A group of young lads decided to walk to the football one Saturday afternoon. They didn't go out their way to choose a route that would take them into conflict with opposing fans. Such a route might well have brought the wrath of the law who see large groups of young lads supporting different teams as the equivalent of opposing armies even though football-related violence, especially at non Old Firm games, is not perceived as a problem in Scotland.
The young lads didn't arm themselves with knives or other offensive weapons, though some external commentators launched an immediate smear campaign against them by deliberately spreading such lies.
They didn't harass Saturday afternoon shoppers and prevent them from bargain hunting in the world famous Barras market.
They didn't force local shops to close their doors for fear of being ransacked.
They didn't launch any full-frontal assaults on the police present.
In effect, this wasn't the Rangers fans in Manchester.
This wasn't anti-capitalist demonstrators out to bring down the government or global banking system.
This was, and I think it needs repeating many times, a group of young lads with an average age of about fifteen. Sure, there were some older lads, but the vast majority of this group of football supporters were teenage school kids.
How much of a threat to public disorder were they?
This is not Tottenham or Croydon or any other English inner city cauldron.
Glasgow has no recent history of mass rioting in the streets.
This group of fans, no matter what some may say, think or lie, have no history of violence or rioting.
Malicious rumours of their involvement in the mysterious Dundee riot on Boxing Day have failed to materialise into hard evidence.
How can that be?
This group is the most filmed group of people in the country.
Officers from Alex Salmond's Untouchables (officially known as FoCus) follow them around almost twenty four hours a day.
CCTV and handheld camcorders film their every move both inside and outside football grounds around the country.
Yet, remarkably, and this is definitely worth repeating over and over, not only has no one produced a morsel of video footage of their involvement in the mysterious Dundee riot. No one has produced any video evidence of any riot.
But this hasn't stopped obsessed bloggers disregarding these facts and spouting lies about this group of young lads whose primary objective is to bring a bit of colourful noise to match days.
Critics, like those mentioned above, who won't rest until this group of young lads is disbanded, also hark back to the 'No bloodstained poppy on our hoops' banner.
Yet this banner was not illegal.
Many Celtic fans also thought the banner was in poor taste. That is their prerogative. But I repeat. That banner was not and never will be illegal.
In fact, their stance on this issue is running parallel with others with simialr feelings around the country. There is a growing argument about people feeling forced to wear the red poppy at Remembrance time for fear of being labelled as unpatriotic.
Others feel the red poppy has been hijacked to build support for British troops currently fighting illegal wars in foreign lands.
What other horrific acts have this group of young Celtic fans allegedly carried out?
There was an uproar when they designed a banner depicting a gunman shooting a zombie.
At this point I feel the need to clarify this for overseas readers who might be confused as to the social standing of zombies in Scotland. Many will be wondering what government policy is on vampires, werewolves and a host of other mythical creatures.
Please don't be put off visiting Scotland. Well, not for this reason anyway. There are no real zombies roaming the streets of Glasgow or wandering the mountains and glens of the Highlands.
The story began when a football club in Glasgow died, or, to give the process its rightful name, the football club was liquidated.
It was a sad day for many...but a joyous one for many more.
However, a Yorkshire man, whose heroes were Burke, Hare and Howard Carter, decided he could make some shekels if he could resurrect the dead club.
He purchased the tomb known as Ibrox Stadium and claimed all the honours won by the dead club as his own. Here's a Charles Green quote on the topic: 'They're my titles. I bought them.'
He then started a new team that, through jiggery-pokery and sheer effrontery, managed to get a place in the Scottish Football League at the expense of older and more deserving clubs such as Spartans. Then without as much as a blink he named this new team The Rangers and tried to pass it off as the dead Rangers.
Fans of the recently deceased club rejoiced as if the messiah himself had resurrected. For instead of a huge boulder pushed aside to clear the entrance to the tomb The Rangers pushed aside a mountain of unpaid debts and stepped into the sunlight promising a new era of milk and honey.
This, dear readers from further afield, is why they are now known universally as zombie Rangers.
Reasonable persons can surely see the humour in attaching such a tag to a club that's come back from the dead.
Unfortunately, there are many unreasonable persons now trying to claim calling new Rangers zombies...and you really will struggle to believe this...sectarian.
Such is the level of hatred and intolerance of some in this country they can only view the world and everything in it through their own parochial ignorance.
Attempts were made, remarkably, to prosecute those seen holding the banner depicting a zombie being shot. But, as all reasonable persons suspected, those charges were laughed out of court.
Seems the judge had a sense of humour.
Perhaps the biggest thing opponents hate about this group of young lads is the fact they like to sing about Irish history.
This the heart of the matter.
A sizeable chunk of the Scottish population hate the Irish and anything to do with Ireland, especially descendants of those Irish-Catholics who emigrated to Scotland to escape the Great Famine that occurred in Ireland in the nineteenth century while Britain controlled it, or to seek work in an industrial Britain crying out for labour.
Whereas most Scottish citizens are warm and welcoming to immigrants of all creed and colour, unfortunately many don't view Catholic immigrants as human-beings.
Believe me, I know how hyperbolic such a statement sounds, especially in what is regarded as one of the most civilised nations on earth.
But one only has to spend five minutes on Twitter or Rangers fan forums to discover the real dark underbelly of Scottish society.
Of course, it's not as bad as it used to be, you will hear many say. And they will use the fact Irish Catholics reached economic parity with the indigenous population some time ago, albeit about sixty years after similar immigrants who'd headed west to the United States of America reached parity.
But, to some, that doesn't tell the whole story.
For although great steps have been made in many professions there is still a perception of anti-Irish Catholicism in the armed forces and police.
And the fact that this young group of lads in question sing about an oppressed people fighting back against their oppressors seems to cause much anger.
Now I don't know about you, but where there's an oppressed and an oppressor I'm always going to take the side of the oppressed.
Apparently, in Scotland anyway, such thinking makes me and countless others sectarian.
You see, this group of young lads who wanted to walk together to the football on Saturday were doing so to highlight the oppression their group is currently suffering from.
Young lads are being taken from their homes, workplace and even the airport by a special task force of police officers aiming to get high numbers of arrests to justify their, and Alex Salmond's rushed Offensive Behaviour and Threatening Communications Act, existence.
How can highlighting state oppression be classed as sectarian I hear you ask?
Truth is, I haven't a clue how a reasonable person can arrive at that conclusion.
But according to Scottish Justice Minister Kenny MacAskill that is what Saturday's gathering of young lads was. A sectarian gathering.
Mind you, this is the same Kenny MacAskill who described a stadium full of Rangers fans singing about being up to their knees in Fenian blood as a great spectacle.
It's also the same Kenny MacAskill who was arrested for being drunk and disorderly while in London for an England v Scotland game.
Justice Minister? You're having a laugh.
Scottish independence? You're having a laugh.
Unfortunately, I'm beginning to lose my sense of humour over this lack of justice, and so are many others.
Glencoe
Honestly, the sun always shines on the Glencoe Car Park Run.
Tuesday, 19 March 2013
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
Blind Bigotry at Berwick
Everyone knows the recently rushed Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications Act is about as useful as wearing a poncho from Poundland while climbing Ridge Tower on Ben Nevis in the middle of a Scottish winter blizzard.
What no one seems to know, or claim not to know, are exactly which songs are illegal and why.
Common sense guides the vast majority of the population to the answer but common sense appears to be a much overrated measurement tool.
Further problems arise with the 'reasonable person' clause in the aforementioned Act.
I'm sure we all view ourselves as reasonable persons.
Both these terms, common sense and reasonable persons, are, by their very nature, purely subjective.
Therein lies part of the problem.
For such a small country we have a huge problem with common sense and reason. Both are in short supply when it comes to narrow-minded sectarian bigots who can't understand life in twenty-first century Scotland.
'But it's not as bad as it used to be,' many of you might say.
This, I also believe, is true.
The majority of the population have moved on from seeking ancient divisive barriers to community integration.
Some still shout about segregated schooling being the seed of all religious hatred in Scotland.
But there are Catholic schools in England and Wales and I don't hear anyone singing about being up to their knees in Fenian blood at any Premier League games, or Championship, and so on.
Catholic education, it appears, is only an issue among a steadfast clique in Bonnie Scotland.
Most of us accept and enjoy living in a multicultural society enriched by immigrants from around the world.
Living in a multicultural society has made everyone more aware of how certain language can be deemed offensive or even racist.
Words that were socially acceptable in the past, like Paki, Chinky, etc, are now scorned upon.
This is one of the reasons why many are now so offended on hearing particular songs that highlight religious differences.
Why should people of Irish descent be treated differently to those from Pakistan or China?
This may be why a non-Scottish TV station felt compelled to not only apologise for the disgusting songs their viewers were bombarded with on Saturday, but also to alert the English police.
Whatever the reasons, ESPN have now set a precedent that Scottish media organisations would do well to follow.
With ESPN opting out of Scottish football next year it will be interesting to see how BT deals with any situations similar to Berwick on Saturday.
Because next time something of this nature occurs Scottish media organisations will be seen to have an agenda if they don't follow ESPN's lead.
The bar has been raised in the fight to clean our game, and it's taken a foreign TV station to set that benchmark.
How embarrassing is that?
First it was Channel 4 who shone a light into some dark corners of our game.
Attempts were then made to discredit Channel 4, or more accurately their award winning chief correspondent, by labelling them Rangers-haters.
Some sections of society (see Vanguard Bears for details) are so deluded they recently attempted to claim the Royal Television Society was controlled by a Celtic-supporting Rangers-hater.
The level of intimidation aimed at Alex Thompson through social media channels has been of such a vitriolic nature at times one can't help admire ESPN for also deciding to take a stand.
Maybe they felt they had a duty to protect their brand and their customers.
Earlier in the season, when Rangers scored a last minute winner against ten-man Queens Park at Hampden, the majority of Rangers fans burst into a rousing chorus of The Billy Boys, complete with full up-to-knees in Fenian blood sentiment.
It was, according to some, a glorious performance by the Rangers choir. They sang proud, loud and clear.
There was no ambiguity or changing of lyrics.
