I’ve long wondered what could possibly connect a 1970s dram series about a middle-aged private investigator with an eccentric father to Tranmere Rovers.

The answer, it turns out, is that the song was first played at Friday matches, because the show aired at the same time as the kick-off.

Black humour, I assume: a reminder to fans that they could be cosy at home in front of the telly instead of freezing their arses off watching their team lose.

Thanks to Tim Roberts, Website and Programme Editor at Tranmere for the information.

Iain Hume capped Tranmere’s win in a six-goal thriller against 10-man Sheffield Wednesday at Prenton Park.

Calvin Zola headed a Ryan Taylor cross home to put Rovers ahead and Mike Jackson added a second soon after.

Steve MacLean pulled one back and though Taylor scored a penalty when Guy Branston brought down Hume, Guylain Ndumbu-Nsungu made it 3-2 at the break.

Hume made it 4-2 with a deflected effort and Branston’s was dismissed for an apparent elbow on Eugene Dadi.

Nice one!

Can anyone explain why the Rovers always do so much better in the second half, in terms of both matches and the season?

Presumably the latter is down to the boost provided by the semi-traditional FA Cup run, but every time I see them play they skitter about like headless chickens in the first half, then run out for the second like some sort of crack squad of tactical ninjas. Or something.

Yes, I am posting about football. Please do not adjust your browser. Normal service will resume tomorrow.

More galling still, right up to the last seconds of the game, it looked like Tranmere might claw back a goal.

But they didn’t, so that’s that.

I’m afraid I’m ill-qualified to provided a blow-by-blow match report. Suffice to say, both teams played lumpen football in the first half, with Tranmere’s defence and keeper doing well to prevent Milwall from scoring. As in every game I’ve seen Tranmere play, they were a better side in the second half, and ought really to have scored; though John Achterberg’s brilliant penalty save was met with the sort of celebrations usually reserved for a last-minute goal.

But who cares about the football? Not me, if I’m honest. It’s a stultifyingly dull game to watch on television, and not much better in the flesh. No, I like being part of a crowd chanting (Super White Army!) and believing, temporarily but truly, that the most important thing in the whole wide world is Tranmere beating the other side. And I don’t even mean that in terms of the two teams on the pitch, but with regard to the opposing groups of fans – it was as much of a joy to see three stands of Milwall fall silent in the second half while Tranmere roared at them (Super Are We!) as it was to find Achterburg’s save had granted the club a second chance to go further in the FA Cup than they ever have before.

I did, though, feel a little iffy in joining some chants – I know I am, I’m sure I am, I’m Tranmere ‘til I die! – since I practically define the fair-weather fan. My allegiance switched from Liverpool (they were the default at Primary School) to Tranmere when they found some success in the late 80’s/early 90’s, and due to the realisation that one ought not to support any team but one’s local side.

When I grasped that Tranmere are more local than most, so to speak – there’s a successful youth training scheme, heavy ticket discounts for schoolchildren, and a unique sponsorship deal with Wirral Borough Council – my support for the club was, more than anything else, a political stance. Sure, I’ve always kept a vague eye on the club’s progress (or, let’s face it, lack thereof) and made a little tradition of going to Prenton Park once a year, if I could be arsed, for Boxing Day matches. But I couldn’t honestly describe myself as a fan, more an interested observer who deliberately chose to identify with the team over the other two, rather more prominent, Merseyside clubs.

Last night, I went to see Yo La Tengo and realised a possible reason for my recent conversion to, if not true football fan status, then someone who genuinely cares about his side. Now, Yo La Tengo didn’t, as you might imagine, sing a ballad about the shifting attitudes of a half-hearted Tranmere fan, but being at that gig, trying to get into a band I’ve never followed too closely, offered a little clue to my support for the team stepping up a gear over the last two years.

This was a gig attended by a keen fanbase – the sort of concert where the opening notes, let alone bars, of a song are greeted with a cheer – and one that I stood apart from, able to appreciate the band, but not really caring enough to applaud, since I’ve never been immersed in this particular subset of independent music, one that a certain generation of Glaswegian fans hold dear. This is in marked contrast to the way I used to approach the two nightclubs that had a hold on me for ten years: first the insufferably naff Cream, in Liverpool, then the insufferably hip Optimo, in Glasgow. Now, I don’t want to downplay the music at Optimo – thrilling stuff, week-in week-out – but the real strength of that nightclub, as with Cream in its day, lies in its community.

All good nightclubs are, of course, based on strong ties between the people on the dancefloor, their common purpose to dance on drugs, and lots of them, but Optimo was (is, I’m sure, for other people) different, with a positively rabid gang of regulars, clustered in corners at endless after-parties, and on a thriving internet message board, living in each others’ pockets through the week, which revolved around the Sunday night pilgrimage to the Sub Club.

So, what on earth does this have to do with Tranmere?

Well, standing at the edges of the Yo La Tengo community in Glasgow, it occured that I’m on the flipside of the supposed correlation between the rise of MDMA and the fall of football hooliganism, best documented by Kevin Sampson in his features and short fiction for The Face. I don’t know if dangerous heads were really turned into loved-up ravers after popping a couple of Speckled Doves, but it seems more than coincidental that, after finally deciding (thanks to this incident) that ingesting Herculean quantities of narcotics and dancing my ass off every weekend wasn’t such a great idea after all, I’ve started to enjoy football matches more than ever.

It’s practically a truism to state that nightclubs and football matches operate on the same level. The only difference, really, is that the serotonin floods come courtesy of near-misses, goals and the occasional graceful movement on the pitch, rather than direct tampering with brain chemistry and the skill of disc jockeys manipulating the crowd through music; and the sense of community is as strong, if not far stronger. And, as this post demonstrates horribly well, it’s impossible not to devote the space between experiences – on the dancefloor or in the stand – to analysis, reminiscence and anticipation.

My apologies for wittering on so long about this – I’m more than aware that this post reads like some unholy alliance between a Nick Hornby novel and the staple ‘Current Mood: Self-obsessed’ entry on LiveJournal – it just struck me as a funny course to be on: from nightclub to football ground, not the other way around.

Now, I just have to decide whether I can spare the time to travel to Prenton Park next Tuesday for the replay. I suspect I might, in writing this, have persuaded myself.