availability of marijuana.

No doubt for the reasons above, Byron Bay attracted degenerate types like myself and our team, which as it turned out was a two-time league winning outfit, certainly sported its fair share.

Our main striker was Erik, a German mime artiste, children’s parties entertainer and occasional clown.  On one famous occasion he came to a game direct from a mime gig, still in full Marcel Marceau make up, stripy t-shirted,  with the white face with that creepy painted on smile.

And that was the match Erik the Mime was sent off. 

For swearing at the referee.

Unfortunately, or possibly fortunately for lovers of silky soccer, there are few opportunities for football here in the bucolic village of Swifts Creek.  This is AFL territory.

This doesn’t stop me kicking a ball around however, a large paddock at the bottom of my garden serving as my ersatz Hampden and a family of bemused but not overly concerned kangaroos performing the classic observation function of the more traditional 2 men and a dog.

It’s fun – a bit of keepy-uppy, one man head tennis and the like and whilst it’s obviously not the same as playing a real game, it’s still something I like to do of an evening, even if the roos rarely stick around for the second half.

I was never any good.  In fact I – and people like me – made the likes of Crawford Baptie look good but that doesn’t mean I don’t half miss it.

Partly I miss the game itself.  The fun of competing - of occasionally winning, of saving a penalty or scoring an unlikely winner – very unlikely in my case since I always played as a goalkeeper.

But mostly I miss the feeling of being a part of something.  Of being involved in a participatory activity with a bunch of other fellas – in what the one and only Bill Shankley called ‘pure socialism’ – men of various skills and talents in pursuit of a common goal and with an opportunity to share equally in the potential rewards and positive experiences.

Association Football.

See, it’s the Association part of it that makes it the game it is.