According to my mobile, my screen time was up 11% last week, for an average of 3 hours 31 minutes a day. By the time the new gaffer was finally unveiled, my daily phone use was probably rivalling that of the Fortinite-obsessed, YouTube-addicted, porn-addled, legal high-buying teenager of tabloid legend.
The time I spend staring at a screen is a constant source of annoyance to my wife, who simply doesn’t understand the effect that supporting a team almost permanently steeped in crisis has on an individual. Given the pain Dundee have inflicted over the decades I’m perfectly comfortable blaming them for any personal failings I might have (see also chronic consolatory masturbation).
Fans forums and Twitter are up there with the very worst innovations of the modern age. It’s not good for the soul to see just how much of an arsehole a significant proportion of your side’s fanbase is. But when the manager’s coat is on a shoogly peg, or the axe has fallen and thoughts turn to a replacement, or the transfer window has opened, they are essential hubs for rumour, gossip and wildly random info about foreign coaches possibly in town for an interview at Dens but more likely visiting the V&A.
Each new name in the hat brings a fresh visit to Wikipedia. Newspaper sites are combed. Alerts are set up. Odds are religiously checked with online bookies. Then there’s WhatsApp. I’m in four separate Derry group chats, all of which have been abuzz with talk of McIntyre, McPake, Weighorst, Robertson, Adams and assorted others recently. That’s before you even consider correspondence with dozens of other Dundee supporting individuals – many of whom you don’t really know – fishing for info or desperate to share what they heard from a taxi driver.
Several new messages pinged several times when I was in the shower last Sunday. “That’s it! They’ve appointed Mombaerts!” I excitedly told myself as I ran to retrieve the phone, dripping wet and bollock naked. Turned out it was only my Dad struggling to work the mobile he’s owned for the past decade and sending the same message (“I no want mcpak . Good win th men”) multiple times. Gutted.
You’re in a Bad Way
With all this going on, how is anyone meant to put their phone down and pay any attention to their family? Books lie unread. Box sets are abandoned. The conjugal needs of partners are neglected. Work suffers. The UK economy’s productivity slump may entirely be down to followers of permashambles football clubs checking managerial stats on soccerbase when they should be performing menial administrative tasks. Apparently there was some election last week. I was too busy scouring lists of Weighorst, Goodwin and McPake’s former team mates and managers for clues as to who they might appoint as their assistant to care.
The nature of football fans mean your focus is not entirely on your own team either. My battery was full at the start of the play-off second leg. By 6pm it had less life in it than a United penalty.
Schadenfreude works both ways and DABs have hardly been slow to express their glee since it became clear that James McPake was going to be the new Dundee manager. Uninspiring? Yes. Not what fans might have expected when John Nelms talked about ex-international bosses being among the 100-plus applicants? Definitely. McPake certainly wouldn’t have been my choice but he is not without attributes and, for better or worse, he is the Dundee manager now so we have little choice but to get behind him.
Will he go on to make Derry-minded critics and gloating arabs eat their words, which due to the wonders of modern technology have been screenshotted dozens of times just in case? Only time will tell. For now, I’m just excited about the prospect of spending less time glued to my phone.