YOUNG CHILDREN need routine and here I present just a snapshot of a thrilling day in the life of my son, Archie, not yet two.
From the very end of the day, it goes like this: bath, bottle of milk, some TV (but not too much), a story, more TV ("Come on, Archie, it's sleepy-time") then finally bed. The Grobag is zipped, Bunny 1 is close by as is Bunny 2, and any minute now, I
'll be pouring myself a glass of wine. There's one ritual left, and it's crucial. My laddie will not submit himself to the magic of the night, to a place where buses are driven by dogs, where buses eat yoghurt and indeed there's a bus dimension to absolutely everything, until he's exhausted himself with this chant: "Ahbeese Daddy and Ah-beese Archie. Ahbeese Daddy and Ah-beese Archie ... " "Ah-beese" are the Hibees. This was the first word he learned after bus. I wasn't trying to indoctrinate him from the earliest age; it merely amused me to hear him say my team's name. Now I'm worried that I've scarred him for life. My wife thinks he's perfectly within his rights to complain and every time he picks up the phone – i.e. every five minutes – she jokes: "That'll be him trying to get through to Childline."
"Ah-beese" are the Hibees. This was the first word he learned after bus. I wasn't trying to indoctrinate him from the earliest age; it merely amused me to hear him say my team's name. Now I'm worried that I've scarred him for life. My wife thinks he's perfectly within his rights to complain and every time he picks up the phone – i.e. every five minutes – she jokes: "That'll be him trying to get through to Childline."
What's the right age to introduce your children to the guff and bumble of the Scottish game? More bluntly, at what age does a child supporting a Scottish team automatically place him on the "at risk" register? It's not easy being a parent these days. It's even harder, I reckon, if you're Scottish and your son or daughter shows an interest in football because that usually means our four divisions and all their attendant angst. And if your team are the Ah-beese? Well, you're storing up serious problems for the future. A father's well-meaning desire to preserve the family tradition seems nothing less than inciting your offspring to get involved in self-harm.
Your penchant for pretty football will put you at odds with fans of every other club. (No supporters other than Hibbies have penchants. It is technically impossible to have a penchant for Kris Boyd or an East End Park steak bridie, no matter how much you like them). You will never win the Scottish Cup (and certainly not in the year it's renamed the Homecoming Cup because the last place the old silver pot could call home is the Easter Road trophy room). And your best players will always be sold. That is the Hibby's lot.
If we ignore that bedtime call-and-response, Archie's world doesn't seem to bear any resemblance to the world of Hibs. He's a happy boy, you see, and his favourite telly show is In The Night Garden, where fat-bottomed creatures frolic on a lush lawn that could never be confused with the cabbage-patch down Leith way.
But when the programme is studied more closely, some obvious similarities present themselves. The characters include the Tombliboos, all of whom are obsessed with their trousers. Alan O'Brien, I reckon, is a Tombliboo masquerading as a winger. His chief preoccupations are his gloves and the crew-necked vest his mother insists he wears under his strip at all times. And like the 'boos, he faffs around in an aimless manner.
Archie's favourite character, though, is Makka Pakka and his obsession is the collection of stones he keeps in his cave, one of which is used as a pillow. As Makka Pakka re-arranges these useless boulders all day long, it's too easy to find a parallel with the Easter Road trophy room and the glaring absence of the Scottish Cup.
In The Night Garden has been dreamed up by the creators of Teletubbies who're clearly still mixing their LSD with lots of E numbers. Everything is brightly-coloured and Makka Pakka and Co are always bursting into song. To most eyes this is a place where joy is unconfined. But, looked at with a Hibby squint, you see only gloom.
The other night, I removed the programme from Archie's bedtime routine. There were too many subliminal Hibs references, I decided, and he needed a chance in life. But, tucking him in, my hand scraped on something rough. Supporting Hibs is truly like sleeping on jaggy rocks and my boy is a lost cause already.
