IDON'T WATCH Coronation Street. Being a Hibs fan I'm usually re-reading – for the umpteenth time – Ulysses, Moby Dick, Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness or any of the great impenetrables that supporters of other Scottish clubs never quite manage to finish.
But on Monday there was time to kill before my favourite existentialism documentary so I did some – I think I've got the phrase right – channel-gamboling (It's channel-surfing, you idiot, you're the TV critic – Ed). Very soon, I was very lost. I didn
't recognise the redbrick streets, nor understand the local dialect. But then someone uttered the magic word: "Hibernian."
This was the character Dev Allahan who, I later learned from the office's Corrie expert, is a corner-shop tycoon who's slept with most of Weatherfield's womenfolk. On Monday he was trying to impress his current click and decided to show her he was a man of the world. He'd been to Edinburgh, oh yes, and visited the castle. And – the deal-sealer, surely – he'd seen the Hibees play.
So, you're wondering, how did I react to this honourable mention from a dishonourable man? Like any Hibby would. Firstly: "Stuff existentialism." Then came the inevitable: "It's a sign, I tell you, a sign! We're going to beat Hearts and win the Scottish Cup at last!"
I know, we're a pathetic bunch of desperate fools. But when you support Hibs – in the Scottish Cup, thole them – this rates as normal behaviour. The trophy is our holy grail, our holey pail. We haven't won it since 1902 so when the competition begins anew we say our prayers, avoid cracks in pavements, give to beggars, wear our lucky Hibs long-johns at all times and eat our five portions of fruit per day (along with five pies). Then - maybe, just maybe - this will be our year!
The last time we played Hearts in the cup – 2006, semi-final – I set off for Hampden quietly confident after my last remaining Rice Krispies had formed into a fairly distinct "H" in the bottom of the bowl. What happened? Hibs 0, Hearts 4. Why did I refuse to countenance the "H" possibly standing for "Hearts" or "humping" or "horrendous" or "humiliation" or "How can we hope to win when Derek Riordan's suspended, Scott Brown's injured, Garry O'Connor's just been flogged to Russia and Zibby Malkowski is the only Pole among 20,000 earning a living in Edinburgh who's no good with his hands?"
Or "homosexual inference". That was the day a popular Jambo chant, "Oh the Hibees are gay", got a new melody. Previously it had wafted through the air during derbies to an old-fashioned tune, the title of which escapes me – a jaunty ditty lacking both wit and conviction. At Hampden, the half-time DJ had just finished spinning the White Stripes' Seven-Nation Army. Quicker than you could say "Ernie Winchester – nothing like as accurate as the rifle, nowhere near as fast as Benny Hill's milkman", some Jambo joker had spliced the chant with the rock stomper.
"Oh the Hibees are gay-ay" boomed out, the emphasis at the end doing the trick. I responded in the only reasonable manner: "So what if we are!" This got a few laughs among the disconsolate Hibbys (we were already losing) but it was a terrible day – as bad as Hearts' most wretched derby performance must have been for their lot. The Seven-Nation Scarf-Twirlers had finally got their own back on the Seven-Nil Obsessionists.
We still use the infernal seven in our pin numbers and the passwords to our personal details; we can't go anywhere without it. But maybe it's time to stop placing so much faith in 7, in H and, indeed, a namecheck in a soap opera – especially since when Dev watched Hibs, we lost.
This is what I was thinking on Thursday as I walked home from my night-class in opera appreciation. Inevitably, I spotted an eerie shape hovering in the sky. It shone like Batman's Bat-Signal, and the outline bore an uncanny resemblance to our club crest. No no, I told myself. This will be tough, but I must believe in David van Zanten, in John Rankin and (big gulps) in Alan O'Brien…
