Tactical substitution - Union Jock: Sleeping with the Auld Enemy

What would happen if a die-hard Scotland fan changed sides to support the Auld Enemy? AIDAN SMITH reveals why he took up that challenge and, in an extract from his new book, recalls the roots of his English obsession

IT WAS Jack McConnell's fault I ended up in the gay bar. I wanted him to budge up the Bute House sofa so we could watch the football together. In return for another can of Pale Ale from my carry-out, the First Minister would have provided me with official residence notepaper to record his every yelp and kick of an imaginary ball, culminating in him knocking over a visiting dignitary's vase when his 'team' scored. But McConnell turned me down and subsequently I found myself in Brighton, in what mine host assured me was the only "poofs' pub" in town screening the England v Sweden match at the last World Cup.

In 2006, if you remember, the most urgent question being asked around Scotland was "Which side are you on?" England had qualified for the finals; Scotland hadn't. Gordon Brown, still chancellor and desperate for the top job but needing to endear himself to the Home Counties, plumped for David Beckham and the boys. McConnell, trying to face down an election threat from the SNP by appearing more patriotic, opted for Paraguay, Trinidad and Tobago, Ecuador – anyone but England. Me, I was writing a book on the mad, crazy affair, though the idea was that I, too, should back the whiteshirts – not for political gain like Brown, but just to see if I could.

Post-Parliament, according to one reasoned argument, that should have been eminently possible. But old habits die hard. The first time I heard my father swear was in 1966 when England won the World Cup. Every time England lost a game of football after that, he laughed. Unroariously. He didn't hate the English but he had the most tremendous fun sending them up in his plays. He sent up the Scots as well, but these days lines like "They strut this earth like medieval popes…" would probably get Dad condemned as a racist.

In 2006, though, I didn't have to worry about that. Everyone was calling everyone else names. As football became a political football, Brown's aides called David Cameron an "immature little twerp". Countless English opinion-formers called McConnell "chippy". And the woman I would soon be calling my wife was worried I was becoming obsessed by England, Ingerland, Middle England, Merrie Englande, the ludicrous Beckham and his 13 tattoos, Sven-Goran Eriksson's elevated heels, Wayne Rooney's troubling metatarsal, Frank Lampard's exfoliation regime, Rio Ferdinand's ringtones, Ashley Cole's calm, dignified and, yes, saintly response to everything (ha ha) and Carly Zucker's formidable collection of hotpants.

Zucker was one of the Wags. How quickly we forget. But in 2006, when wearing an England strip in Scotland got you a sore face or a broken window, Brown drooled about his favourite goal being one by Paul Gascoigne against Scotland, and this was rated "as controversial a statement as has ever been issued by a Scottish politician". Leader columns spoke of a "constitutional crisis" reverberating around the world. All of this in the year before the 300th anniversary of the Union between Scotland and England – and all of it provoked by football.

I was grateful for these distractions. I was grateful for the iPod playlist of English prog and psychedelic bands from my youth which soundtracked my travels around Germany with Sid from Sidcup and Steve from Stevenage. They took my mind off the football, and stopped me thinking about how hellish life would become if England were actually to win the bloody cup. A friend, clearing out his father's study after the old man had passed away, was amazed to read such low-key coverage of 1966 in yellowed newspapers – and we both knew, all Scotland knew, that this time round we'd never hear the end of it.

I am who I am. I kept telling myself this during my odyssey, including that night in the Brighton Tavern where Gloria Gaynor's anthem was belted out, pre-match, along with a Hi-NRG version of 'Land of Hope and Glory', where the half-time snacks were, I kid you not, fairy cakes, and where the banter was exceptional ("What's the hardest thing about rollerblading?" Dunno. "Telling your father you're gay"). Who I am is a Scot and a football fan of a certain age, so I'm hard-wired to believe that football without rivalry is nothing, and that Scotland v England is the greatest rivalry of them all.

As well as a gay bar in Brighton, I watched England trying to win the World Cup in an orange bar in Glasgow and also my corner of Edinburgh, where, in the words of the great Ray Davies, the English "love to live so pleasantly". Obligingly, the whiteshirts didn't repeat the triumph of 40 years before, which was just as well because I didn't know how I was going to tell my wife-to-be that the first day of our honeymoon would have to spent in Trafalgar Square watching the victory parade.

Lucy is English. Or at least I thought she was. Such matters seemed terribly important in 2006, a year like no other for Anglo-Scottish relations. Tony Blair, who angered the Tartan Army with his irritation at the non-support, was asked if he felt Scottish or English. That's a very Scottish question, and the answer – interpreted as "Scottish, kind of, but only if you insist" – was very Tony Blair.

The 100% English I met were absolutely charming. Admittedly I steered clear of the shaven-headed ones who sang the 'Ten German Bombers' song ad nauseam, but a reformed hooligan bearing many scars became my closest ally. "Why do you Scotch gits hate us?" Bill would ask. It's not hate, it's what makes football great. Football in 2006 made me think more about nationality, politics, hot-pants and loon-pants than I've ever done before, and in a funny way I miss the Ingerlander I was trying to be.