Yet no TV company or media outlet felt the need to apologise to viewers or listeners, or report the lawbreaking to the police.
Couldn't the TV producers hear the chanting?
Did they wilfully not hear it?
Did they really hear it but thought best to ignore it?
Don't they care that viewers were being subjected to a group of people flouting one of the Scottish government's flagship Bills?
If I'm sitting at home watching BBC, or any other media outlet, and they purposefully choose to ignore particular groups vocally attacking religious or racial minorities, are they not complicit in promoting the crime?
What action can minorities take to to protect themselves and others from being verbally attacked in the mainstream media?
Should media organisations be taken to court if they do nothing about crimes taking place on their screens?
Does that sound too extreme?
So what should happen?
Police are reluctant to arrest thirty thousand singers.
Scottish football authorities are reluctant to do anything.
Rangers refuse to acknowledge the scale of the problem.
Scottish journalists are reluctant to tell the truth.
Only today Matthew Lindsay claimed that although he'd attended most of Rangers games this season Saturday was the first time he'd heard any singing of a sectarian nature.
This is the sort of head-in-the-sand journalism that's kept sections of Scotland in the dark ages for far too long.
Another in denial is his colleague Richard Wilson.
But how can we expect neutrality and objectivity from someone touted by David Leggat as having the right credentials and contacts in the Blue Room of Ibrox?
I first witnessed Richard's myopia at an event last year in the Mitchell Library. As part of Glasgow's Aye Write Festival Richard was invited, along with others, to discuss Football and Sectarianism.
That event took place on 11th March 2012. A month after Rangers entered administration and played Kilmarnock at Ibrox in front of a fifty thousand crowd the following Saturday.
It is widely accepted that many songs of defiance were sung that day.
It is also widely accepted that it sounded like the majority of those in attendance joined in most of the singing.
However, in front of a packed crowd, Richard Wilson staunchly wheeled out the old 'it was a small minority' flawed argument that he still uses today.
The audience were, understandably, a bit aghast, yet not unduly surprised, at this level of denial coming from someone on the main platform of the event.
Alan Bissett - Rangers fan and author of a warts and all book about a Rangers fan's trip to Manchester in 2008 - couldn't contain his incredulity at his fellow fan's denial.
Yet Richard remained, and still remains, adamant that it is a small minority.
Perhaps the most heartening aspect of Saturday's embarrassment is the stance taken by a few of the unofficial Rangers bloggers.
They have been vociferous in their damnation of those involved in dragging the club's name back into the muck as it tries to claw its way out the mire of the last year.
But the voices of defiance among Saturday's choir have no loyalty to this new breed of intelligentsia aiming to pull Rangers into the twenty first century.
One fan wrote, 'How can any Rangers fan be offended by No Pope of Rome?'
Another wrote, 'If we send all the Taigs home there wouldn't be any sectarianism.'
These are not isolated comments. Spend two minutes on Rangers Media Forum or Twitter and you'll find enough examples to confirm attitudes like these are not a 'tiny minority'.
Therein lies one of the problems.
Many still see Rangers as an extension of their outdated religious and cultural beliefs as opposed to a modern day football club.
Charles Green has milked those beliefs since his arrival in order to fill the stadium each week and sell shares in the new company.
If ever Rangers had a chance to jettison the 'tiny minority' who bring shame and embarrassment to the club it was last summer.
But, as many past Rangers directors have known over the years, there is brass in that there muck.
With the current owners of the club being reluctant to upset loyal income streams what can modern, socially-aware Rangers fans do to protect the future image of their club.
And remember, it is their club, not Charles Green's or anyone else.
As they've found out to their cost over the last couple of years owners come and owners go.
So how serious are the Rangers bloggers about cleaning up their support?
They claim these singers of offensive songs are damaging the club they love, so what are they going to do about it?
They might claim they can't do anything. They might claim to have no voice in the club's operations or strategic decision making.
Yet it was fan power that led to the club's boycott of a game against Dundee United.
Surely those fine, enlightened chaps at The Rangers Standard and beyond could/should be campaigning the board to take unprecedented action and, if you'll pardon the hyperbolic language, wage war on those who, through their so-called love of the club and perceived culture surrounding it, do more to hurt Rangers than all the so-called Rangers-hating bloggers combined.
For a club who, even after everything that's come out in the last year, still see themselves as pillars of dignity, let's see a proactive example of this dignity in action.
Here is an opportunity to prove your words aren't empty.
We all know paltry fines don't work so cut to the chase and propose points deductions.
How would those who embarrass Rangers feel if a league championship was lost to Celtic, or anyone else, because the club had been deducted vital points for singing about sending Catholics home to Ireland, popes of Rome, Fenian blood, etc?
So, Chris Graham and co, with various platforms and a growing influence in this age of social media, how serious are you about helping the club you love so much shed its unwanted baggage?
Will you write a few blogs criticising the idiots but then leave it at that?
That's what everyone outside Rangers believes you'll do.
We've all heard many words over the years, but actions speak louder than words, and actions on this topic are something no one has seen.
As long as the club is associated with religious bigots any hopes of international growth into new markets won't get off the ground.
Of course, with ESPN ending their coverage of Scottish football, and the Scottish media's reluctance to recognise the scale of the problem, the status quo will remain for the foreseeable future if no one within the club decides enough is enough.
Failing that we'll probably have to live in hope another foreign TV channel shows an interest in Scottish football one day.
Perhaps signing a load of players from the Middle East might get us a sponsorship deal with Al Jazeera. I wonder what they and their audience old make of it all.
As a footnote, albeit a rather lengthy one, I'd like to point out that I'm no hand wringer or panty wetter. I don't get offended by any songs, no matter how vile.
Having grown up in such an environment I'm immune to the hatred.
I'm also an advocate of free speech and freedom of expression.
If there are people in this country who want to celebrate their culture by singing songs, then let them sing until their hearts are content...in a suitable environment.
Football grounds, however, are not suitable environments for expressing certain aspects of certain cultures, especially when every game is broadcast to homes around the world.
I can assure you, no one outside the 'tiny minority' of half wits wants to hear that bile coming from their TV screens while watching a sporting fixture of any kind.
It might've been accepted as the norm a long time ago, but not today, and definitely not tomorrow.
Any reasonable person with a bit of common sense can see that, so why can't the Peepil
or the Scottish media?
What no one seems to know, or claim not to know, are exactly which songs are illegal and why.
Common sense guides the vast majority of the population to the answer but common sense appears to be a much overrated measurement tool.
Further problems arise with the 'reasonable person' clause in the aforementioned Act.
I'm sure we all view ourselves as reasonable persons.
Both these terms, common sense and reasonable persons, are, by their very nature, purely subjective.
Therein lies part of the problem.
For such a small country we have a huge problem with common sense and reason. Both are in short supply when it comes to narrow-minded sectarian bigots who can't understand life in twenty-first century Scotland.
'But it's not as bad as it used to be,' many of you might say.
This, I also believe, is true.
The majority of the population have moved on from seeking ancient divisive barriers to community integration.
Some still shout about segregated schooling being the seed of all religious hatred in Scotland.
But there are Catholic schools in England and Wales and I don't hear anyone singing about being up to their knees in Fenian blood at any Premier League games, or Championship, and so on.
Catholic education, it appears, is only an issue among a steadfast clique in Bonnie Scotland.
Most of us accept and enjoy living in a multicultural society enriched by immigrants from around the world.
Living in a multicultural society has made everyone more aware of how certain language can be deemed offensive or even racist.
Words that were socially acceptable in the past, like Paki, Chinky, etc, are now scorned upon.
This is one of the reasons why many are now so offended on hearing particular songs that highlight religious differences.
Why should people of Irish descent be treated differently to those from Pakistan or China?
This may be why a non-Scottish TV station felt compelled to not only apologise for the disgusting songs their viewers were bombarded with on Saturday, but also to alert the English police.
Whatever the reasons, ESPN have now set a precedent that Scottish media organisations would do well to follow.
With ESPN opting out of Scottish football next year it will be interesting to see how BT deals with any situations similar to Berwick on Saturday.
Because next time something of this nature occurs Scottish media organisations will be seen to have an agenda if they don't follow ESPN's lead.
The bar has been raised in the fight to clean our game, and it's taken a foreign TV station to set that benchmark.
How embarrassing is that?
First it was Channel 4 who shone a light into some dark corners of our game.
Attempts were then made to discredit Channel 4, or more accurately their award winning chief correspondent, by labelling them Rangers-haters.
Some sections of society (see Vanguard Bears for details) are so deluded they recently attempted to claim the Royal Television Society was controlled by a Celtic-supporting Rangers-hater.
The level of intimidation aimed at Alex Thompson through social media channels has been of such a vitriolic nature at times one can't help admire ESPN for also deciding to take a stand.
Maybe they felt they had a duty to protect their brand and their customers.
Earlier in the season, when Rangers scored a last minute winner against ten-man Queens Park at Hampden, the majority of Rangers fans burst into a rousing chorus of The Billy Boys, complete with full up-to-knees in Fenian blood sentiment.
It was, according to some, a glorious performance by the Rangers choir. They sang proud, loud and clear.
There was no ambiguity or changing of lyrics.
Yet no TV company or media outlet felt the need to apologise to viewers or listeners, or report the lawbreaking to the police.
Couldn't the TV producers hear the chanting?
Did they wilfully not hear it?
Did they really hear it but thought best to ignore it?
Don't they care that viewers were being subjected to a group of people flouting one of the Scottish government's flagship Bills?
If I'm sitting at home watching BBC, or any other media outlet, and they purposefully choose to ignore particular groups vocally attacking religious or racial minorities, are they not complicit in promoting the crime?
What action can minorities take to to protect themselves and others from being verbally attacked in the mainstream media?
Should media organisations be taken to court if they do nothing about crimes taking place on their screens?
Does that sound too extreme?
So what should happen?
Police are reluctant to arrest thirty thousand singers.
Scottish football authorities are reluctant to do anything.
Rangers refuse to acknowledge the scale of the problem.
Scottish journalists are reluctant to tell the truth.
Only today Matthew Lindsay claimed that although he'd attended most of Rangers games this season Saturday was the first time he'd heard any singing of a sectarian nature.
