Have you heard the story about the photographer who was born in Norwich, grew up in Newcastle, and was seduced by his love of a Frenchman, before moving to Scotland where he developed an oddly captivating relationship with the wonderfully weird world of Scottish Football? Nor had we. That was until the man with the 35mm film camera came slide tackling into our lives.

The gent in question is Sam Mcardle. Not only a bloody talented photographer, he also happens to be a genuine wordsmith. A comment, which I’m almost sure he will take out of hand and thump straight into Row Z. However, the way he describes the many quirks of Scottish football is incredibly poetic: “Look at Greenock Morton’s Cappielow for fucks sake. Football was being played there as the first few nuts and bolts of the Statue of Liberty were being welded together. It’s seen two World Wars and thirty Prime Ministers.” Rabbie Burns himself would have said, ‘You know what Sam, you’ve got a point there.’

Now when it comes to football, Sam never had a team thrust upon him. His family were never fanatical about football, so he was left to navigate that minefield alone. It wasn’t until he moved to Durham at age 8 that his love of the beautiful game began to blossom, and the time to make the decision which could alter his life came into focus. It was a case of treading carefully when it came to choosing the team which from time to time would ultimately crush his spirit. Newcastle or Sunderland? Who would it be? it would turn out that Sam’s decision would come courtesy of the left foot of the Gallic Geordie, Laurent Robert. “His French flare, his ability to score a screamer of a free kick from almost anywhere meant that for me, it was always going to be Newcastle.”

In Sam’s life, football and photography hold hands like long-lost lovers destined to be together forever, and it was during the great house arrest of 2020, that black bin bags, Japanese instruction manuals, and Soviet-era lenses would lead to Sam’s infatuation with film photography. “In an era where fans feel ever more distant from the game, shooting film connects me to it in a way digital never could.”

Sam like myself is a romanticist for days gone by, when football was more than just billionaire owners and corporate boxes. Sadly we now appear to be in an era of humus instead of hamburgers and Cappuccinos instead of Carslberg. Therefore the irony of Newcastle’s current ownership is not lost on Sam. It is a situation which leaves him conflicted and slightly confused. Thankfully though he has been able to seek solace, warmth and comfort in the beautiful bosom of Scottish football. “Scottish football is as all football should be. It’s cradling, shielding the steaming hot Macaroni Pie as you turn your back on the spray of the North Sea at Arbroath away.”

For me, Scottish football at times can be like watching 22 drunk and drug-addled babies running about a farmer’s field in a hurricane of pissing rain. But as somebody who has grown up with it, loving it and hating it in equal measures, it is certainly a cure to the corporate world of football which has its filthy fingers all over our beautiful game.

These days for Sam, football is less about what’s happening on the pitch and more about the stands, stadiums and streets. He captures the absolute essence of football culture and reminds us what it is we love about our game, and it was a pleasure to sit down with him, as he spoke about everything from film photography to Newcastle and his love of Scottish football, despite it being a bit pish.

Excited. Protective. Elated. Deflated. Despondent. Encouraged. Depressed. Alienated. Concerned. Relieved. And a little dirty. Like a one-night stand.

I wasn’t lucky enough to inherit a football team. My family had never followed it in a religious sense. And given Durham’s geographical predicament, it stands to reason that I could have supported Sunderland when I moved up there. But for one man, Lauren Robert, who signed for Newcastle the same year I moved up. His French flare and his ability to score a screamer of a free kick from almost anywhere meant that for me, it was always going to be Newcastle.

Since making that decision, I’ve never looked back. And since Sunderland has now faded into grey obscurity, it doesn’t come up much. And I have so many highlights as a Newcastle fan. The early days of European adventure with Bobby at the helm. The Pardew surge and the Arsenal 4-4 draw. A brief flutter into the top 5 of the Premier League, the Rafa renaissance as he stuck with us as the dark Ashley skies lingered, through relegation and reestablishment as a Premier League force (ish). And of course, needless to say, now. Dortmund away. PSG at home. Living through Eddie’s mighty mags as we squared up Europe’s elite in the group of death. Lovely bloody stuff.

We’ve…got…our club…back? Right? As a lifelong Newcastle fan, I feel a mixture of emotions about this takeover. Excited. Protective. Elated. Deflated. Despondent. Encouraged. Depressed. Alienated. Concerned. Relieved. And a little dirty. Like a one-night stand.

The money in general has alienated me from top-flight football. While brand-spanking new stadiums are fine, football without tradition is a game that used to be called beautiful.

I am a football romantic and the good thing about living in Scotland is that every club has no money. But for an area that’s been systematically ignored and intentionally dismantled (both economically and socially) by generations of central government to now finally be getting investment, and perhaps more than that, interest and attention on the world stage is certainly a well overdue positive.

Whilst our government welcomes Saudi money in all other sectors, and rolls out the red carpet for their leaders and profits off huge arms deals, it can’t be the responsibility of some guy from Blyth who has followed his team through thick and thin to take a sudden stand.

Look at Greenock Morton’s Cappielow Stadium for fucks sake.

