Almost a year ago I wrote about an blinding collection of football fiction shorts called The Hope That Kills Us. I love it. Some of the best football fiction I’ve ever read, some of the best there is, is there in one place, in one lovely wee book. One of the authors, Andrew C Ferguson, caught the blog by accident and offered some humble gratitude for the mention.
This is what I said…
I’ve cited … Andrew C Ferguson’s Nae Cunt Said Anyhin; in my theoretical piece for my MA, purely because of their depiction of the game from the pitch. Ferguson’s story is a personal favourite. It’s about hard-faced giant sized fairies and wishfully gifted players wasted with drink, how could it not be?
More importantly he let me know there was more coming. Not too soon after he sent me, The Secret of Scottish Football.The Writer’s Bloc chap book contains the original bevvy fuelled football and fairie story, it’s sequel,Awa wi the Fuckin Fairies , the title story and an introduction from Pat Nevin, the most famous intellect in Scottish football since Jim Craig put his dentist drill aside to concentrate on a proper job.
Ferguson’s pen work, the stories, the football faeries and the bevvied up broken doon Scottish players make for a great passing game. The stories spin and flow like a beautiful corner kick and score on a number of different levels. (Hey! It’s a football fiction blog. Where would we be without the pun?)
In the first story, Nae Cunt said Anyhin, Goggsy witnesses a colleague pull off a magical free kick. His curiousity leads him to the freakishly large and grizzled Fairies, the origin of his team mate’s secret. A tired-out Tam’s loss is guzzling Goggsy’s gain. In Awa wi the Fuckin Fairies we finally get to find out what Goggsy’s does with it. Like Tam, Goggsy becomes brilliant. His new found fitba wisdom helps him manage the Scotland team to the World Cup final, but there are consequences. The fairies don’t fuck about when it comes to handing out their gifts.In between these nuggets of the humble footballing world, The Secret of Scottish Football is revealed, though not in it’s entirity, through the mouths of a couple lazy bastard wasters. Like Irvine Welsh ravaging or at least reworking a Magnus Mills story, Andrew C Ferguson manages to capture the sublties of the erroneous workplace and the short falls in pub wisdom in one biting incident. It’s a rough hewn, cleverly underplayed gem. In the next entry we’ve an insightful (him not us) interview with Ferguson about writing and football fiction.