BEING a football supporter is no easy thing. As the great Bill Shankly once pointed out, the game isn't a matter of life and death, it's much more important than that.

He was right, too. Already, and just one Saturday in, my many neuroses about being a Hartlepool United supporter have began to take over my life like a psychiatric illness. At breakfast, I find myself staring forlornly into my bowl of cornflakes as I mourn the sale of Adam Boyd to Luton Town. In the workplace, I find my attention wandering as I worry about my team's potential lack of cover at centre half.

It's ridiculous, I know. To anyone not chained to the terraces by their town's colours or lack of common sense, such behaviour may seem bordering on the maniacal. But for me, and thousands of other true supporters around the country, it's the same every year. Once the summer holidays are over and August starts - the real stuff begins.

With football you either get it or you don't. When Saturday comes, you're either part of that 3pm tribe following the same ritual in the quest for three points or you're carrying your girlfriend's shopping bags around a town centre. If the latter is the case, then you don't know what you're missing.

As for the rest of us, your typical football supporter, old habits die hard. For me, Saturdays have always begun with a hearty fried breakfast, followed by a quick glance at the league tables. Then it's onto the sacred 40 minutes of television that is Football Focus, followed by a visit to your chosen pub.

Once inside, you will talk about how football isn't as good as it used to be, before finishing the first of your five pints with an exaggerated "Ahh". Football supporters always drink five pints before matches and they always go "Ahh". Perhaps its something to do with pre-match nerves.

Speaking of which: by now it should be around 2:45pm and you should have that excited feeling like the first time your father took you to the freezing terraces as a young boy. That's when you catch the real buzz of football, when you're seven or eight, slightly scared and standing among real men as they scream for every tackle won and possession gained.

That's the clincher. The uninhibited anger and passion. Oh, and that moment of sheer joy when you first witness your team's goal. The way all the air in the ground seems to get sucked in just as the ball hits the net. The thousands of fists punching the air and then that release, that glorious release, when, for a few seconds nothing in the world hurts.

Sounds poetic doesn't it? It is. Walking to the ground you'll anticipate that moment like your first kiss and your first wage packet rolled into one. You'll feel a million dollars in your team's colours. As proud as punch, and ready for them to take on the world.

Which isn't to say you won't be disappointed. Football is a cruel mistress and often the ying and yang of being a genuine supporter haunts you like a Chinese curse. The bad decisions. The freezing cold weather. Standing stock still in horror as the opposition forward bends one in the top corner in the last minute. These are the things that teach you about the harsh realities of life. They also put you to the test, too.

As a fan it's easy to ride the crest of glorious success, but when the bitter taste of defeat is stuck in your throat week after week and the dark cloud of relegation is looming, then it's another matter. That's when your true dedication and devotion kicks in. And if you come through it? Well, then I suppose you're one of us. Welcome to the club. Welcome to the beautiful game.