Scottish fitba? For me, Scottish football is never going to be about the standard of football. And to be honest, when I watch most football, what happens in the 90 minutes is not the story. It’s drinks in the pub beforehand, the programme sellers out in all weathers, the atmosphere. Scottish football is as all football should be. It’s cradling, shielding the steaming hot Macaroni Pie as you turn your back on the spray of the North Sea at Arbroath away.

If I’m honest, when I moved up to Scotland in 2013, I knew next to nothing about Scottish football. Growing up in England, it’s often dismissed as a farmer’s league. Few people had a Scottish team. Sportscene was never on TV. And you were only reminded that people play football in Scotland if the Old Firm was on. But because of that, Scottish football always seemed a bit exotic. When I moved here and realised, I could go to Forfar Athletic or Cowdenbeath quite easily, it was pretty much a revelation. A bit of a footballing rebirth. The same excitement all over again that I hadn’t felt since I first moved up to Durham.

This was my chance to learn about football all over again and go to new places to see it. That’s probably why I’ve fallen so madly in love with it. Another huge part of it is the architecture of the game in Scotland. You can learn a lot about a footballing culture by how it chooses to house the game. Approaching Netherdale Stadium in Galashiels as its concrete stand violently juts out from the tranquil rolling hill of the borders. Or standing in one of the first ‘big stands’ of a 100-year-old Archibald Leitch design is a beautiful way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

You find so many stadiums in England that look the same. Flat pack solutions to a rapidly modernising game. Identikit shells that don’t have the history or romantic beauty of Somerset Park or Pittodrie. Look at Greenock Morton’s Cappielow Stadium for fucks sake. Football was being played there as the first few nuts and bolts of the Statue of Liberty were being welded together. It’s seen two World Wars and thirty Prime Ministers. And you can go there this Saturday, to watch football. Generation after generation can go and stand in the same spot. On the same piece of crumbling terracing, place their Bovril on the same leaning post and look out at the same view of the same pitch with only the player’s haircuts changing. It’s living history, it’s cultural heritage. It’s still there. And it’s a shared connection to our past, in our present.

I honestly don’t know what it is about Scottish football that pulls me and my 35mm camera in so tightly, but I’m never happier than when taking photos of my time there. Once you see Scottish football, and live it, it has you for life. And you’ll defend it to the death, even if it is a bit pish

In an era where fans feel ever more distant from the game, shooting film connects me to it in a way digital never could.

The pandemic and obligatory house arrest that came with it was a great chance to have a clear out. My brother-in-law visited his parent’s house and was told they had found a big sack of old camera equipment in the loft. He got there and saw it was jam-packed with old filters (basically brown sheets of glass you shove in front of a lens) – unused rolls of film from the 70s, photo paper, Japanese instruction manuals for long-extinct cameras, soviet-era Russian lenses and chunky camera bodies. Basically, a huge array of equipment.

Not really knowing what to do with it, but knowing I was into photography he passed it to me. It was simultaneously the most exciting and unnerving black bin bag I had ever received (not that that happens too often, thankfully).

I’ve never looked back. Film photography doesn’t make much sense. Digital photography is cheaper, in some ways easier and something we all have in our packets. I think it’s a popular misconception that people who shoot films just do it for the fashionable aesthetic. But that’s not true. There’s a physicality to it. Click. You wind on. You load the film; you wind it back in. It’s manual. You develop a physical connection with the photo itself.

In an era where fans feel ever more distant from the game, shooting film connects me to it in a way digital never could. Film represents a leap into the unknown. You never know what you might get back. Did you change the exposure settings accidentally when it was in your bag? Or as you were squeezing onto the train? Did you accidentally use up an extra frame when that lad bundled into you in the pie queue? It’s all risk, from shooting to development. You only have so many frames to use too. We live in a very click-happy world, and taking photos to then decide later if they are crap is what we have become used to. But with film, that would be crazy expensive.

So, before I take a photo I have to think, what am I trying to achieve? Is the angle, right? Is the lighting something this film can work with? It has changed how I think about photography and the process of taking a photo. Hopefully, that conscious connection between me and the shot filters through to the viewer’s connection with the photo.

It was the loudest, friendliest most vibrant crowd I’ve experienced.

Outside of Scotland, some of the best trips I’ve been on would involve some regular suspects. The architectural curves of Monaco, the yellow onslaught that is Dortmund’s overwhelming wall, the majesty of the San Siro under the lights. I’ve been lucky enough to travel a lot for football. But genuinely one of my favourite experiences has been Elfsborg. I’ve shared photos of that on my Instagram page. A working class, the post-industrial town of Boras gathering behind Elfsborg, the plucky underdog. It was the loudest, friendliest most vibrant crowd I’ve experienced.

I’m currently in New York, but the next real football trip is to Argentina and Uruguay in March. Frankly, I can’t wait. Two weeks of football madness. Other than that, my bucket list trip is either a Calcio marathon for like two weeks. From Palermo to Como or something like an outer Hebrides trip. Get the plane from Glasgow and land on the beach at Barra. Work my way up with the highlight being Eriskay. A real photo study of the football community and people would be class.

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It was an absolute bloody pleasure to speak with Sam Mcardle.

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