Recently, and partly due to the demise of Bury FC , I’ve decided to spend the odd spare Saturday I have throughout the football season going to watch a local (for now) football team and take in some of the pubs and bars around the towns and stadiums in which they reside. Tribalism is fickle. I grew up in Greater Manchester with a father from West Yorkshire and a mother from Merseyside, fighting a lifelong nationality identity crisis where I loved the country north of the border more than my own, for reasons nobody was sure of. On reflection, that identity was healthy; it helped shape me better. Everyone around me has always been so sure that Manchester is the greatest city of all time and it has always been nice to reply, from a very early age, “Personally I think Liverpool is much better.” Football is, of course, more clannish than most sports, cornicing youngsters and adults alike into antagonists baying for the blood of people who dare to live in a neighbourin