Identifying the enemy

In an extract from his new book, Aidan Smith attempts to identify the essence of Englishness

GENERALLY I reckoned I had a pretty clear idea of what being English meant. It meant the superior sneer of the man in the Schweppes commercials. It meant Henry McGee, snivelling stooge for Benny Hill. It meant Derek Nimmo, the stammering parson in All Gas and Gaiters. It meant John Alderton, the stuttering teacher in Please Sir!. It meant John Le Mesurier, the stumbling sergeant in Dad's Army. It meant Terry-Thomas and Jimmy Edwards and Ian Carmichael. It meant henpecked husbands in a zillion suburban sitcoms.

It meant St Custard's, alma mater of the heroically dim Molesworth (a boarding school, not my sort of educational establishment, sounded terrible, but nevertheless I was intrigued and even envious of some of its rituals and privileges, most especially the football pitch in situ, goal nets included). It meant St Trinian's, the girls' equivalent, also drawn by Ronald Searle, and actually inspired by a school in Edinburgh. It meant Lord Snooty, pipsqueak peer of The Beano. It meant Lord Charles, the monocled, sozzled aristo worked from the back by ventriloquist Ray Alan (catchphrase: "Silly arse!"). It meant Face the Music, the telly quiz for classical-music buffs hosted by Joseph Cooper, he of the 'silent piano', and featuring Joyce Grenfell, she of the St Trinian's films (everything links up), and a more thunderingly precious affair you could not imagine.

It meant 'Mr Showjumping', Raymond Brooks-Ward shrieking, "It's gorn! It's gorn!" when a fence toppled at the Horse of the Year show. (This was one of Dad's greatest impersonations, especially after the inclusion of Brooks-Ward's own jump technique. The commentator was interviewing Lucinda Prior-Palmer when the microphone sparked, causing him to leap like a lord and set a new record for the Puissance Wall.)

It meant singing the 'Ascot Gavotte' from My Fair Lady in 'book in mooth' accents at the demand of my primary-school teacher: "Every duke and earl and pee-ah is hee-ah!" It meant men in cravats. It meant men in spats and bowler hats. It meant men in 'Threadgold Thoroughgrip Garterettes', subject of a daft spoof ad in Spike Milligan's The World of Beachcomber.

It meant the rich, obnoxious buffoons in the documentary The Fishing Party, members of Margaret Thatcher's New Right constituency who became the unwitting stars of her least favourite TV show, for bragging about money, privilege, their families having been in England "for ever", and how the primary function of a wife was "driving one home drunk from parties".

And of course it meant Monty Python's Upper-Class Twit of the Year Show. I know the names of the contestants like classic football team line-ups: Vivian Smith-Smythe-Smith, ("has an O-level in chemo-hygiene"), Simon Zinc-Trumpet Harris ("married to a very attractive table lamp"), Nigel Incubator-Jones ("best friend is a tree"), Gervaise Brook-Hampster ("used as a wastepaper basket by his father"). Disciplines included: Kicking a Beggar, Insulting the Waiter and Taking the Bra off the Debutantes.

The Englishman's function was to be laughed at, loudly, with my father leading the chortling. But this was never a universal truth.

David Coleman was English and still he commanded absolute and total respect. He did not slight Scotland like other English football 'experts'. (Father, again: "It's not For-FAR Athletic! Wrong bloody syllable!") During Scotland-England internationals we desperately wanted to be patronised by him so we could feel black-affronted; it never happened. Coleman was more than fair. "A quality goal from a quality player" was how he described Archie Gemmill's delirious dribble leading to maybe the greatest goal ever, against Holland in the 1978 World Cup.

Coleman was magisterial at the viddyprinter on Grandstand, and it was through the Saturday teatime results service that I learned the names of English cities and towns. This has left me, rather like the health-club lunk who has concentrated exclusively on his biceps, with an overdeveloped knowledge of English football trivia and an underdeveloped appreciation of anything else about the country.

His star quality was sufficient for his name to go straight into the programme title. With Sportsnight with Coleman – the equivalent of Tom Cruise getting his name above the title – he bestrode sports coverage like a colossus; he opened his legs and showed his class. Then there were his football commentaries. Archie Macpherson and Arthur Montford could make Scottish football sound deathless even when the games were exciting. Coleman could make English football sound thrilling even when it was merely so-so.

He screamed his way through games. Later, Spitting Image had him scream so much his head exploded. I thought that was cruel. It suggested he was deranged, that spontaneous combustion was inevitable and unstoppable, when in fact the hysteria was always measured, with the self-destruct button kept in reserve for a game's most crucial moments, such as…

"CLARKE! 1-0!" That was Alan 'Sniffer' Clarke of Leeds United, a skinny, languid, apparently disinterested but utterly deadly striker scoring the winner in the 1972 FA Cup final against Arsenal. It was a header, but from way out, easily the farthest-travelled headed goal in all of football.

Coleman gave us few reasons to wave a Saltire in his face, though I remember him presiding over a Sportsnight contest which these days would be called Commentator Idol; Ian St John was a contender so of course we rooted for our man.

Quiz Ball, Top of the Form, Criss-Cross Quiz, It's a Knockout… we cheered for the Scots in every telly competition because we couldn't get enough of the great rivalry. Same with Miss Great Britain (go on, Dad: "There he is, Mr Reverse Bloody Order, look at the wee squirt, he only comes up to their bosoms – Eric Bloody Morley"). Same with Ask the Family. In my recollection, the English children on this show were always swots, with severely parted hair; the Scots were always little horrors that only mothers could love, but they were our kids, and indeed our head lice.

• Extracted from Union Jock: Sleeping with the Auld Enemy by Aidan Smith (Yellow Jersey, £12.99)