THERE are times when choices have difficult consequences.
Why didn't Abe Lincoln and the missus stick to the plan of watching the first Police Academy film at the pictures instead of going to the theatre?
Why didn't Chris Huhne just give his points to Dundee and everybody would have been happy? And why did Mr and Mrs Osborne have sex? Leading to the question: George Osborne, why?
The sporting world has its own scattering of queries, most found lolling in the press box, methinks, but there were enough questions over the past week to provoke what passes for discussion within that realm. There was, first, the great controversy in grand prix circles when someone overtook another driver. I didn't know this was allowed but I've have only been watching the sport for four seasons.
On top of that, Lewis Hamilton went into the wrong pit. Apparently, he forgot whose team he was in. This is called Grant Hanley syndrome. But the biggest story was the decision by Gillingham to give free food to the 28 Accrington Stanley fans who made the trip to Priestfield Stadium last Saturday.
The force of the gesture is undermined by the realisation this sustenance exclusively consisted of pies. In Scotland, free pies are considered a threat punishable by court action.
The idea, too, of welcoming away fans is a novel one for Scottish grounds and for the home support. I have travelled to just about every senior ground in Scotland as punter or pressman. My over-riding impression has never been one of a warm welcome for the fans travelling from a different postcode.
The most diabolical ploy is that constructed by Arbroath. The town changes into an Arctic outpost before every match. Hours after the final whistle it returns to the chic seaside town where the Rolling Stones recorded their greatest album, Engine Oil on Main Street.
Other Scottish grounds also hold terrors for visitors. The old Firs Park in Falkirk was hidden in a side street, in a location so secret one suspected it was the professional football wing of the Masons. One had to find a local to point one to the match. Unfortunately, one could never find him afterwards to pay him back for the directions.
Stirling Albion's old Annfield ground also had its dubious charms for visitors. In the glory days of about a quarter of a century ago, police stopped me entering the away end because my kids were wearing Bino scarves. We wandered down to the other end there to gaze in wonder at the massed horde of Meadowbank Thistle fans.
Their serried ranks were hardly reminiscent of the battle scenes in Zulu. Meadowbank carried not so much a support but a very small truss. Their fans were ferried away post-match in a Mini Metro.
Other grounds were uninviting. Boghead was a theme park celebrating the First World War, complete with mud, wooden boards and awful, unrelenting fighting. The terraces were no better.
And one could only interact with the home support at Stranraer if one had brought a banjo.
In some places, the football ground is the land that time forgot. This is especially true of Somerset Park which should surely be protected as a world heritage site as it is the very acme of an old-fashioned Scottish fitba' ground.
A mate tells me, too, that he was at Palmerston Park recently and stood beside a guy twirling a wooden rickety. Presumably further up the terracing there was a Japanese supporter who did not know the war was over. In Dumfries, of course, it may not be.
There are also points north that offer the visiting supporter all the attractions of Stornoway on a very brisk Sunday. The warmth of the welcome at Peterhead recently (and well done to every committee man and woman) was in stark contrast to the weather. There was a wind that could have sliced salami and my body temperature dropped so low that I was attached to a drip. I called him Hen Broon.
But their hospitality stopped short of offering visiting fans food and drink. There may have been a good reason for this. Where would they have found a pack of St Bernards?
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