I love Partick Thistle, Sandy. By rights, I should support them. I was born in the Rottenrow, spent my first couple of years in Tillie Street, just a spit away from Firhill, and my wee Grannie lived in a Partick tenement in Kildonan Drive most of her life. As fate would have it though, my father's job saw us emigrate to Perth (Tayside), via a couple of years in Glenrothes, when I was two. So in order to be a regular supporter at matches, I turned to St Johnstone. But Thistle, or to give them their full name, Partick Thistle Nil, have a special place in my heart and roots.
True story, if I may...
Throughout almost all of my six-year stint drawing editorial cartoons five days a week for the Daily Record in the second half of the 90s, I failed to truly upset anyone through my cartoons. You'd think that was a good thing, but when politicians you had attacked using your sharpest satire, continually call you up to see if they can buy the original cartoons, that, in the world of political cartoonists, is considered a failure.
Then one day I received a letter of complaint, forwarded to me by the editor's secretary. At that time, Saddam Hussein had his back against the wall during the Gulf War, with only a matter of time before he was defeated by the allied forces. It was a hopeless cause, and on the particular day in question, I drew him in some situation where he was still trying to defy the overwhelming odds stacking up against him (I forget the exact scenario - forgive me). As a last-minute afterthought, among the medals adorning his military uniform, I also drew a 'Save The Jags' badge (the campaign to stave of bankruptcy at the club being in full swing at the time).
I meant it with great affection, as a symbol of fighting against seemingly insurmountable odds, but one poor Thistle fan interpreted it as an attack on Thistle as a club only worthy of being supported by sadistic murderous dictators. It seems the famous Partick sense of humour and self deprecation had deserted the poor fellow momentarily, and he felt moved to write to the Record to express his disgust. I wrote back to him, sincerely apologising for the unintentional offence caused, explained my own pedigree, and sent him an original cartoon (not the one he took umbrage at) as a peace offering. I hope it did the trick, but he never wrote back.
It was my one complaint, and I'd much rather have upset Michael Forsyth or Malcolm Rifkind. But I'll take it...
Horrible thought, as I typed that last sentence. It wasn't
you... was it...?