This is the sort of head-in-the-sand journalism that's kept sections of Scotland in the dark ages for far too long.
Another in denial is his colleague Richard Wilson.
But how can we expect neutrality and objectivity from someone touted by David Leggat as having the right credentials and contacts in the Blue Room of Ibrox?
I first witnessed Richard's myopia at an event last year in the Mitchell Library. As part of Glasgow's Aye Write Festival Richard was invited, along with others, to discuss Football and Sectarianism.
That event took place on 11th March 2012. A month after Rangers entered administration and played Kilmarnock at Ibrox in front of a fifty thousand crowd the following Saturday.
It is widely accepted that many songs of defiance were sung that day.
It is also widely accepted that it sounded like the majority of those in attendance joined in most of the singing.
However, in front of a packed crowd, Richard Wilson staunchly wheeled out the old 'it was a small minority' flawed argument that he still uses today.
The audience were, understandably, a bit aghast, yet not unduly surprised, at this level of denial coming from someone on the main platform of the event.
Alan Bissett - Rangers fan and author of a warts and all book about a Rangers fan's trip to Manchester in 2008 - couldn't contain his incredulity at his fellow fan's denial.
Yet Richard remained, and still remains, adamant that it is a small minority.
Perhaps the most heartening aspect of Saturday's embarrassment is the stance taken by a few of the unofficial Rangers bloggers.
They have been vociferous in their damnation of those involved in dragging the club's name back into the muck as it tries to claw its way out the mire of the last year.
But the voices of defiance among Saturday's choir have no loyalty to this new breed of intelligentsia aiming to pull Rangers into the twenty first century.
One fan wrote, 'How can any Rangers fan be offended by No Pope of Rome?'
Another wrote, 'If we send all the Taigs home there wouldn't be any sectarianism.'
These are not isolated comments. Spend two minutes on Rangers Media Forum or Twitter and you'll find enough examples to confirm attitudes like these are not a 'tiny minority'.
Therein lies one of the problems.
Many still see Rangers as an extension of their outdated religious and cultural beliefs as opposed to a modern day football club.
Charles Green has milked those beliefs since his arrival in order to fill the stadium each week and sell shares in the new company.
If ever Rangers had a chance to jettison the 'tiny minority' who bring shame and embarrassment to the club it was last summer.
But, as many past Rangers directors have known over the years, there is brass in that there muck.
With the current owners of the club being reluctant to upset loyal income streams what can modern, socially-aware Rangers fans do to protect the future image of their club.
And remember, it is their club, not Charles Green's or anyone else.
As they've found out to their cost over the last couple of years owners come and owners go.
So how serious are the Rangers bloggers about cleaning up their support?
They claim these singers of offensive songs are damaging the club they love, so what are they going to do about it?
They might claim they can't do anything. They might claim to have no voice in the club's operations or strategic decision making.
Yet it was fan power that led to the club's boycott of a game against Dundee United.
Surely those fine, enlightened chaps at The Rangers Standard and beyond could/should be campaigning the board to take unprecedented action and, if you'll pardon the hyperbolic language, wage war on those who, through their so-called love of the club and perceived culture surrounding it, do more to hurt Rangers than all the so-called Rangers-hating bloggers combined.
For a club who, even after everything that's come out in the last year, still see themselves as pillars of dignity, let's see a proactive example of this dignity in action.
Here is an opportunity to prove your words aren't empty.
We all know paltry fines don't work so cut to the chase and propose points deductions.
How would those who embarrass Rangers feel if a league championship was lost to Celtic, or anyone else, because the club had been deducted vital points for singing about sending Catholics home to Ireland, popes of Rome, Fenian blood, etc?
So, Chris Graham and co, with various platforms and a growing influence in this age of social media, how serious are you about helping the club you love so much shed its unwanted baggage?
Will you write a few blogs criticising the idiots but then leave it at that?
That's what everyone outside Rangers believes you'll do.
We've all heard many words over the years, but actions speak louder than words, and actions on this topic are something no one has seen.
As long as the club is associated with religious bigots any hopes of international growth into new markets won't get off the ground.
Of course, with ESPN ending their coverage of Scottish football, and the Scottish media's reluctance to recognise the scale of the problem, the status quo will remain for the foreseeable future if no one within the club decides enough is enough.
Failing that we'll probably have to live in hope another foreign TV channel shows an interest in Scottish football one day.
Perhaps signing a load of players from the Middle East might get us a sponsorship deal with Al Jazeera. I wonder what they and their audience old make of it all.
As a footnote, albeit a rather lengthy one, I'd like to point out that I'm no hand wringer or panty wetter. I don't get offended by any songs, no matter how vile.
Having grown up in such an environment I'm immune to the hatred.
I'm also an advocate of free speech and freedom of expression.
If there are people in this country who want to celebrate their culture by singing songs, then let them sing until their hearts are content...in a suitable environment.
Football grounds, however, are not suitable environments for expressing certain aspects of certain cultures, especially when every game is broadcast to homes around the world.
I can assure you, no one outside the 'tiny minority' of half wits wants to hear that bile coming from their TV screens while watching a sporting fixture of any kind.
It might've been accepted as the norm a long time ago, but not today, and definitely not tomorrow.
Any reasonable person with a bit of common sense can see that, so why can't the Peepil
or the Scottish media?
Tuesday, 19 February 2013
George McCluskey: A Celtic Love Story
When one thinks of the power of love George McCluskey isn't the first name which springs to mind. Many won't even know his name never mind the influence he had on helping a shy Scottish lad free the shackles of teen torment and take a step towards maturity.
Expressing one's inner feelings is never easy, especially for young working-class Scottish lads.
Too often they follow the pack and carry the fear of losing face in front of their peers.
I remember hearing Kenny Rogers singing Coward of the County when it first came out and thinking it was a catchy tune with a good wee story.
I shared that information with my closest friends.
They called me a poof.
Lesson learned. I kept my eclectic musical tastes to myself from then.
That only changed once I fell in love. Head over heels love. Not the puppy love infatuations of school or summer romances. Those brief flirtations passed with remarkable regularity after I changed schools from an all-boys Catholic school to a mixed-sex non-denominational.
This love was the real thing.
We'd been going out for a while and spent every moment together, apart from when I went to watch the Celtic.
As the months passed I knew she was the one for me.
I loved her...but couldn't utter those special three words.
In the movies it all looked so easy, and as Dr Hook became the soundtrack to our blossoming romance I wished I could make it More Like The Movies for her.
Even in teen movies the lead characters oozed confidence, charm and sexy sophistication and said the words I love you with such consummate ease I thought there must be something wrong with me.
I tried practicing in front of the mirror but it just didn't feel or sound right.
If I said it like this:
'Ah luv ye.'
then any hint of romance was lost in the translation and it sounded more like a threat.
When I tried saying it like this:
'I love you.'
I felt like a poof.
I wrestled with this dilemma for what seemed an eternity.
And then George McCluskey came to the rescue.
Until that moment George had been a bit part player in my life.
To some he is best remembered for scoring the winner against Rangers in the 1980 Scottish Cup Final. It wasn't the most spectacular goal of his career but has a claim to be one of the most important.
And it all stemmed from a fluffed Danny McGrain shot at goal.
George stuck a leg out and deflected the ball past the despairing Girvan Lighthouse Peter McCloy as he got caught wrong-footed.
Cup winning goal aside my favourite memories of George on the park came against Partick Thistle at Firhill in November 1981.
Frank McGarvey was having a stinker that day and couldn't hit the proverbial barn door.
At one point George, having noticed his striking partner was below par, laid on an open goal for Frank, but poor Frank missed that too.
However, not only did George carry Frank that day, he also belted in a screamer from thirty yards past the helpless Alan Rough.
A little side note to that day in November 1981.
Over at Hampden Dundee United were playing Rangers in the League Cup Final.
There were no smartphones or Internet back then, but a few fans carried little transistor radios. The kind you had to hold a certain way to pick up a decent signal, and even then nothing was guaranteed as the optimal position changed throughout the day. You could have a perfect signal one minute and nothing at all the next.
Loud cheers went up around Firhill, meaning only one thing: Rangers were getting beat.
Word filtered through that Ralph Milne had put United one up.
Even the Partick Thistle supporters joined in the 'Let's all laugh at Rangers' chants.
Louder cheers went up shortly after and news spread of Paul Sturrock putting United two up with a thunderous free kick.
With Celtic beating Partick Thistle and Rangers losing a cup final it seemed a fine day.
Imagine my surprise when the pink Evening Times printed a scoreline of Dundee United 1-2 Rangers.
A misprint surely?
United were two up.
Turned out Sturrock's goal had been chopped off for someone apparently being in an offside position.
An honest mistake perhaps.
Or, as even the younger fans of all clubs have since discovered, Rangers might have been a poor team during that era but they still had friends in the right places.
Some things never change.
Mind you, not much attention was paid to Rangers by anyone else back then other than singing Let's All Laugh At Rangers on a regular basis.
It's fair to say they were among the poorest ever Rangers sides, even though they were managed by one of club's greatest ever players.
Sound familiar?
To make matters better the early eighties was a golden era for Celtic strikers.
With McGarvey, McCluskey and the prolific Charlie Nicholas we were spoiled for choice.
Some fans only know Nicholas from his stumbling punditry on TV. But the Charlie of the1982-83 season scored 50 goals in all competitions and would walk into the current side.
Of course, it was rare to see the three on the park at the same time. One of them had to warm the bench more than the others.
The unlucky one most of the time was George, but he never let it influence his performances on the park.
And it was during one such substitute appearance George McCluskey gave supporters a night they'll never forget, even though most of us never saw what happened due to a TV blackout.
But before that fateful night there was the small matter of a European Cup first leg to be played.
In September 1982 Johan Cruyff brought his Ajax side to Celtic Park.
At 35 years old he was supposed to be well past his magnificent best.
But he strolled through the game, pinging the ball around with a masterful array of passes and setting up a goal with a deft touch worthy of the best.
He only put one foot wrong all night when he tripped Tommy Burns inside the box.
No one who saw the trip could blame Cruyff. Tommy was just too quick and too clever for him.
