Judas Maccabaeus

As a child I used to lie at night in the fields and watch the Ravenscraig furnaces open and turn the night sky a fiery orange.  My grandmother told me it reminded her of the nights during the war when she saw the sky over Clydebank burn during the blitz.  I thought I'd never experience those kinds of skies again until the end of this season when the sky above Parkhead turned red from the mass beamers of the Celtic support as they pretended to celebrate winning a league without opposition.  Oh sure, I led the charge in support of Dundee Utd, wibbling on Radio Scotland every week about how magnificent they are but they ended up with bupkis which just goes to show, what do I know?  We also disingenuously hooted at the Armageddon predictions claiming that a resurgent Utd and Aberdeen was proof that the game in Scotland is thriving but Celtic still won at an embarrassing canter, not that anyone would have known since their fans, weary of life without Rangers to hate, gave up going to see them a whole season ago.

And so the latest season ended, practically boring everyone to death although Celtic fans comforted themselves by claiming they'd had a terrific Champions League run to enjoy and at Radio Scotland, we echoed this sentiment without bothering to remember the gubbings they took that would have shamed the local Community Centre second eleven.  Lawwell would have been proud of us had he not been in hiding - something I'll get back to later - as we refused to ask any difficult questions of the SFA or Celtic, instead concentrating on the continuing farce over at Ibrox where civil war had broken out.  I'd gone there one day towards the end of the season to find the Easdales sandbagging the reception at the bottom of the marble staircase and I asked them where I could find Graham Wallace.  "He's in the boot room, shining the shoes" said Sandy.  "Hodor" said James. 

I couldn't find Wallace so I left and was heading for the underground when I came across a group of Rangers fans.  "Are you the Vanguard Bears?" I asked.

"Fuck off!" came the reply.  "Fucking splitters, we're the Union Bears" said one.  I didn't want to hang around so I walked round past the Copland Road and there at the corner were another bunch of supporters.  "Are you the Sons of Struth?" I asked. 
"Fuck off pal, we're the Rangers Supporters Trust.  Fucking Sons of Struth indeed."
"So you're not the Rangers Supporters Assembly?" I probed.
"The Assembly are fucking splitting bastards," said their leader.  They were looking a bit lairy so I toddled on until I got to the tube station where I found yet another set of fans in red white and blue.  "So are you the Blue Order?" I asked the two in front of me.
"Get to fuck, Stinky.  We're the Vanguard Bears.  Fucking Blue Order...really?"  

 

No wonder their club is still being raped from the inside, I thought as I got the tube to Byres Road, they're too busy fighting each other to notice.  Not that I cared, in spite a lot of claims on the record of late that I supported them as a youth, I bloody hate Rangers these days and not a day goes by that I don't wonder how I could cause them some damage.  Of course such is the devastation they're causing themselves at the moment, I don't really have to try very hard.

 

I arrived at Ashton Lane and popped into the Chip and there at the bar were my two best friends, Tom Devine and Pat Nevin.  The barman was holding a broken bottle to his wrist and was crying but when he saw me he relaxed and asked if I'd take wee Pat away from the bar before he tells one of his two stories again.  Devine burped and laughed and picked up Pat and carried him over to a table where we sat and sipped some Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru - Pat and me by the glass, Devine by the bucket which was tied by a rope around his neck.  "This is very nice, very expensive, what's the big occasion?" I asked.

"Tom's retired," said Nevin as Devine took out a straw and started snorting the Burgundy up his nose.  "Ahhhh..." sighed Devine.  "Sometimes drinking it just isn't enough.  Now what's that ye're saying about retiring there young scud?  Retiring?  Me?  Don't be ridiculous, I've only stepped down from my official jobs - getting in the way of my attacking the reformed faith, don't ye know?"
"So you're still working diligently behind the scenes against Rangers?" I asked.
"Aye, just like you Spiers, my impartial journalist friend.  Just like you." 

 

I was beginning to relax back into my seat listening to the reassuring low level buzz of Pat's second story for the umpteenth time, interrupted by the occasional snort from Tom for someone to refill his bucket when I heard a commotion from the toilets.  This is my area of expertise, I thought and headed over there only to find the BBC Bhoys dooking Raman Bardwaj down the cludgy.  "Go on, admit it you orange bastard: you're an orange bastard, aren't you?" shouted one of the young turks from Pacific Quay.  "No!"  Sobbed Raman.  "I support Partick Thistle, honest!"

"Yes, now you do but before you got a job with STV you were a fucking hun, weren't you?" screamed another of the non-discriminating lads from BBC Scotland and he flushed the toilet once more as Raman shrieked and kicked.  "This is all a bit too 2009 for me," I said out loud and left.

That's the thing you see, about keeping a self mythologising, narcissistic diary full of wonderfully droll and intelligent observations, once the material dries up and nothing much interesting happens in the world of Scottish football, life becomes staid, tired and, well what's the point anymore?  I left the Chip without saying goodbye to Devine and Nevin and went back to my Hyndland flat where I packed my bags full of corduroy, Elton John CDs and my Martin O'Neill scrapbook and I tossed them all in the back of my car.  Then I left a few bowls of food on the floor to keep Elaine C Smith going for a while and I drove off towards the peace and tranquility of the Ayrshire countryside and began to do what I should have being doing all these years, I started to take an interest in a sport I actually know something about: golf.  I took a couple of balls and my old wood into the garden and hit a few tasty shots into the trees.  Life without the madness of Scottish football and all its baggage looked like it was going to be good and I sighed a contented sigh as I gazed into the sun dappled distance wondering where next I'd try a shot with a nine iron and for a moment I thought I saw the face of Graeme Souness watching me from the branches of a tree but then the leaves moved in the breeze and it was gone and I put it down to my imagination.  No, that life was all behind me now; I'm taking my medication every day and there's no Graeme Souness in the trees.  And there's no Peter Lawwell hiding in my attic either.