Tear tae a glass eye
My own dad was no' the best. Preferred my sister to me. Preferred playing with radio controlled aeroplanes to either of us. And preferred knobbing his bucket-of-smashed-crabs-fugly secretary to my Mum. Sure, marriages break down but his evil, endless legal shenanigans put Mum into mental hospital with the worst case of depression they'd seen in someone who didn't kill themselves. He left my life 25 years ago and his legacy has been to make sure I'm nothing like him.

I got my reward for that pledge in the form of some unusual validation from my bairns.

I take my kids to see Hibs every now and then. After taking them to a few games over the years, they sat me down for a talk.

"Dad," said my eldest, very seriously, "you know Hibs aren't very good at football, don't you?"

I couldn't really argue with that.

"Well, I only really go to see them because it makes you happy."

And, bless them, they still go with me - despite the awfulness of what's on the pitch.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 12:23, 4 replies)

I have never, ever understood football.
I have mates who's entire week it can ruin if they have a bad match.

Really - life is too short.

It really is only a game. And any twat that quotes that tossbag saying "It's not a matter of life or death it's much more important" clearly hasn't ever lost someone close to them in their lives.

Great story, though.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 12:28, closed)

Unless
they lost someone at Hillsborough.
(Rsoles, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 14:20, closed)

Good on ya fella...
I salute you.
(Vinnie Strokes Got bummed on, Thu 25 Nov 2010, 12:30, closed)

Not liking the Hibees FTW!

(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 25 Nov 2010, 14:23, closed)