I was told the other day that I’m not a proper supporter of Reading FC. This life-altering judgement came after I had the audacity to suggest that until the playing style improves, I won’t be paying to watch it. A reckless opinion, clearly.

There was a time when that sort of accusation would have ruined my week. I’d have come back swinging with a full catalogue of loyalty. Cold Tuesday nights, grim away days, matches so dull they should have come with a warning label. I’d have bored everyone senseless proving I belonged. Now, I read it, shrugged, and carried on with my day. Growth, I suppose.

The Purity Test Nobody Asked For

It did get me thinking though. What actually is a “proper supporter”? Is it someone who goes every week regardless of weather, form, or basic enjoyment? Someone who claps a 0-0 like it’s a cultural event and treats suffering as part of the package? Because if that’s the standard, I may have quietly slipped off the register without noticing.

Football seems to come with this unwritten loyalty test, as if your devotion has to be measured in miles travelled and misery endured. There’s a strange pride in it. The worse it gets, the more authentic you apparently become.

The Early Years: A Football Nomad

Like most kids, I didn’t emerge from the womb clutching a Reading scarf and a lifelong vow. I shopped around. One minute I was following Manchester United under Tommy Docherty, the next I was drawn to Chelsea FC and the likes of Pat Nevin, Kerry Dixon and David Speedie. Meanwhile, I’d often end up at Elm Park watching Reading simply because it was there and I had nothing better to do.

Looking back, it wasn’t loyalty, it was curiosity mixed with convenience. Football was something to fill time rather than define identity. It was less sacred bond, more casual arrangement.

By my late teens, Reading had become the club. Not through some emotional epiphany, but because it was affordable and filled that awkward stretch of time when pubs shut between 2:30 and 6. It was practical, which is not the stuff of football romance but probably closer to the truth for most of us.

At that stage in life, football wasn’t really about football. It was about your mates. When you’re young and single, your friends are your entire world. You do everything together. The pub, gigs, holidays, football, and a fair amount of nonsense in between. It was like an extended game of Cowboys and Indians (no girls) just with more alcohol and prefrontal cortexes dulled by Courage Best.

Girls, at that point, were viewed with deep suspicion. They arrived later in the evening and were generally seen as a threat to the carefully balanced ecosystem we had created. We would reassure each other that nothing would ever change, all while quietly undermining any mate who looked like he might break ranks.

The Great Drift

Of course, everything did change. It always does. Relationships came along, jobs moved people elsewhere, kids arrived, and priorities shifted whether we liked it or not. The idea of piling into a smoke filled Austin Maxi on a Saturday afternoon slowly lost its appeal, or at least became harder to justify.

Friendships didn’t disappear, they just stretched out over time. Occasional reunions replaced weekly rituals, and even those could feel slightly underwhelming. Not bad, just not quite what they used to be. Familiar, but different.

Through all of that, the football club remained. Not always front and centre, not always enjoyable, but always there in the background. It outlasted friendships, phases of life, and in many cases, relationships. A constant, even if your involvement with it ebbed and flowed.

There was a brief resurgence in the mid noughties when a group of us got season tickets again. It had that unmistakable “band back together” feel. A dozen of us, turning up regularly, enjoying the novelty of success with a few beers and some raucous laughter.

For a while, it worked. It felt like we’d rediscovered something. But as with most reunions, it didn’t last. Life crept back in, attendance became sporadic, and eventually it settled into the occasional game, often with my sons, who now support Reading in their own ways.

The Modern Day Dilemma

These days, I see the reports and the social media posts describing just how dreadful things are, and I weigh it up. The effort of getting there, the cost, the time, and what I’m likely to get in return. It’s not just about turning up anymore, it’s about whether it’s actually worth it.

When the ownership situation improved, I did tell myself I’d go more often. A few old faces even made similar noises. As it turned out, good intentions are very easy to make and much harder to act on.

There comes a point where you start applying the same logic to football as you would to anything else. If you go somewhere and don’t enjoy it, you don’t keep going out of habit. You find something better to do with your time.

So maybe that does make me a disloyal Royal. Maybe I should be there every week, applauding the effort, embracing the struggle, convincing myself it’s all part of the experience.

But the truth is, I’d often rather do something else. Walk the dog, spend time with family, go somewhere that doesn’t require emotional resilience just to get through it. That doesn’t mean I care any less (although I probably do) it just means I’ve stopped pretending enjoyment is guaranteed.

One Last Fantasy

Every now and then, I do think about what it would be like to get everyone back together and head up the M1 to Rotherham. The old names, the old routines, the idea that it could feel the same again. Two hired out Austin Maxis or maybe a transit minibus, heading up the motorway with The Smiths and The Stone Roses blaring out of the stereo and reefers on the go.

For a moment, it sounds perfect. Then reality kicks in. Nostalgia has a habit of polishing things that were never quite that shiny to begin with. And the people who chase it too hard often end up stuck there, unfilled and so frightened of the future they end up shinning up lampposts with nylon flags.

I definitely will go and watch Reading again when it improves.

Honestly, I will. Perhaps. Maybe.