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The
Heart of Midlothian and my corner of the world. By the time I’d
finished the third draft of my book, I had been writing
for over a year and yet there was still no title name that struck the
right chord. Around half of the book’s content is focused on my
life whereas the other half is dedicated to my journey as a Hearts
supporter. Essentially, it’s an autobiography, with large
football content but I still wanted its title to equally represent both
Hearts and the other locations where the book is set; and not least
Saughton Mains Bank. It eventually dawned on me that the one
thing that actually links Saughton Mains Bank to Tynecastle Stadium is
the relatively short distance between them. It is almost exactly
two miles from one to the other and seeing as that was literally a line
in the book anyway, I decided to use the phrase to give the book its
overdue title. My early life and my love for Hearts FC had found
its link, and it had been there all along. The cover photo of
Bobby and me on the doorstep encapsulates that journey. It’s the
instamatic potential before the kinetic. Heart of Midlothian FC isn’t the archetypal, run of the mill football club. No sir: Hearts torture and maim their fans, they goad and mock, ridicule and shock; they squeeze and suck the very will to live out of us Jambos. Yet somehow, and often inconceivably so, they will thrill and woo us, taking us to the greatest of highs; yet never without that torture. Hearts haul their fans right to the edge of the abyss, and most of the time they just drive right off it. My first experience of Hearts took place on April 21st 1982 in a midweek First Division league match, in front a paltry crowd of around five thousand. It could be argued that that team was ‘officially’ the worst in Hearts’ history, in that not only were they stuck in Scottish Football’s second tier, but they weren’t even able to hoist themselves out of it come the season’s end. Yet I see it very differently. For me, that mild evening was the footballing equivalent of amour à première vue. It was a thunderbolt, lightning…but in the guise of Willie Pettigrew and Walter Kidd. Following Hearts over the years, as described in great detail within the pages of my book, has been something akin to the rollercoaster ride that the pie-scoffing, juice juggling chubby Boy Scout undertook on Jim’ll Fix It. Oh, don’t get me started, but all I will say is – buy the damn book! The set of Two miles to Tynecastle touches upon contrasting locations from the great Carpathian basin in Hungary to the desolate canyons of Utah: yet the vast majority of the book is situated within Edinburgh’s grey western suburbs. Though not instantaneously alluring, I’m quite proud of the area because it isn’t outstandingly scenic or celebrated. Like those canyons, the area has remained largely untouched, metaphorically speaking, and I include her people in that. Look at Edinburgh outwardly. There isn’t really an image to define the locals in contrast to other UK cities; gallus Glaswegians, Scouse scallies and chirpy Cockneys. My Edinburgh doesn’t really have such eminent personifications and indeed there isn’t even a satisfactory terminology for grouping Edinburgh people as a whole. Now take a look at Edinburgh from within: an establishment financial capital that hosts a world renowned arts festival. Think Edinburgh and people will say The Castle, tartan tammy hats, Hogmanay on Princes Street, scones in Morningside, The Fringe Festival, Rugger at Murrayfield, The Royal Mile and the occasion Rankin or Welsh sourjon down some squalid flat in Leith. Where are Hearts in Rebus? Where is Gorgie in literature? When is Saughton Mains ever on TV? And most of all: where are the kind of people that I know? That’s what makes Two Miles not unique, but indigenous. Of course, the feelings, the emotions and the football are unanimous to supporters of Hearts, Hibernian, or fans of other teams. In fact it would even appeal to those strange non-football fans that aimlessly wander the earth. But the locations are (nearly) all EH11 and EH12. This is not an Edinburgh story set upon the ramparts of its castle because in thirty-four years of living in this city, I have never actually been to Edinburgh Castle! But I have been to Tynecastle, The Busy Bee pub in Saughton Mains, Stenhouse, Calder Road, Carrick Knowe, Longstone, Broomhouse, Balgreen and The Wheatsheaf. And why tourists queue to pay £10 to go down the Old Town underground vaults is beyond me. They could get a bigger fright by walking round the Wester Hailes Shopping Centre during the day and it’s all for free. But I love the Wester Hailes Shopping Centre. Not because I think it’s beautiful: but because I think it’s real to me. It was a part of my life, as I used to go there to pay my mum’s rent, or run down the escalator with my mates. Two Miles to Tynecastle is an Edinburgh story, but fundamentally, a West Edinburgh story. I’ll leave The Castle, the New Town and Leith to those established writers and columnists, whist keeping Bains’ pies at Stenhouse Cross my very own secret. |
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| We would like to acknowledge the help and cooperation of Heart of Midlothian Football Club in the production of many of the images used on this web site. |
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