The final score of 2-2 meant Celtic's hopes of progressing to the next round were greatly diminished, but the appreciative Celtic Park crowd gave Cruyff a standing ovation nonetheless.
In the cold light of day no one gave Celtic a chance to go to Amsterdam and get a positive result.
As with every evening I wasn't watching Celtic I spent the night of the return leg in the arms of my girlfriend and soulmate, Macy.
Of course, my mind was elsewhere, but there was no live TV footage of the game.
There was also no internet to seek out a live stream.
There was only radio.
Mine was a tiny battery-operated radio that required constant fidgeting and manoeuvring to pick up anything resembling a listenable signal.
As Macy and I lay on the bed kissing and cuddling she was a bit miffed at my reluctance to stick on the usual Dr Hook tape to which our growing passionate embraces had become so familiar.
Gone were the romantic lyrics of When You're in Love With a Beautiful Woman, Sexy Eyes and If Not You.
Replaced by a background of white noise and muffled sounds of -
Crackle....Here comes McGrain on the overlap....crackle...
Nicholas...crackle....beats one...crackle...beats two...
Another great tackle by...crackle...Sinclair...
Crackle...crackle....George McCluskey...crackle...substitute...crackle...Davie Provan...
Meanwhile on my bed things were stirring in the exploration studies.
The combination of her perfume and my fluking her bra off with one hand had taken the relationship to a whole new level.
Never mind first or second base I was heading through to the next round.
With her bra removed and pert young breasts pressing against my bare chest something special was definitely happening. I could feel my love growing, literally.
Then it happened.
All I heard was:
Crackle...crackle...crackle...McGrain....crackle...Nicholas...McGarvey...crackle...McCluskey....GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!
Those lucky enough to be at the game saw Danny McGrain pick the ball up thirty yards out and hammer a woeful effort towards goal. It was a tad similar to his strike in the 1980 Scottish Cup Final when George McLuskey stuck out a leg and diverted the ball past the hapless Peter McCloy.
This time, however, the outside of the Ajax box was so crowded the ball struck Charlie Nicholas who laid the ball off to Frank McGarvey who in turn played a cute pass to substitute George McLuskey.
George slotted the ball low past the Ajax keeper and into the net.
As my radio went crackle crazy I leapt from the bed semi-naked and jumped around the room like a mad man, screaming, 'Ah love ye! Ah love ye! Ah love ye!'
My mum shouted upstairs to keep the noise down.
Macy looked a bit embarrassed and bemused, not knowing whether I was talking about her or George McCluskey or if I'd just lost the plot altogether.
As she pulled the quilt up to cover her modesty I approached her and said tenderly in as crisp and clear English as I could possibly muster, 'I love you too, darling' and immediately felt like a poof.
Her eyes lit up, and so did mine when she returned the sentiment, pulled back the quilt and invited me back in.
The final whistle followed shortly after and the impossible had been accomplished.
Celtic had beaten Johan Cruyff's Ajax in Amsterdam and qualified for the second round of the European Cup.
It's a night I'll never forget.
It's the night I came of age...even if I didn't lose my virginity for another month.
So next time you hear people talking about the power of love, remember it's okay to love another man, especially if he plays for Celtic and scores a vital winner.
I've since learned girlfriends, wives and friends may come and go over the years, but one love is constant and will always be there through thick and thin, sickness and health, richer or poorer.
The love of Celtic Football Club is an undying love, and games like those above remind us why that is so.
Here's a link to that special game. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/tSEnHKmmLB8
Expressing one's inner feelings is never easy, especially for young working-class Scottish lads.
Too often they follow the pack and carry the fear of losing face in front of their peers.
I remember hearing Kenny Rogers singing Coward of the County when it first came out and thinking it was a catchy tune with a good wee story.
I shared that information with my closest friends.
They called me a poof.
Lesson learned. I kept my eclectic musical tastes to myself from then.
That only changed once I fell in love. Head over heels love. Not the puppy love infatuations of school or summer romances. Those brief flirtations passed with remarkable regularity after I changed schools from an all-boys Catholic school to a mixed-sex non-denominational.
This love was the real thing.
We'd been going out for a while and spent every moment together, apart from when I went to watch the Celtic.
As the months passed I knew she was the one for me.
I loved her...but couldn't utter those special three words.
In the movies it all looked so easy, and as Dr Hook became the soundtrack to our blossoming romance I wished I could make it More Like The Movies for her.
Even in teen movies the lead characters oozed confidence, charm and sexy sophistication and said the words I love you with such consummate ease I thought there must be something wrong with me.
I tried practicing in front of the mirror but it just didn't feel or sound right.
If I said it like this:
'Ah luv ye.'
then any hint of romance was lost in the translation and it sounded more like a threat.
When I tried saying it like this:
'I love you.'
I felt like a poof.
I wrestled with this dilemma for what seemed an eternity.
And then George McCluskey came to the rescue.
Until that moment George had been a bit part player in my life.
To some he is best remembered for scoring the winner against Rangers in the 1980 Scottish Cup Final. It wasn't the most spectacular goal of his career but has a claim to be one of the most important.
And it all stemmed from a fluffed Danny McGrain shot at goal.
George stuck a leg out and deflected the ball past the despairing Girvan Lighthouse Peter McCloy as he got caught wrong-footed.
Cup winning goal aside my favourite memories of George on the park came against Partick Thistle at Firhill in November 1981.
Frank McGarvey was having a stinker that day and couldn't hit the proverbial barn door.
At one point George, having noticed his striking partner was below par, laid on an open goal for Frank, but poor Frank missed that too.
However, not only did George carry Frank that day, he also belted in a screamer from thirty yards past the helpless Alan Rough.
A little side note to that day in November 1981.
Over at Hampden Dundee United were playing Rangers in the League Cup Final.
There were no smartphones or Internet back then, but a few fans carried little transistor radios. The kind you had to hold a certain way to pick up a decent signal, and even then nothing was guaranteed as the optimal position changed throughout the day. You could have a perfect signal one minute and nothing at all the next.
Loud cheers went up around Firhill, meaning only one thing: Rangers were getting beat.
Word filtered through that Ralph Milne had put United one up.
Even the Partick Thistle supporters joined in the 'Let's all laugh at Rangers' chants.
Louder cheers went up shortly after and news spread of Paul Sturrock putting United two up with a thunderous free kick.
With Celtic beating Partick Thistle and Rangers losing a cup final it seemed a fine day.
Imagine my surprise when the pink Evening Times printed a scoreline of Dundee United 1-2 Rangers.
A misprint surely?
United were two up.
Turned out Sturrock's goal had been chopped off for someone apparently being in an offside position.
An honest mistake perhaps.
Or, as even the younger fans of all clubs have since discovered, Rangers might have been a poor team during that era but they still had friends in the right places.
Some things never change.
Mind you, not much attention was paid to Rangers by anyone else back then other than singing Let's All Laugh At Rangers on a regular basis.
It's fair to say they were among the poorest ever Rangers sides, even though they were managed by one of club's greatest ever players.
Sound familiar?
To make matters better the early eighties was a golden era for Celtic strikers.
With McGarvey, McCluskey and the prolific Charlie Nicholas we were spoiled for choice.
Some fans only know Nicholas from his stumbling punditry on TV. But the Charlie of the1982-83 season scored 50 goals in all competitions and would walk into the current side.
Of course, it was rare to see the three on the park at the same time. One of them had to warm the bench more than the others.
The unlucky one most of the time was George, but he never let it influence his performances on the park.
And it was during one such substitute appearance George McCluskey gave supporters a night they'll never forget, even though most of us never saw what happened due to a TV blackout.
But before that fateful night there was the small matter of a European Cup first leg to be played.
In September 1982 Johan Cruyff brought his Ajax side to Celtic Park.
At 35 years old he was supposed to be well past his magnificent best.
But he strolled through the game, pinging the ball around with a masterful array of passes and setting up a goal with a deft touch worthy of the best.
He only put one foot wrong all night when he tripped Tommy Burns inside the box.
No one who saw the trip could blame Cruyff. Tommy was just too quick and too clever for him.
The final score of 2-2 meant Celtic's hopes of progressing to the next round were greatly diminished, but the appreciative Celtic Park crowd gave Cruyff a standing ovation nonetheless.
In the cold light of day no one gave Celtic a chance to go to Amsterdam and get a positive result.
As with every evening I wasn't watching Celtic I spent the night of the return leg in the arms of my girlfriend and soulmate, Macy.
Of course, my mind was elsewhere, but there was no live TV footage of the game.
There was also no internet to seek out a live stream.
There was only radio.
Mine was a tiny battery-operated radio that required constant fidgeting and manoeuvring to pick up anything resembling a listenable signal.
As Macy and I lay on the bed kissing and cuddling she was a bit miffed at my reluctance to stick on the usual Dr Hook tape to which our growing passionate embraces had become so familiar.
Gone were the romantic lyrics of When You're in Love With a Beautiful Woman, Sexy Eyes and If Not You.
Replaced by a background of white noise and muffled sounds of -
Crackle....Here comes McGrain on the overlap....crackle...
Nicholas...crackle....beats one...crackle...beats two...
Another great tackle by...crackle...Sinclair...
Crackle...crackle....George McCluskey...crackle...substitute...crackle...Davie Provan...
Meanwhile on my bed things were stirring in the exploration studies.
The combination of her perfume and my fluking her bra off with one hand had taken the relationship to a whole new level.
Never mind first or second base I was heading through to the next round.
With her bra removed and pert young breasts pressing against my bare chest something special was definitely happening. I could feel my love growing, literally.
Then it happened.
All I heard was:
Crackle...crackle...crackle...McGrain....crackle...Nicholas...McGarvey...crackle...McCluskey....GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!
Those lucky enough to be at the game saw Danny McGrain pick the ball up thirty yards out and hammer a woeful effort towards goal. It was a tad similar to his strike in the 1980 Scottish Cup Final when George McLuskey stuck out a leg and diverted the ball past the hapless Peter McCloy.
This time, however, the outside of the Ajax box was so crowded the ball struck Charlie Nicholas who laid the ball off to Frank McGarvey who in turn played a cute pass to substitute George McLuskey.
