Last year on a weekend trip to Glasgow, I went to watch Partick Thistle play against St Mirren. As football settings go, it sits somewhere between quaint and bleak. What I was paying my £22 for, I had no idea. Certainly not an allocated seat, that’s for sure. I arrived with my English Premier League sensibilities – the 85th minute exodus, the only singing when you’re winning – and I left with them delightfully shattered. The full Jags support stayed standing from the first minute to the last, roaring one witty, self-deprecating song after another in unison. And so the soul of football lives on.