Crazy days leave me concerned for the sanity of my old pals in Jamboland

A LOT of people say to me that I chose the wrong season to follow Hearts.

Actually, what they say is this: "You're a tube! Call yourself a Hibby? No proper Hibs fan would do that. I've got more respect for Jambos. Tube!" And with that, a cheery two-fingered wave and a puddle-splash getaway, they barrel their taxis all the way back to Jamboland.

Today will be my first visit to Jamboland since Tynecastle was an integral part of my life (third-most-visited after the flat and work; ahead of the gym, my therapist, Sainsbury's Central and - in my head, at least, in my tank-topped nostalgia - Clouds discotheque).

I couldn't get a ticket for the first Tynie derby of 2005-6 (a blessing, as it turned out) and at other times recently the old place has had the "House Full" signs up - hence all that jeering about me picking the wrong season in trying to view the world through maroon-tinted specs.

"Old place?" What a sentimental sap, eh? Well, do something long enough and you'll get used to it - no matter that before last season, to avoid the home of the hated rivals, I always took the long way round. That's my excuse anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

I did the walk of shame so many times. Dalry Road, then Gorgie Road, under the bridge, past the Save Our Hearts shop, where I splashed out on a Save Our Hearts ruler to help the cause, then turned right at the deli, yes, Jamboland has one of those. I trudged it so often that by the end I could complete it blindfold, shouting out the names of the hairdressers as I passed them. (No mean feat, this - there are tons).

And, it's true, last season was dull compared to 2005-6 but, come on, the entire history of everything is pretty ho-hum next to what's been happening down where Hearts bide these past few months.

Big signings on Old Firm-standard wages. Storming, table-topping form. Chants of "Easy! Easy!" Excitable talk not just of winning the SPL but of going the whole campaign undefeated.

Then 2005-6 gets really interesting. And really crazy. The whole front-of-house management team - booted. The new coach - victim of a medieval witch-hunt. The new chairman - hang on, isn't that Hibs' Derek Riordan with his mad hair combed forward?

Recently, things have calmed down. Hearts are now just an everyday SPL story of paranoia and "mutilation". But - and this is just a hunch - I don't think Vladimir Romanov has finished trying to revolutionise our football with techniques he learned at his aluminium plant.

The Romanov era reminds me of 1986 and Edinburgh's Commonwealth Games, the last time the capital played host to a scenario where sporting disaster (then, cancellation of the Games; now, the sale of Tynie) is averted by a bullish tycoon who breenges into the city, noises up the establishment, hogs headlines, grapples with stuffy convention but also arouses suspicions with vagueness over debt and true motive, then leaves the bemused local populace wondering: "Was it good or bad that he came?"

Twenty years ago it was Robert Maxwell, who met an unfortunate end while urinating off the side of his $21 million yacht. Romanov has yet to convince my Jambo pals he's not piddling in the wind in his attempts to smash the Old Firm tyranny, but so far it's certainly been fun watching him try.

My only wish - sincerely expressed - concerns my pals. I met too many of them last season who are still haunted by '86 - not the Commonwealth Games but the last-day defeat at Dundee that cost them the league. They don't really need another monkey on their backs going: "What if...?"

Ah, but that's not the same as saying I want Hearts to win it this time.

Taken from the Scotsman