George slotted the ball low past the Ajax keeper and into the net.
As my radio went crackle crazy I leapt from the bed semi-naked and jumped around the room like a mad man, screaming, 'Ah love ye! Ah love ye! Ah love ye!'
My mum shouted upstairs to keep the noise down.
Macy looked a bit embarrassed and bemused, not knowing whether I was talking about her or George McCluskey or if I'd just lost the plot altogether.
As she pulled the quilt up to cover her modesty I approached her and said tenderly in as crisp and clear English as I could possibly muster, 'I love you too, darling' and immediately felt like a poof.
Her eyes lit up, and so did mine when she returned the sentiment, pulled back the quilt and invited me back in.
The final whistle followed shortly after and the impossible had been accomplished.
Celtic had beaten Johan Cruyff's Ajax in Amsterdam and qualified for the second round of the European Cup.
It's a night I'll never forget.
It's the night I came of age...even if I didn't lose my virginity for another month.
So next time you hear people talking about the power of love, remember it's okay to love another man, especially if he plays for Celtic and scores a vital winner.
I've since learned girlfriends, wives and friends may come and go over the years, but one love is constant and will always be there through thick and thin, sickness and health, richer or poorer.
The love of Celtic Football Club is an undying love, and games like those above remind us why that is so.
Here's a link to that special game. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/tSEnHKmmLB8
Saturday, 26 January 2013
Not For Those Easily Offended
Whatever happened to that famous Scottish sense of humour? That ability to laugh at oneself or others no matter the situation.
Here's a few recent examples that have caused much concern to many.
Andy Goram being verbally abused in a Peterhead bookies.
Of course, there's nothing particularly funny about anyone being abused physically or verbally. And considering the sectarian nature of this latest incident I can understand the moral outrage shown by many.
Some Celtic supporters said it was disgusting and definitely not funny.
At least one Rangers supporter claimed it was worse than the alleged death threats directed towards Raith Rovers director Eric Drysdale and the arson threats about Starks Park.
Really?
I beg to differ.
Let me be clear. I'm not in support of anyone harassing others in any way. I don't find that funny in the slightest.
But the episode involving Andy Goram wouldn't look out of place in one of those America or Britain's Dumbest Criminals TV shows.
On the rare occasions I have seen such shows I couldn't help but laugh.
Watching these shows the humour isn't the acts themselves. One does not usually find armed robbery or drink driving particularly humourous.
The humour lies in the ineptitude of the protagonists.
Who doesn't find it rather funny when a burglar is captured on CCTV locking themself into the building they're supposed to be robbing?
This is how I viewed the Andy Goram incident.
The humour lay in the idiocy of the perpetrator who, in addition to committing his act of lunacy in full view of the bookies CCTV, decided it would also be a great idea to get himself into the video which was then shared via YouTube, thus increasing his chances of being apprehended in a timely fashion.
And judging by the media reports of his arrest it was a strategy that paid off.
So, no one was hurt in the making of that short film and the guilty party got his comeuppance.
What's not to laugh about that?
Fast forward to Swansea where a professional footballer paid many thousands of pounds every week kicks a ball boy in the guts.
How can that be funny I hear the morally-outraged scream?
An adult assaulting a child in full view of the world? What does that say about us as a nation if we find such behaviour even the slightest bit funny?
Yawn.
Get over yourselves is what I say.
The seventeen year old ball boy knew exactly what he was doing and had boasted about making a comeback for one final game as he was the time-wasting king.
Watching him trying to keep the ball off Hazard was both surreal and comical.
Of course, to some, his behaviour was nothing short of scandalous.
To others, wasting time is part and parcel of the game, although most admit he did take it more than a tad too far.
But as we watched the lad rolling around the ground and holding on to the ball as if it was his and bullies were trying to steal it what happened next took us all by surprise.
Hazard toe poked him while trying to kick the ball and the lad then rolled around like Jurgen Klinsman in his heyday.
And what was the first thing the lad done when he sat up?
Did he wipe away bucketfuls of tears and cry for his mammy?
No. He shouted and signalled to the ref as if he was actually one of the players.
Of course, the referee had no option other than to send Hazard off for violent conduct. It looked much worse than it actually was.
But the more I see it the funnier it gets.
Is it just me that sees it like that?
No, definitely not.
I discussed it last night with various friends, all at various stages of drunkenness, and discovered we all saw the funny side of what is obviously an embarrassing incident for those involved.
Mind you, we also find this footage of Pepe going nuts quite hilarious, so maybe we are not representative of the majority.
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jKt4IBxD5oo
This week's third example of lost humour is perhaps the saddest of all.
Apparently, Dundee United fans are planning to wear Craig Whyte masks at the upcoming Scottish Cup game against Rangers.
This outrageous behaviour, according to Rangers fans, and I quote, 'shows their (Utd fans) hatred for Rangers is stronger than their love for the club they claim to support.'
Eh?
When it was pointed out that wearing Craig Whyte masks wasn't a sign of hatred but merely a form of banter the reply was 'it wasn't banter it was designed to belittle, provoke and antagonise.'
Wow!
Who it is designed to belittle, provoke and antagonise is beyond me. For there will be no, or very few, Rangers fans at that upcoming game due to a decision by fan groups and the club to boycott the game.
Now if this was an isolated incident it could perhaps be laughed off. But over the last year we have seen Rangers fans harass many, including The Guardian, to remove a cartoon depicting a demolished Ibrox (apart from the front of the Main Stand which is a listed building) and a queue of people lined up as if signing on the dole. The caption read, 'Rangers Isn't Working' in tribute to a famous Saatchi and Saatchi advertising campaign that helped get Thatcher into power in 1979.
As well as being extremely well drawn the message was clever and funny. Yes, funny. I said it. May God smite me for having a sense of humour.
However, the masses down Edmiston Drive circled their wagons before launching a concerted attack on the newspaper to have it removed, claiming making fun of the fact people may lose their jobs wasn't funny.
I despair for these people and others like them who appear to go through each day looking for something to complain about while seeking the mythical moral high ground.
Life could prove to be unbearable for them once something really serious happens.
Me? I'm glad to be able to laugh at almost anything, including myself. Especially myself.
Looking for the humour in the darkest of places helps me through each day.
As for those who get offended by everything and anything in these days of over the top political correctness.
Well, I'm glad neither me, my friends or family are like you.
You would do well to let your hair down,
Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go share a few laughs with my brother before the cemetery shuts for the night. He might be dead but he still as a better sense of humour than those whose favourite pastime appears to be being outraged.
Here's a few recent examples that have caused much concern to many.
Andy Goram being verbally abused in a Peterhead bookies.
Of course, there's nothing particularly funny about anyone being abused physically or verbally. And considering the sectarian nature of this latest incident I can understand the moral outrage shown by many.
Some Celtic supporters said it was disgusting and definitely not funny.
At least one Rangers supporter claimed it was worse than the alleged death threats directed towards Raith Rovers director Eric Drysdale and the arson threats about Starks Park.
Really?
I beg to differ.
Let me be clear. I'm not in support of anyone harassing others in any way. I don't find that funny in the slightest.
But the episode involving Andy Goram wouldn't look out of place in one of those America or Britain's Dumbest Criminals TV shows.
On the rare occasions I have seen such shows I couldn't help but laugh.
Watching these shows the humour isn't the acts themselves. One does not usually find armed robbery or drink driving particularly humourous.
The humour lies in the ineptitude of the protagonists.
Who doesn't find it rather funny when a burglar is captured on CCTV locking themself into the building they're supposed to be robbing?
This is how I viewed the Andy Goram incident.
The humour lay in the idiocy of the perpetrator who, in addition to committing his act of lunacy in full view of the bookies CCTV, decided it would also be a great idea to get himself into the video which was then shared via YouTube, thus increasing his chances of being apprehended in a timely fashion.
And judging by the media reports of his arrest it was a strategy that paid off.
So, no one was hurt in the making of that short film and the guilty party got his comeuppance.
What's not to laugh about that?
Fast forward to Swansea where a professional footballer paid many thousands of pounds every week kicks a ball boy in the guts.
How can that be funny I hear the morally-outraged scream?
An adult assaulting a child in full view of the world? What does that say about us as a nation if we find such behaviour even the slightest bit funny?
Yawn.
Get over yourselves is what I say.
The seventeen year old ball boy knew exactly what he was doing and had boasted about making a comeback for one final game as he was the time-wasting king.
Watching him trying to keep the ball off Hazard was both surreal and comical.
Of course, to some, his behaviour was nothing short of scandalous.
To others, wasting time is part and parcel of the game, although most admit he did take it more than a tad too far.
But as we watched the lad rolling around the ground and holding on to the ball as if it was his and bullies were trying to steal it what happened next took us all by surprise.
Hazard toe poked him while trying to kick the ball and the lad then rolled around like Jurgen Klinsman in his heyday.
And what was the first thing the lad done when he sat up?
Did he wipe away bucketfuls of tears and cry for his mammy?
No. He shouted and signalled to the ref as if he was actually one of the players.
Of course, the referee had no option other than to send Hazard off for violent conduct. It looked much worse than it actually was.
But the more I see it the funnier it gets.
Is it just me that sees it like that?
No, definitely not.
I discussed it last night with various friends, all at various stages of drunkenness, and discovered we all saw the funny side of what is obviously an embarrassing incident for those involved.
Mind you, we also find this footage of Pepe going nuts quite hilarious, so maybe we are not representative of the majority.
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jKt4IBxD5oo
This week's third example of lost humour is perhaps the saddest of all.
Apparently, Dundee United fans are planning to wear Craig Whyte masks at the upcoming Scottish Cup game against Rangers.
This outrageous behaviour, according to Rangers fans, and I quote, 'shows their (Utd fans) hatred for Rangers is stronger than their love for the club they claim to support.'
Eh?
When it was pointed out that wearing Craig Whyte masks wasn't a sign of hatred but merely a form of banter the reply was 'it wasn't banter it was designed to belittle, provoke and antagonise.'
Wow!
Who it is designed to belittle, provoke and antagonise is beyond me. For there will be no, or very few, Rangers fans at that upcoming game due to a decision by fan groups and the club to boycott the game.
