In praise of haun-knitted fitba

THE Tartan Army has its critics - particularly amongst the ranks of my media colleagues in "the Lap Top Loyal", or as I prefer to call them "the A Team": those put-upon souls, the lead football writers of our national newspapers, with their soul-destroying round of - Murray Park, Lennoxtown then Hampden Park for press conferences, with weekends spent chronicling the games involving the Old Firm and just the occasional midweek trip to Europe with the big two or Scotland for light relief.

Theirs is indeed, a long, hard slog; and as the bean counters' influence grows ever-greater within newspaper and broadcasting back offices, they can no longer flex their imagination with outlandish expenses claims. Gone are the days when the late, great Ian "Dan" Archer could blighly take the hovercraft from Dover to Calais to enjoy a particularly fine French lunch, whilst supposedly covering the Open Golf at Royal St George's.

Then, there is the sheer tedium of covering the SPL. For every brief potential Camelot moment from Hearts or Dundee United or Aberdeen downing one or other to the Big Two, there will be a crushing riposte as the twin axis of evil grinds it metaphorical jackboot down on the throat of Scottish football.

No wonder we often yearn for a Scottish game without the tedium of the same two clubs winning everything. No wonder the ranks of the Tartan Army are awash with provincials who would never see foreign cuisine (other than Indian, Chinese or the odd pizza) with their clubs.

What a paradise it would be, if THEY would simply bugger-off and join the rest of the greedy, money-obsessed clubs in the English Premiership.

Well there is such a paradise, it's called the SFL.

OK, the football is sometimes crap, the surroundings are at best Edwardian, but more-likely to recall the dark satanic mills of Victorian times, but it's competitive.

You are far more likely to see upsets and shocks in the three SFL divisions than in the SPL. The SFL clubs don't go in for badge-kissing foreign mercenaries; and while many of the "top" players in the SFL failed with the Old Firm or the usual also-rans in the SPL; and at the lower level many of the players are on a Saturday, augmenting the meagre wages they earn Monday to Friday: because, by paying too-much attention to football and not enough to education while at school, they under-achieved in life, just as in football.

Yes, they lack flair and skill - but they try, and God loves a trier.

The SFL may be crap, but it's Scottish crap and long may it continue. Sure there are failings, many of the directors are simply glorified fans, more concerned with nanging-on in senior football than driving the game forward. But, many of the genuine greats of Scottish football emerged from these wee clubs - John White at Alloa, Wembley Wizards Jimmy McMullan and Alex James at Partick Thistle and Raith Rovers, Billy Steel and Jimmy Cowan from Morton - umpteen Rangers greats from Airdrie.

If the SPL is a league of supermarkets - 24-hour mega-stores in East and South West Glasgow, large branches elsewhere - there are still good experiences to be enjoyed in the corner shops of the SFL. At least the element of surprise still lurks there - the same two clubs don't win everything.