Birvidik

Near the beginning of our time in Greece, while we were in Corfu, I did one of those little things that seem trivial at the time, but which subsequently turn out to have an effect out of all proportion to their expected importance. I bought a rucksack.

I put little thought into this. In fact I only bought it as an afterthought, my existing rucksack being on the verge of collapse. I chose it on the grounds of fit and capacity, assigning no import to its colour or general appearance. This could have been deduced from the fact that it was a garish combination of red and white, with a decal showing the profile of a Greek god and the word Ολυμβιακοσ in large print and Συνδεσμος Φιλαθλον Πειραιος in smaller print around it.

Well, how was I to know that Olymbiakos was a football club? I'm not a proper bloke - as far as I'm concerned, a car is merely a device for getting from A to B without getting wet and football is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, surrounded by crowds of sweaty men chanting indecipherable rallying cries. I later discovered that Olymbiakos is not just a football club, but the football club - The Greek equivalent of Manchester United, apparently. It even has the same colours, I am told.

I have never had any interest in football, or any other spectator sport for that matter. I was vaguely aware on an abstract, conceptual level, that it was a crucial part of many people's lives and fulfilled a range of social and psychological needs but it had never impacted upon me personally. I suspect that this was in part due to my hatred of sports and P.E. at school, mainly as a result of my then being seriously overweight and appallingly unfit.

Mind you, this handicap doesn't seem to have managed to discourage many of the armchair football experts I have been unfortunate enough to witness. They sit for hours in the pub, drifts of fag ash building up on their beer bellies, while they proclaim to everyone in earshot that various professional football managers would achieve far better results if they just bowed to our pundits' superior grasp of the subtleties of managerial tactics.

Football, I now realise, is not about sport. It is about belonging. It is about male bonding and group cohesion. It is a means of classifying unknown males as potential threats, potential allies or potential prey. It is inter-tribal diplomacy and warfare, stylised and regulated. The least important thing about it is that it happens to be a sport.

My ignorance of all this knew no bounds. I shouldered my new rucksack and strode happily along the main road toward Corfu town. Up until then I had been more or less invisible to the locals, just another tourist in daft shorts, geeky sandals and stupid hat; of interest only to proprietors of tourist-tat shops or touts trying to drum up custom for overpriced bars or cod-traditional folklore extravaganzas. Everyone else looked right through me.

Not now. Subsequent research, observation and thought has shown me that there is a strict protocol regarding discussions and interactions regarding football, and that the protocols differ according to whether the participants are in civvies or are wearing The Colours.

In civvies, a delicate pas de deux takes place, in order to subtly establish the mutual positions. Most importantly, loyalties are not disclosed, or if they are, this is done slowly and step by step. The opening goes something like this:

A: See the match last night? (Are you willing to be engaged in conversation?)

B: Yeah - lucky goal in 2nd half (OK - as long as you're not a homosexual coming on to me.)

A: Wenger shouldn't have fielded Ramsey. (No way mate! Straight as a die me - never worn Hush Puppies in me life)

B: Nah - and they'd have been thrashed if Mourinho had played Costa. (OK then, but just watch it, that's all).

Once a rapport has been established they can move on to motors (opening gambit 'What are you driving these days?) and discuss torque converters, the relative merits of cars that neither of them will ever be able to afford and the best way of getting from Brent Park to Heathrow while avoiding the Hanger Lane Gyratory System*.

In contrast, once bedecked in The Colours a very different set of rules come into play. Members of the same tribe will roar encouragement to each other and crank up the testosterone with particularly crude disparaging remarks about the gross inadequacy of the opposition's genitalia and courage, coupled with highly defamatory and completely unsubstantiated assertions regarding the sexual proclivities and availability of their close female relatives. These are frequently accompanied by a range of obscene and threatening gestures.

By donning my rucksack I had come out of civvies and had now hoisted my colours. In military terms this is a declaration of the opening of hostilities. My rucksack was a badge - no, the word 'badge' doesn't do it justice. It was a flashing neon sign rallying and reinforcing the faithful. To infidels, however, it read 'Come on then, if you think you're hard enough'. Fortunately, Olymbiakos was the most popular and supported club in the country and so my new found tribe was usually present in greater numbers.

It took me a while to work this out. For the first few days I thought I had inadvertently featured in the Greek version of Top Gear. Young men whom I had never met in my life smiled at me, cheered and gave me the thumbs up. Cars full of a similar demographic slowed down, beeped, smiled and waved. Just as I was getting comfortable with my new found status as a local celebrity, the illusion was shattered by jeers, catcalls, monkey noises and cries of Ολυμβιακοσ μαλακα ('Olymbiakos malaka**') emanating from a car that had slowed down to a crawl as it passed me.

I was nonplussed by this, a fact that, fortunately, was not lost on my aggressors. Once I had explained that I was English, and that I had no idea who or what Olymbiakos was, they downgraded my threat level from Defcom 5 to a zero-rated 'idiot foreigner'. Then they gave me a condescending smile and shot off at speed.

You might think that after such an unsettling experience I would consign the rucksack to the bin. Not me. I am made of, if not sterner, then more Machiavellian stuff. I can get the best of both worlds. There are many more Olymbiakos fans out there than there are rivals, so the rucksack tends to open more doors than it closes. On top of that, if I do happen to come across any rival supporters I just play the 'idiot foreigner' card and all is forgiven.

Come on You Reds!

*Apparently the problem wouldn't arise if they widened the road by knocking down that hospital just off the A406.

** 'Malaka' is probably one of the most commonly heard words in Greece. Its exact translation is 'wanker', but it has some similarities to the Australian 'Bastard' as it can be used as an insult or a term of endearment depending on context. It also has parallels with the epithet 'nigga' as used by black Americans to engender a sense of friendship or brotherhood. If used as an insult it is serious indeed and has even been known to lead to court cases and violence.