Manchester United fans get a lot of grief for not being from Granadaland. We've heard all the jokes about people leaving Old Trafford early so they can get their flights back to Norway or Ireland.
But it's not just United fans who don't have geographical links to their football team. As a child growing up in Leigh, which is bang in the middle of the footballing powerhouse of the North West, my head was turned by a team hundreds of miles away. Or more specifically a player.
Glenn Hoddle, a player with elegance, supreme skill and a showreel of goals which most players would kill for, was my hero. The fact he played for Tottenham Hotspur, a club at the other end of the country was irrelevant.
In the days before YouTube and wall-to-wall TV coverage, magazines like Match and Shoot were invaluable to follow your team and find out what a player's favourite meal was (always steak and chips).
Gradually I became fond of Hoddle's team-mates too. Steve Perryman, Garth Crooks, Graham Roberts, Ossie Ardiles … their exploits in the 1981 and 1982 FA Cup Finals were excitedly celebrated by this nine-year-old. In a school full of Manchester United and Liverpool fans, I was the only one wearing the distinctive Le Coq Sportif kits of Tottenham for 5-a-side.
Back then if you wanted a replica shirt, you'd have to get one by post which was a tortuous experience or go to the club shop (usually a glorified shed). Clubs weren't very savvy about merchandise back then – it was an after-thought. Only being able to buy shirts from the club shop has a certain romance to it. Not like now when you can go to Sports Direct and come away with a Borussia Dortmund or Argentina shirt.
With no chance of going to see my beloved Spurs live, I made do with watching them on TV. Staying up on a school night to watch the 1984 UEFA Cup win over Anderlecht was a very big deal.
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But on an autumn trip to London in 1983, my parents decided to take me to the Spurs souvenir shop so I could buy a faux leather book-mark and a comb in a tiny sleeve. Or maybe a pen which if tipped up would make a tiny footballer glide along at a snail's pace. We could only dream of a club-branded tape measure back then.
But typically, after a seemingly endless walk from Seven Sisters station to the stadium, we learnt it was half day closing. There I was, in my Spurs shirt and Patrick trainers, stood outside the ground only able to peek through the gates like Charlie trying to catch a glimpse of Willy Wonka's Factory.
As we stood there cursing our bad luck and about to head back for the Tube, a security guard started a conversation with my dad. Moments later, an important looking man in a suit emerged from the reception and strode over to the car park barrier. He apologized for the shop being closed and was surprised by our northern accents. On learning how far we'd come, he took it upon himself to give us our own private tour of White Hart Lane. This is long before teams offered such things as a tourist attraction and we felt very special.
Looking around the dressing rooms, our guide asked me who my favourite player was and pointed to the peg where Glenn Hoddle would hang his shirt. I posed for photos in the dug-out, on the massage bed and in the trophy room. I stood on the pitch, sat in the stands and held aloft a cup which was almost as tall as I was. It was utterly brilliant. I can remember it with more clarity than what I had for my tea last night.
As I got older, my passion for Spurs faded as my awareness of geography improved. I was more interested in actually going to games and my local team was Bolton. Because their paths rarely crossed, I had considered myself a fan of both teams – Burnden Park being the first ground I ever visited as a child.
Bolton's rise up the leagues in the 1990s saw them replace Spurs as the object of my affection. And when Wanderers beat them 6-1 in 1996, I knew my Tottenham love affair was over.
But when the doors close for the last time at The Lane, I will remember that glorious Thursday afternoon when I sat in the dugout pretending to be Keith Burkinshaw.
