THERE is always somebody worse off than yourself, ma auld maw used to tell me.
Unfortunately, she used this maxim when one was undergoing open heart surgery by tin opener on the kitchen table. The Possil version of Doctors and Nurses, since you ask.
Nevertheless I have clung on this maxim with all the strength of a barnacle with separation anxiety as my life has spiralled downwards with the velocity of a one-winged sparrow with a death wish.
My life can be summed up with the observation that I drive a Ford Fiasco so old that has a small hearth instead of a cigar lighter. It is so cluttered with junk I have spent most of the year fending off documentary requests from Channel 4.
One young lady of my acquaintance calls it my Shag wagon. Why? Because it resembles a cormorant's nest, though with more bird crap.
Thus I have been imbued with the realisation that one has to work with what one has and not to make unrealistic demands on the resources one owns. This was never more obvious when I had to abandon an overtaking manoeuvre for lack of power in the Fiasco. This produced an unsightly, smug grin from the driver of the motorised scooter.
I am also resigned to spending my working life not watching the best players in the world. But I am attuned to the fact that while I watch the top division in Scotland, others willingly go to lower leagues and to Junior matches.
One wonders what we are all seeking. In my case, it is 1000 words and a computer that can not only hold drivel but transmit it to the sports desk.
For others, more precisely the paying punter, much of the appeal must surely be to shout at someone who is much more fortunate than oneself. Most of us have wanted to be footballers and these specimens have achieved our dream and they must pay for that.
It is why a portly Junior centre-forward with a limp and anger issues can be singled out for the sort of opprobrium that should be reserved only for a war criminal or the guy who nicked into the last parking space at the supermarket.
Of course, it is easy to criticise footballers and some managers even pick a player for that specific purpose. Frankly, there can be no other reason for Wayne Biggins at Celtic in the early nineties. He could have been described as the lightning rod for criticism except that Lou Macari, in a cunning ploy, surrounded him with so many other lightning rods that the energy needs of Dalmarnock were satisfied for a generation.
But the tendency is universal. Big Ginger Bond, my colleague and carer, exists only for the moments when I mention in my column that I have watched baseball in Fenway Park and Real Madrid in the Bernabeu.
In the ambulance back from the Old Firm match on Sunday, he said: "Yeah, you have never mentioned Boston or Real for, like, all of 12 seconds." I believe he was being sarcastic. The paramedic believed he was being inappropriate, given I was being resuscitated at the time.
But to Real Madrid. And the Bernabeu. I sat there last year and watched Cristiano Ronald score three and Gareth Bale bang in two in a 7-3 defeat of Seville.
The three season ticketholders in front of me slaughtered Ronaldo with expressions and gestures that made a knowledge of Spanish as redundant as a fish knife at a Burn's Supper.
Their criticism did not abate as Ronaldo completed his hat trick, danced around Seville defenders as if he was taunting them with an improvised version of flamenco and dribbled like a teething wean with a sugarally gumshield.
This image came to my mind as the Interweb reported this week that Senor Bale was being booed and whistled at because he tends to believe the ball is his sole property and is as selfish as a banker in bonus week. The Madridistas have scorned his apparent inability to square the ball to a colleague when through on goal.
The Welshman has already scored in a Champions League final and has netted 10 goals and laid on five in 17 appearances in La Liga this season but I defend the right of football fans to criticise him. It is our duty.
I just have the one observation. There is always someone worse off than yourself...but they are never Real Madrid fans.
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