Now if this was an isolated incident it could perhaps be laughed off. But over the last year we have seen Rangers fans harass many, including The Guardian, to remove a cartoon depicting a demolished Ibrox (apart from the front of the Main Stand which is a listed building) and a queue of people lined up as if signing on the dole. The caption read, 'Rangers Isn't Working' in tribute to a famous Saatchi and Saatchi advertising campaign that helped get Thatcher into power in 1979.
As well as being extremely well drawn the message was clever and funny. Yes, funny. I said it. May God smite me for having a sense of humour.
However, the masses down Edmiston Drive circled their wagons before launching a concerted attack on the newspaper to have it removed, claiming making fun of the fact people may lose their jobs wasn't funny.
I despair for these people and others like them who appear to go through each day looking for something to complain about while seeking the mythical moral high ground.
Life could prove to be unbearable for them once something really serious happens.
Me? I'm glad to be able to laugh at almost anything, including myself. Especially myself.
Looking for the humour in the darkest of places helps me through each day.
As for those who get offended by everything and anything in these days of over the top political correctness.
Well, I'm glad neither me, my friends or family are like you.
You would do well to let your hair down,
Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go share a few laughs with my brother before the cemetery shuts for the night. He might be dead but he still as a better sense of humour than those whose favourite pastime appears to be being outraged.
Thursday, 24 January 2013
A Man's A Man N Aw That Shite
Burns Night is celebrated around the world, but I've never been one for doing so myself. I have attended a couple of Burns Lunches over the years but don't know anyone attending any Suppers this year. Maybe I just move in the wrong social circles.
Even back in the day there was no gathering around the old electric fire reciting poetry with my parents. Poetry was rarely on the agenda at home.
But that's not to say I didn't appreciate the fact a Scotsman enthralled and lit the world with words. Scottish words.
Unfortunately, many of the Scottish words employed by Burns weren't ones I knew or used in everyday life. And where as the language used by Burns is viewed as authentic, poetic or quaint, my everyday language is viewed by many as harsh, aggressive or scummy.
Yet it's a beautiful language and one in which I'm fiercely proud to be fluent. So to coincide with Burns Night I set out to compose a poem in my language.
Picking the subject matter for this poem was simple enough.
This time of year is the anniversary of my brother's death, and so it is to both him and Burns I dedicate this piece of work.
A Man's A Man N Aw That Shite
It’s that time ay year fur Rabbie Burns
impressin the world wae lyrical turns.
This Ploughman Poet fae doon near Ayr
enjoys eez spoils fur darin tae play
wae witches chasin Tam O’Shanter,
mice n men n full decanters.
Eez love ay wummin upset the kirk,
but fae conflict Rab refused tae shirk.
Coz a man’s a man n aw that shite.
Haggis n tatties?
Naw, no th-night.
Th-night’s the night some’ll share a line
tae mourn ma brother’s ain decline.
Wae kilts n chookters naewhere seen
as guests fae Scotland’s jails n schemes
aw gather roon n talk ay times
ay dealin drugs n violent crimes,
converted guns n lockback knives,
unruly weans n battered wives.
But a life like that is a life ay shite.
Champagne n Charlie?
Naw, no th-night.
Ah’ll sit masel n reminisce
ay distant times when we wur kids,
like wreakin havoc doon the Clyde
wae clabby doos marooned by tide,
th-gither we wur oor mother’s pride
n when Da wiz drunk he’d help us hide,
then pick me up n run tae Gran’s
where eyes wur rubbed wae shakin hauns.
But naebody wants tae hear that shite.
Wull Ah shed a tear?
Naw, no th-night.
Coz a man's a man n aw that shite,
taught no tae greet n how tae fight,
lessons passed like family heirlooms
churnin oot emotional vacuums.
Yet when that duckin divin chancer
succumbed tae pancreatic cancer,
no wance did he try tae run or hide
as hopes ay life wur cast aside.
Coz a man's a man n aw that shite.
Wull Ah forget it?
Naw, especially th-night.
Even back in the day there was no gathering around the old electric fire reciting poetry with my parents. Poetry was rarely on the agenda at home.
But that's not to say I didn't appreciate the fact a Scotsman enthralled and lit the world with words. Scottish words.
Unfortunately, many of the Scottish words employed by Burns weren't ones I knew or used in everyday life. And where as the language used by Burns is viewed as authentic, poetic or quaint, my everyday language is viewed by many as harsh, aggressive or scummy.
Yet it's a beautiful language and one in which I'm fiercely proud to be fluent. So to coincide with Burns Night I set out to compose a poem in my language.
Picking the subject matter for this poem was simple enough.
This time of year is the anniversary of my brother's death, and so it is to both him and Burns I dedicate this piece of work.
A Man's A Man N Aw That Shite
It’s that time ay year fur Rabbie Burns
impressin the world wae lyrical turns.
This Ploughman Poet fae doon near Ayr
enjoys eez spoils fur darin tae play
wae witches chasin Tam O’Shanter,
mice n men n full decanters.
Eez love ay wummin upset the kirk,
but fae conflict Rab refused tae shirk.
Coz a man’s a man n aw that shite.
Haggis n tatties?
Naw, no th-night.
Th-night’s the night some’ll share a line
tae mourn ma brother’s ain decline.
Wae kilts n chookters naewhere seen
as guests fae Scotland’s jails n schemes
aw gather roon n talk ay times
ay dealin drugs n violent crimes,
converted guns n lockback knives,
unruly weans n battered wives.
But a life like that is a life ay shite.
Champagne n Charlie?
Naw, no th-night.
Ah’ll sit masel n reminisce
ay distant times when we wur kids,
like wreakin havoc doon the Clyde
wae clabby doos marooned by tide,
th-gither we wur oor mother’s pride
n when Da wiz drunk he’d help us hide,
then pick me up n run tae Gran’s
where eyes wur rubbed wae shakin hauns.
But naebody wants tae hear that shite.
Wull Ah shed a tear?
Naw, no th-night.
Coz a man's a man n aw that shite,
taught no tae greet n how tae fight,
lessons passed like family heirlooms
churnin oot emotional vacuums.
Yet when that duckin divin chancer
succumbed tae pancreatic cancer,
no wance did he try tae run or hide
as hopes ay life wur cast aside.
Coz a man's a man n aw that shite.
Wull Ah forget it?
Naw, especially th-night.
Tuesday, 15 January 2013
Put The Face On
No gentle smile or comforting words telling me everything was going to be alright. Mum’s final breath rose and fell, leaving me holding a few scribbled verses of Ave Maria and wondering if she’d heard me mumbling through the sobs.
A quiet tap on the bedroom door stirred me out of character as the grieving son. I wiped away the snot and opened the door to find Auntie Susie wearing her ‘I’ll be there for you, son’ face. I recognised it from a photograph mum showed me years ago.
I knew fine well she’d be delighted at being the first to know and dying to tell everyone she was by mum’s side right to the end. “That’s her gone, Susie.”
Before I could protest her arms and bosom were engulfing and squeezing the life out me. “Oh son, she’s in a better place now. You let it all out.”
Her sixty a day Kensitas Club habit mixed with the Chanel No.5 from The Barras in a valiant but failed attempt to overpower the smell of pish from her pants. And with her Harmony-hardened hair and false eyelashes scraping my face like a Brillo I pulled away before her insincerity scarred me for life. “It’s awful warm in here, Susie. I’ll open another window.”
She pressed her cherry lips together and stretched her mouth wide, trying to mimic Mother Teresa’s saintly smile, but looking more like The Joker. Then, caressing my right hand with both of hers, she started counting my fingers as if she had a claim to them. “Do you need any help with the arrangements?”
This put me in a tight spot. During her last few lucid periods mum had a constant message. “I’m telling you, son. Don’t let Susie touch anything when I’m gone. She’ll have the shirt off your back.”
I always nodded, but spent most of the time wondering if mum knew more of her fate than she let on. The official family line was she’d pull through; because I thought she might have…not so much thrown in the towel if she knew the truth…but washed, dried and folded it neatly before storing it away and closing her eyes for a final Hail Mary.
When the consultant broke the grim news she sat fixing her hair and squinting at posters on the wall. Leaving the hospital she lit a fag and looked up from her wheelchair. “What was he on about in there? I couldn’t understand all those fancy words.”
Most of his fancy words went over my head too, but others like metastatic tumours, lymphatic system and palliative treatment were ones I’d heard before and ones you don’t forget. I half-bottled it. “He says the cancer’s back…but you’re going to beat it…just like last time.”
Her face dropped. “Does that mean they’re going to cut off my other breast?”
“Not at all. They’re going to try radiotherapy.”
She turned around in her chair and blew a perfect smoke ring in the midday sun. “Well, I’m not going back in that bloody doughnut thing; scares the life out me. I’d rather take my chances with St. Peter.”
“Don’t worry about that. Anyway, the doctor says you’ll outlive the rest of us…and he knows a tough wee cookie when he sees one. He deals with this sort of thing every day.”
“Aye, well, we’ll see; as long as I outlive that Susie. I don’t want that black widow putting the grief-stricken face on and trying to trap another man at my funeral. Remember Davie’s?”
Davie was mum’s brother and Susie’s man. During a lads’ night out he fell after taking a blow to the head, cracked his skull on the kerb and never got back up. Knowing Susie’s Presbyterian background, mum phoned the local priest right away to arrange the Requiem Mass. Susie tried to complain about her nose being put out of joint but mum was having none of it. As far as she was concerned Davie would be mourned in the same chapel as the rest of his family. His body and mind might have been seduced by Susie’s sultry charms in the shape of her peroxide Purdey, 38DD’s and orange tan, but when it came to his soul mum was leaving nothing to chance.
Whether out of spite or, as she claimed, the best available price at short notice, Susie organised Davie’s wake for the local Masonic. A place he'd always refused to set foot in even for a charity event.
