There is nothing like a live game of football. The roar of the crowd, the shared delight and disappointment at events upon the pitch and the banter between your own and opposition supporters all make for a special experience. It is the life blood of the fan’s existence but, if you follow a team from further afield, it is not always an easy one to enjoy.

I lead a double life. Queen of the South provide me with the in-person interaction that I crave with a gang of friends and family who all suffer and celebrate with me every other weekend or so. Covid taught me just how important that whole tradition is for me.

But there is a Mr Hyde to that Dr Jekyll – or whatever way round you want it. I also follow Fiorentina and although I get to the odd live game – the latest was, improbably, at Preston’s Deepdale (pictured above) – they are mainly a televisual treat for me. My dad and my son sometimes join me but mostly it is a solitary pursuit. I still jump up and down, curse and swear (in two languages) and get elated or miserable but it all comes through the screen in the corner of my living room. It often involves a lot of logistical juggling.

Things were a lot more simple when there was just one kick-off time on a Sunday afternoon. Palmerston Park on the Saturday and then a couple of hours at the Artemio Franchi – or elsewhere around Italy – the following day via some satellite box or other or, nowadays, streams. But those were simpler times, now it takes much more planning.

There is the channel check first. Where will it be shown? TNT Sports has punted most games to One Football this season so that’s the Serie A angle sorted. But what about the Coppa Italia? That used to be Rai but is now a Mediaset product. And the Conference League? TNT Sports again but not, it appears, the preliminary qualifiers. So it’s TV8 for that one, I hope. And don’t get me started on international games.

And then there is the timing of the matches. It is nothing, of course, compared with the dedication of the travelling fan who might have to make a voyage to the Veneto or take the car to Calabria to watch a game on a Tuesday night. Just the same though, if you have work and a family it still takes a bit of working things out.

Dinner times are moved, appointments shifted and work packed up sharply in order to get to a TV in time for kick-off. If you could be certain it would provide pleasure that would be great but, more often than not if you support a middle-tier team, it gives you more heartache than glee. A half-time espresso can be the best bit of some matches and a feeling of regret is often experienced at full-time over why you even bothered.

And yet, and yet. There’s a part of me wants to be involved in that shared fan experience – no matter how far away. Social media has brought us closer – although further apart in some ways – so you can partake of a collective grumble or gloat before, during or after the match. I don’t think our love is lesser because it is long-distance.

My support was born of a desire to connect with the homeland of my ancestors, a corner of Tuscany which still has a healthy Viola Club in operation. It was there that I first saw Giancarlo Antognoni and, to pinch a line from the song Neapolitans sang about Maradona, I fell in love – with the player and that glorious purple strip. I could no more shed that skin than accept parmesan cheese on my seafood tagliatelle.

I like to keep alive that link to the contrary and controversial Fiorentina fans I met when I was an English language assistant in Borgo San Lorenzo. Just hearing that accent again – with all the hard Cs missing – is soothing to my soul. A typical curse picked up by a pitchside microphone has the power to make me smile like a memory of tasting tortelli di patate in the Mugello for the first time. For all the pain it might cause, a Viola game draws me back like the green valley of the Garfagnana every summer.

So I will continue to jump through hoops, cancel dinner dates, put off the shopping or whatever else is required in order to get myself plonked down in front of the television in time. I can’t get to the stadio for every game but at least there is some corner of south-west Scotland that is forever the Curva Fiesole. All together now: “Garrisca al vento il labaro Viola!”.