Souness: Revenge of the Ranger Part Two

The interesting thing about the Green Brigade meetings is that they’re always the same – some rapey looking old man will stand up and rave about social injustice, blame it all on Protestants then he’ll get a round of applause and everyone will burst into a few verses of Boys of the Old Brigade before they all get tanked up on Buckfast and go out looking for Church of Scotland ministers to attack. It’s not sectarian though, it’s political. At least that’s what people you’d think would know better would have us believe. A cabal of bigoted academics have been pushing this agenda since Strathclyde Police had the temerity to report Celtic to UEFA for their fans’ sectarian chanting. The academics aren’t alone as they’ve been joined by the Scottish Labour Party who have been taking it in turns to speak up in defence of songs glorifying the IRA from their complimentary seats in the main stand at Parkhead. Then there are Lawwell’s poodles in the media; they’re all on my list if only Donald Findlay would sanction my plans for a massive punitive strike but he won’t although he’s tempted to let me loose on BBC Scotland which I’m looking forward to.

The rafters were dark and cold as I observed the Green Brigade’s latest meeting and for a change they had something a little different this time.
‘Comrades, we are pleased to announce a very special guest this week,’ announced the rapey old man and a hush fell over the assembled teenagers and juvenile delinquents. ‘I introduce to you, Phil McGillivan!’
There was uproar as a door opened and in staggered a putrid and rotting figure of a man. He shambled onto the makeshift stage opened his mouth and spewed filth and excrement over the front three rows, lost whatever balance he had and then collapsed in a pile of his own vomit. He got a standing ovation.

‘Comrades,’ said old Rapey, standing up and continuing the applause. ‘I think you’ll find that Comrade Phil is never wrong so you all know what to do,’ and at this, they all got up and left the building and headed to Dundee to prove their edgy Marxist credentials by singing songs in praise of terrorism and ethnic cleansing. I would have liked to have done a little cleansing of my own, the Sterling submachine gun snuggling cosily in my arms but I had strict instructions to observe only. Such is the life of a soldier.