Davie might have married a Protestant but his biggest claim to notoriety saw him standing in the centre circle of Hampden Park after the 1980 Scottish Cup Final. The BBC cameras panned from the Celtic end to the Rangers end as both sets of supporters took the field to settle old scores and start new ones. One camera zoomed-in on a long-haired thirty-something wearing flares and an Irish tricolour over his back like a Superman cape. With a green and white scarf tied to one hand, and an Eldorado bottle in the other, he stood triumphant, goading the opposition like he owned them, as Rangers fans retreated to the safety of their own end to prepare a counter attack.
But Davie’s fifteen seconds of fame weren’t all glorious. Strathclyde’s finest boys in blue – the police, not the Rangers fans – regrouped with mounted reinforcements. With truncheons held aloft like swords they charged across Hampden’s hallowed turf as if re-enacting the Battle of Balaclava or rehearsing for the Battle of Janefield Street. Scattering bodies in all directions, they swung with joyful abandon at both sets of fans, although many would tell you they only started really swinging once they reached the Celtic half.
As the cavalry roared towards him Davie threw his empty bottle skywards more in fear than aggression. Relieved of his weaponry he turned to run but tripped over the scarf hanging from his wrist just in time to escape a wallop from a well-aimed truncheon. Once the horses had raced past the cameras panned away and his time in the limelight was over.
Over the years his version of events would have listeners in the pub believe he defeated the forces of darkness single-handedly, but according to more reliable sources he sprint-staggered to the nearest break in the fencing around the terracing and climbed to relative safety.
When mum told Davie’s version during the eulogy at his Requiem Mass loud grumbles came from Susie’s side of the chapel. But Father O’Reilly’s measured chuckling provided mum the spiritual support needed for the occasion, as did the quarter bottle of Gordon’s Gin.
Relations never improved at Davie’s wake. Mum’s introduction to the prawn sandwich brigade came at a time when prawn cocktails hadn’t yet crept onto the Christmas Dinner menus of Glasgow’s East End.
“Prawns…on a piece?” She screwed her nose up at the lunacy of it. “Who puts effin’ prawns on a piece? Who does she think…? I remember watching her eat chewing gum off the pavement. Bloody prawns. Smell them. Davie worked all the hours under the sun so her weans could have shoes on their feet for school. And here she is blowing his Life Insurance money on trying to pick herself up a new man, a protestant man no doubt, at her own man’s wake. Bloody Jezebel.”
Mum wet her pants the next day when she heard of mourners having the runs all night, and how the prawns, being way past their sell-by date, had been acquired on the cheap from the local Chinese Take-Away. From that day she called her Salmonella Susie Wong, but never to her face. Open conflict was best avoided in a world where everyone had at least two faces.
I realised Susie was still caressing my hand, waiting for an answer to how she could help. Not having the heart to tell her mum didn’t want her anywhere near, and with no experience of organising these things, I thought it best to keep her onside, even if just as a sort of consultant.
“I’m sure there’s a lot you can do, Susie. Many people will want to know that’s her finally away. You could give them a phone. I’ll deal with the funeral arrangements.”
Her face tried to hide the disappointment of being offered a minor role but her shoulders drooped like her tits and her mouth couldn’t stay shut. “Well, I hope you’re not getting that priest from St. Andrew’s. Have you not heard?”
“Come on now, Susie. There’s no need for that. You know that’s where mum got married and dad got buried.”
“I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean to upset you. I was just saying. Everybody knows he’s been at it for years.”
She was always just saying, never just keeping her opinions to herself, just for a change. “Look, this isn’t the time. Mum wouldn’t have wanted us falling out, and neither would Davie.”
“Aye, you’re right, son. Come here and give us another hug.”
With Chanel and Tena Lady losing the battle against Susie’s pressured bladder I ensured it was a quick pretzel hug with a fair bit of space between us.
“We’ll be alright, Susie. Stick the kettle on…and get a hold of your Stevie…I’m going to need my shoes back.”
“What shoes?”
“My dad’s black shoes.”
“My Stevie hasn’t got them anymore.”
“He better have them. I’m going to need them for the funeral.”
She huffed and started searching her pockets for a change of topic. “Have you seen my fags, son?”
“It’s my shoes I’m looking for.”
“Oh, son. I loaned them to Jimmy McNaughton for his brother’s funeral. I felt sorry for him. I’ve known his mum Angie for years. He didn’t have any decent shoes of his own. He was on the drugs. Smack, I think.
“I don’t give a monkey’s what he was on. You better get them back, pronto.”
She reached out to caress my arm while tilting her head like a bemused puppy. “Poor Jimmy hung himself last month.”
I stepped back. “So what? Unless he used my fucking laces I don't want to hear it."
“Did your mum not tell you?”
Trying to shift the blame was typical Susie.
“Don’t start that shite.”
Unimpressed with my growing rage she settled into character and continued to lay it on thick as her foundation. “Angie was distraught. Two sons gone in a matter of months. And that man of hers was never much use either.”
“I couldn't give a fuck. What’s that got to do with anything anyway?”
“Well, Angie came to see me...” She ran a finger through the dust on top of the sideboard, high riled me further. She knew mum kept her house spotless until she couldn't physically do so anymore. “and...well...I couldn’t say no.”
“To what?”
“Jimmy got buried wearing your shoes.”
“He fucking what?”
She found her fags in the same pocket she always kept them. “The Reverend Smythe gave a lovely service; done the wee soul and his mum proud so he did. As did a few of the boys from the Shettleston Loyal with their penny whistles at the cemetery. Right smart they were too.”
Dad’s eyes burned me from the photo of us taken at Bellahouston Park, as it hung on the wall next to the one of Pope John Paul II waving from the helicopter. “What the fuck were you thinking? We’d kept those shoes in the family for over twenty years; never needed re-soled once.”
“I know, son. I remember your mum getting a Provvy to buy your dad those shoes for his own mum’s funeral.”
“They were only for funerals. None of us even wore them to court.”
“I know, son. I know.” Clocking the lighter mum kept by her bedside she made a move towards it.
I thought of punching her but saw mum’s cloudy eyes still staring piously at the two-foot wooden crucifix nailed to the ceiling, so I just grabbed her by the collar. “Mum said you’d have the shirt off my back, but you’ve stole the shoes off my feet instead, and now you’re trying to steal a lighter off the dead.”
“It’s not what you think, son. Honest.”
“You’re a lying…”
“I'm not lying, son. Look, is there nothing I can do…?”
Her scent ultimately proved too powerful for my eyes that were already red and stinging from grieving. I pushed her away pointed at the dark patch on her pink jogging bottoms and grimaced.
“Aye, you can..."
I wanted to tell her to take her fusty fanny and piss off but when it came to it I couldn't do it.
Instead I looked back at the photo of me and dad waiting on the Holy Father arriving and remembered something he said that day.
We fuck you up, me and your mum
We may not mean to, but we do
We give you all the faults we have
And add some extra just for you
Many years after my dad's death I discovered the words were paraphrased from Philip Larkin's This Be The Verse. But it was only as I watched my own son grow I realised the truth in the poem.
I turned my attention back to Susie whose crumpled face and childlike eyes looked like they saw me as a man for the first time.
I reached out and took her in my arms.
"It's alright, Susie. You know I don't mean any of it. It's just the grief talking. You and I? We're family. We've always been family and, as far as I'm concerned, we'll always be family."
She hugged me tight and let herself go. I could feel it warm against my legs but I held on. What's a bit of pish between family when we've endured generations of sectarian shite handed down like a pair of shoes?
Besides, somebody would need to help me out with the funeral expenses.
A quiet tap on the bedroom door stirred me out of character as the grieving son. I wiped away the snot and opened the door to find Auntie Susie wearing her ‘I’ll be there for you, son’ face. I recognised it from a photograph mum showed me years ago.
I knew fine well she’d be delighted at being the first to know and dying to tell everyone she was by mum’s side right to the end. “That’s her gone, Susie.”
Before I could protest her arms and bosom were engulfing and squeezing the life out me. “Oh son, she’s in a better place now. You let it all out.”
Her sixty a day Kensitas Club habit mixed with the Chanel No.5 from The Barras in a valiant but failed attempt to overpower the smell of pish from her pants. And with her Harmony-hardened hair and false eyelashes scraping my face like a Brillo I pulled away before her insincerity scarred me for life. “It’s awful warm in here, Susie. I’ll open another window.”
She pressed her cherry lips together and stretched her mouth wide, trying to mimic Mother Teresa’s saintly smile, but looking more like The Joker. Then, caressing my right hand with both of hers, she started counting my fingers as if she had a claim to them. “Do you need any help with the arrangements?”
This put me in a tight spot. During her last few lucid periods mum had a constant message. “I’m telling you, son. Don’t let Susie touch anything when I’m gone. She’ll have the shirt off your back.”
I always nodded, but spent most of the time wondering if mum knew more of her fate than she let on. The official family line was she’d pull through; because I thought she might have…not so much thrown in the towel if she knew the truth…but washed, dried and folded it neatly before storing it away and closing her eyes for a final Hail Mary.
When the consultant broke the grim news she sat fixing her hair and squinting at posters on the wall. Leaving the hospital she lit a fag and looked up from her wheelchair. “What was he on about in there? I couldn’t understand all those fancy words.”
Most of his fancy words went over my head too, but others like metastatic tumours, lymphatic system and palliative treatment were ones I’d heard before and ones you don’t forget. I half-bottled it. “He says the cancer’s back…but you’re going to beat it…just like last time.”
Her face dropped. “Does that mean they’re going to cut off my other breast?”
“Not at all. They’re going to try radiotherapy.”
She turned around in her chair and blew a perfect smoke ring in the midday sun. “Well, I’m not going back in that bloody doughnut thing; scares the life out me. I’d rather take my chances with St. Peter.”
“Don’t worry about that. Anyway, the doctor says you’ll outlive the rest of us…and he knows a tough wee cookie when he sees one. He deals with this sort of thing every day.”
“Aye, well, we’ll see; as long as I outlive that Susie. I don’t want that black widow putting the grief-stricken face on and trying to trap another man at my funeral. Remember Davie’s?”
