I've been to London twice in my life - once when I was six, again when I was 17. On three other occasions I stopped at Heathrow Airport either to change flights or to catch a bus to rural England. In total I've spent about a week in the city and I've never been to Upton Park. Yet I'm obsessed with whether or not the football team which resides there, West Ham United, qualifies for Europe, as they say.
Why on earth should it make any difference to me, a Galway-born Dubliner, that the Happy Hammers are running close to the top of the English FA Premiership and heading for a UEFA cup place for the first time in the club's history? I know it shouldn't matter, but it does.
And no, before you ask, I've never been to a League of Ireland game. And no, I've never seen Finn Harps, St Pat's or Shelbourne play, except in unappetising snippets on television. Yes, I listen to BBC Radio 5 Live and watch Sky Sports in the pub on weekend afternoons instead of actually playing football with a real, live team. Yes, I think the TV commercial with the Brazilians playing soccer at the airport is cool.
I admit to it all. I fit perfectly into the stereotype of the Irish armchair football fan, the stay-at-home (SAH, pronounced sad) supporter who prefers satellite TV-generated hype to going to a real, live match. Yet, superficial, arbitrary and inexplicable as it seems, my support for West Ham will continue.
What bothers me, though, is that others mock my affiliation, feeling my support somehow doesn't count, or is less genuine than that of the weather-beaten footsoldier of the terraces.
Patronising scoffers
I have often encountered such scoffers: the patronising GAA man who asks, "How can you support that game ahead of your own?"; the patronising League of Ireland fan who asks, "How can you support that team ahead of your own?"; and a whole range of patronising non-sports fans who ask, "How can you waste your time watching TV instead of educating yourself on the latest political developments in St Kitts-Nevis?"
But they all miss the point. Premiership football is not in competition with hurling, domestic soccer or even Caribbean current affairs. Not for SA(d) Irish soccer fans like me, anyway.
I've no intention of going to Tolka Park, Richmond or Ballybofey, and I've as much interest in traipsing around Dublin county with Erin's Isle or Kilmacud Crokes as I have in looking up an atlas to check that Castries is the capital of St Lucia. Not that I'm putting down those other pursuits. It's just not comparing like with like.
Undemanding
SA(d) soccer fans like me love Premiership football exactly because you don't have to get out of bed in the morning to enjoy it. Commitment of the type expected from Wexford hurlers is not required. Public proclamations of loyalty, including sickly-coloured jerseys and expensive merchandise, are optional. But, most importantly, because all the games are played in England, you can't really be expected to be there in person.
Being a stay-at-home soccer fan is completely undemanding: that's its greatest attraction. It also involves different emotions to those experienced by the "real" football supporter. Unlike the latter, the SA(d) fan isn't looking for crowd atmosphere, the camaraderie of a sing-song, or a pork pie from the mobile chip palace under the grandstand. Not when he has reverse-angle TV shots, a foot pouffe and his favourite tub of ice-cream in the fridge.
Understanding this is the key to understanding the Premiership supporter in Ireland. His or her interest is not fuelled by a wish for social identity or communal bonding. It is, in essence, personal.
Successes are enjoyed alone. Failures too. That is the way it must be because only you know why it means anything to you. Only you can understand why you follow your team.
In my case, support for West Ham emerged in my teens. I was a late starter.
My first club was Everton, a natural choice as my sports bag of the time bore their name. It wasn't long, however, before I jumped ship when I discovered, to my horror, that they were known as "The Toffies"; by their fans, no less. A short and shameful spell as a Manchester United supporter followed. Suffice to say, the "Red Devils" scarf I once hung above my bedroom window still haunts my dreams.
But redemption was to come in the form of the East London claret and blue, formerly Thames Ironworkers FC and the "Academy of Football" of modern times.
There's little point in me going into their history, under my patronage, of promotion and relegation and not-all-that-near misses in the FA Cup. First, because no one cares (and, frankly, I don't care that no one cares). Second, because it does nothing to prove my loyalty or affection for the club. I have no ticket stubs, no "I love Julian" (Dicks, team captain) tattoo, no physical evidence of my allegiance except for a pair of West Ham shin-guards I bought in college and a greeting card featuring the squad of two seasons ago.
Call for tolerance
I don't expect to be understood and I don't think Irish supporters of Premiership teams should expect to be understood. At least, not until someone writes a book revealing their hidden depths and "post-new-lad" resonances. Or, in other words, does the same job for them as Nick Hornsby did for English soccer fans with Fever Pitch, and Eamonn Sweeney did for League of Ireland supporters with There's Only One Red Army.
In the meantime, might I call for some tolerance for SA(d) Irish fans like me. We pose no threat to anyone. Moreover, we differ from "real" fans in ways we sometimes find it hard to admit.
Chief among these is our constant fear of our team's success. Don't be fooled by SA(d) supporters' bravado. They dread the day their team will win a trophy and every kid in Ireland will be wearing the colours of their club. They dread the shattering of their private world - that they'll have to prove they supported the team long before they came good. In short, they're dreading becoming the next Manchester United.
On which note, go on West Ham. Let's make it to Europe. But for heaven's sake, don't win anything.