the madszine

Ladies and gentlemen, the time is nigh, welcome to 2025 and to the first blog post of the new year. I have a love-hate relationship with being a twenty-something year old girl at new years. The first week of January is the time where I take a long hard look at myself and try to improve myself for the year ahead: to be more patient, to be more understanding of other people’s views, to potentially support a sports team that has tasted victory more recently than going on for a decade and a half ago. The first week of January is also the point where I rock backwards and forwards in the corner of my darkened room whispering “this year is our year.” 

Over the Christmas period I was exposed to a little bit more of Manchester United than I had ever wished to be. I could blame this on a boy but – well actually no you’re right – I’ll blame this on a boy. The result of this unfortunate exposure therapy, in an unfortunate city in the more-North-of-Scotland-than-I-usually-reside, was that I slowly began to be converted. A combination of United, my regular home football team: Hearts, and dipping a toe into the UFC, are getting me through the Formula 1 off season. My trio of teams in red that I have unfortunately grown to support over the years have given me the gift of many an entertaining afternoon and evening. I’ve also had the quite frankly incredible luck to have not tasted victory… well, ever. Perhaps, as I sit down on the sofa to embark on this new year, I should change my perspective on my perpetual disappointment to see it as character building rather than apparently godsent outright suffering. After all, sport is about more than winning, it’s about loyalty and shared camaraderie and suspense. It’s about shared moments and joy with my friends and my family, about bonding with my father. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when one of my teams inevitably lets me down in spectacular fashion.

When I end up getting bored throughout the working day I find myself fiddling with my ‘il predestinato’ bracelet that was probably surgically attached to my wrist at this point. I made it last year to celebrate Charles Leclerc winning the Monaco Grand Prix for Ferrari and haven’t removed it since. The Formula 1 Winter break has felt like forever; 98 days to be exact. One thing I have to give Ferrari is that their promotional content for the new season has been off the charts. Of course, when one of the biggest sporting divorces of the last decade has taken place, and it involves seven-time world champion Lewis Hamilton, the photoshoots coming out of that situation are going to have a level of tenor. Charles and Lewis as a driver duo at Ferrari is something I’m on the edge of my seat for and every day I sit and pray to the Formula 1 gods that they produce a car that is worthy of the talent of the drivers that will sit in it. After all, there are two religions in this world, the Catholic church and Ferrari.

My newfound (albeit reluctant) appreciation for Manchester United has immediately taught me one thing: it’s been a rough couple of months to be a Manchester United fan. According to my boy it’s been a rough decade to be a Manchester United fan. I am rapidly learning that they are the Ferrari of the Premier League. It’s got me involved in multiple conversations with my father, screaming celebrations in pubs (few), and screaming disbelief in pubs (many). A round table of conversation and debate where I’ve found myself diving to try and make my own personal judgements on managerial decisions, the January transfer window hires, and VAR controversies that, frankly, I have no business being involved in. The emotional rollercoaster of this season which seems to be only on its way ricocheting downwards has got me held in its clutches and as much as I jokingly whine about having to watch ‘the clown show’ as I’ve dubbed them, I actually rather enjoy it. My attachment to athletes with a tragic backstory – and so my immediate membership subscription to the Harry Maguire fanclub doesn’t hurt either.

As for my first love—Hearts—they remain as reliably inconsistent as ever. I suppose there’s something comforting in that. The knowledge that they will always perform horrifically at the start of the season. Despite their incredible ability to tear defeat from the jaws of victory, Hearts will always have a soft spot for me. Potentially because they make me feel closer to my father, perhaps because I can’t remember a point in my life where I wasn’t perched on the sofa watching the footie over a book I was pretending to be reading. I may constantly complain that Shankland needs to hand over his captaincy to Gordan or Penrice. I may accuse other teams of minor harassment whenever they tackle upcoming talent seventeen year old James Wilson (a joke which I have been informed is getting old). But at the end of the day I will always watch the Hearts game, and they will always play, and isn’t that what being a sports fan is all about? So what if their ability to build hope with an early goal and then systematically crush it with a 101st minute late concession is nothing short of remarkable. There’s a word for that behaviour – it’s called hibsing it.

So as 2025 dawns and once more a sliver of hope the size of a petit grain of rice forms in my heart, I embrace the fact that no matter how unlikely it may be, this year could be our year. Maybe Ferrari will optimise on their incredible driving talent and engineer their way to victory for the first time since 2008. Maybe Hearts will go on a Scottish cup run, grab that final spot in Europe, bring home a trophy that the last time I saw I was 9 years old. Maybe United, under the guidance of Ruben Amorim, (who from my very limited experience I rate) will find their rhythm again. Maybe—just maybe—I’ll finally taste the sweet sensation of victory that has been eluding me since I started watching sport.

Or, more realistically, I’ll be back here in exactly twelve months’ time, writing to you about how I dared to dream and how those dreams were spectacularly crushed by my trio in red, place your bets – the odds are good. 

Either way, we are so back.