Davie was mum’s brother and Susie’s man. During a lads’ night out he fell after taking a blow to the head, cracked his skull on the kerb and never got back up. Knowing Susie’s Presbyterian background, mum phoned the local priest right away to arrange the Requiem Mass. Susie tried to complain about her nose being put out of joint but mum was having none of it. As far as she was concerned Davie would be mourned in the same chapel as the rest of his family. His body and mind might have been seduced by Susie’s sultry charms in the shape of her peroxide Purdey, 38DD’s and orange tan, but when it came to his soul mum was leaving nothing to chance.
Whether out of spite or, as she claimed, the best available price at short notice, Susie organised Davie’s wake for the local Masonic. A place he'd always refused to set foot in even for a charity event.
Davie might have married a Protestant but his biggest claim to notoriety saw him standing in the centre circle of Hampden Park after the 1980 Scottish Cup Final. The BBC cameras panned from the Celtic end to the Rangers end as both sets of supporters took the field to settle old scores and start new ones. One camera zoomed-in on a long-haired thirty-something wearing flares and an Irish tricolour over his back like a Superman cape. With a green and white scarf tied to one hand, and an Eldorado bottle in the other, he stood triumphant, goading the opposition like he owned them, as Rangers fans retreated to the safety of their own end to prepare a counter attack.
But Davie’s fifteen seconds of fame weren’t all glorious. Strathclyde’s finest boys in blue – the police, not the Rangers fans – regrouped with mounted reinforcements. With truncheons held aloft like swords they charged across Hampden’s hallowed turf as if re-enacting the Battle of Balaclava or rehearsing for the Battle of Janefield Street. Scattering bodies in all directions, they swung with joyful abandon at both sets of fans, although many would tell you they only started really swinging once they reached the Celtic half.
As the cavalry roared towards him Davie threw his empty bottle skywards more in fear than aggression. Relieved of his weaponry he turned to run but tripped over the scarf hanging from his wrist just in time to escape a wallop from a well-aimed truncheon. Once the horses had raced past the cameras panned away and his time in the limelight was over.
Over the years his version of events would have listeners in the pub believe he defeated the forces of darkness single-handedly, but according to more reliable sources he sprint-staggered to the nearest break in the fencing around the terracing and climbed to relative safety.
When mum told Davie’s version during the eulogy at his Requiem Mass loud grumbles came from Susie’s side of the chapel. But Father O’Reilly’s measured chuckling provided mum the spiritual support needed for the occasion, as did the quarter bottle of Gordon’s Gin.
Relations never improved at Davie’s wake. Mum’s introduction to the prawn sandwich brigade came at a time when prawn cocktails hadn’t yet crept onto the Christmas Dinner menus of Glasgow’s East End.
“Prawns…on a piece?” She screwed her nose up at the lunacy of it. “Who puts effin’ prawns on a piece? Who does she think…? I remember watching her eat chewing gum off the pavement. Bloody prawns. Smell them. Davie worked all the hours under the sun so her weans could have shoes on their feet for school. And here she is blowing his Life Insurance money on trying to pick herself up a new man, a protestant man no doubt, at her own man’s wake. Bloody Jezebel.”
Mum wet her pants the next day when she heard of mourners having the runs all night, and how the prawns, being way past their sell-by date, had been acquired on the cheap from the local Chinese Take-Away. From that day she called her Salmonella Susie Wong, but never to her face. Open conflict was best avoided in a world where everyone had at least two faces.
I realised Susie was still caressing my hand, waiting for an answer to how she could help. Not having the heart to tell her mum didn’t want her anywhere near, and with no experience of organising these things, I thought it best to keep her onside, even if just as a sort of consultant.
“I’m sure there’s a lot you can do, Susie. Many people will want to know that’s her finally away. You could give them a phone. I’ll deal with the funeral arrangements.”
Her face tried to hide the disappointment of being offered a minor role but her shoulders drooped like her tits and her mouth couldn’t stay shut. “Well, I hope you’re not getting that priest from St. Andrew’s. Have you not heard?”
“Come on now, Susie. There’s no need for that. You know that’s where mum got married and dad got buried.”
“I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean to upset you. I was just saying. Everybody knows he’s been at it for years.”
She was always just saying, never just keeping her opinions to herself, just for a change. “Look, this isn’t the time. Mum wouldn’t have wanted us falling out, and neither would Davie.”
“Aye, you’re right, son. Come here and give us another hug.”
With Chanel and Tena Lady losing the battle against Susie’s pressured bladder I ensured it was a quick pretzel hug with a fair bit of space between us.
“We’ll be alright, Susie. Stick the kettle on…and get a hold of your Stevie…I’m going to need my shoes back.”
“What shoes?”
“My dad’s black shoes.”
“My Stevie hasn’t got them anymore.”
“He better have them. I’m going to need them for the funeral.”
She huffed and started searching her pockets for a change of topic. “Have you seen my fags, son?”
“It’s my shoes I’m looking for.”
“Oh, son. I loaned them to Jimmy McNaughton for his brother’s funeral. I felt sorry for him. I’ve known his mum Angie for years. He didn’t have any decent shoes of his own. He was on the drugs. Smack, I think.
“I don’t give a monkey’s what he was on. You better get them back, pronto.”
She reached out to caress my arm while tilting her head like a bemused puppy. “Poor Jimmy hung himself last month.”
I stepped back. “So what? Unless he used my fucking laces I don't want to hear it."
“Did your mum not tell you?”
Trying to shift the blame was typical Susie.
“Don’t start that shite.”
Unimpressed with my growing rage she settled into character and continued to lay it on thick as her foundation. “Angie was distraught. Two sons gone in a matter of months. And that man of hers was never much use either.”
“I couldn't give a fuck. What’s that got to do with anything anyway?”
“Well, Angie came to see me...” She ran a finger through the dust on top of the sideboard, high riled me further. She knew mum kept her house spotless until she couldn't physically do so anymore. “and...well...I couldn’t say no.”
“To what?”
“Jimmy got buried wearing your shoes.”
“He fucking what?”
She found her fags in the same pocket she always kept them. “The Reverend Smythe gave a lovely service; done the wee soul and his mum proud so he did. As did a few of the boys from the Shettleston Loyal with their penny whistles at the cemetery. Right smart they were too.”
Dad’s eyes burned me from the photo of us taken at Bellahouston Park, as it hung on the wall next to the one of Pope John Paul II waving from the helicopter. “What the fuck were you thinking? We’d kept those shoes in the family for over twenty years; never needed re-soled once.”
“I know, son. I remember your mum getting a Provvy to buy your dad those shoes for his own mum’s funeral.”
“They were only for funerals. None of us even wore them to court.”
“I know, son. I know.” Clocking the lighter mum kept by her bedside she made a move towards it.
I thought of punching her but saw mum’s cloudy eyes still staring piously at the two-foot wooden crucifix nailed to the ceiling, so I just grabbed her by the collar. “Mum said you’d have the shirt off my back, but you’ve stole the shoes off my feet instead, and now you’re trying to steal a lighter off the dead.”
“It’s not what you think, son. Honest.”
“You’re a lying…”
“I'm not lying, son. Look, is there nothing I can do…?”
Her scent ultimately proved too powerful for my eyes that were already red and stinging from grieving. I pushed her away pointed at the dark patch on her pink jogging bottoms and grimaced.
“Aye, you can..."
I wanted to tell her to take her fusty fanny and piss off but when it came to it I couldn't do it.
Instead I looked back at the photo of me and dad waiting on the Holy Father arriving and remembered something he said that day.
We fuck you up, me and your mum
We may not mean to, but we do
We give you all the faults we have
And add some extra just for you
Many years after my dad's death I discovered the words were paraphrased from Philip Larkin's This Be The Verse. But it was only as I watched my own son grow I realised the truth in the poem.
I turned my attention back to Susie whose crumpled face and childlike eyes looked like they saw me as a man for the first time.
I reached out and took her in my arms.
"It's alright, Susie. You know I don't mean any of it. It's just the grief talking. You and I? We're family. We've always been family and, as far as I'm concerned, we'll always be family."
She hugged me tight and let herself go. I could feel it warm against my legs but I held on. What's a bit of pish between family when we've endured generations of sectarian shite handed down like a pair of shoes?
Besides, somebody would need to help me out with the funeral expenses.
Saturday, 5 January 2013
Say Hullo Hullo to the Provos
While the battle-strewn streets of Belfast rage over the flying, or non-flying, of a particular flag, we in Scotland are embroiled in heated debates over the singing of particular songs.
What a sensitive bunch we are.
After another night of unrest in Belfast nine police officers were injured as thirty petrol bombs, as well as fireworks and other missiles were thrown at those in the front line attempting to keep public order. At least three hundred loyalist protestors had a stand-off with police but the Northern Irish BBC News reporter today claimed it wasn’t what she’d call full scale rioting. It was just sporadic pockets of trouble.
I wonder what she would’ve made of the scenes at Dundee on Boxing Day.
Meanwhile here in Scotland, society, or to be more precise, a Scottish government craving popularity and votes, rushed into pushing through a Bill that would criminalise football fans singing certain songs.
It was an imperfect solution that pleased no-one but leading prosecutors claim it to be a success.
Note the date on the above article and then check the date on this somewhat contradictory one –
Whatever the success or not of the new law some football fans now feel they’re being targeted unfairly, especially some fans of the two best-supported clubs in the country.
Celtic’s Green Brigade and Rangers’ Union Bears both feel they’re being singled out and persecuted.
Constant filming of both groups at games, fans being dragged from seats for doing nothing more than singing songs they’ve always sung and police visiting members at home are just some of the complaints made by fans from both sides.
No-one in their right mind will argue that it’s acceptable to promote religious hate be it in song, blogs or shouting in the street. Everyone should be able to live without the fear of being targeted because of their race, religion, gender or any other facet of their life.
This is not only common sense but also common decency, and is backed up by official figures.
According to the Scottish Government’s research an overwhelming majority of Scots support stronger action being taken to tackle sectarianism and offensive behaviour.
The full results show:
·89% of Scots agree that sectarianism is offensive
·89% of Scots agree that sectarianism is unacceptable in Scottish football
·85% of Scots agree that sectarianism should be a criminal offence
·91% agree that stronger action needs to be taken to tackle sectarianism and offensive behaviour associated with football in Scotland
Those are fairly convincing figures and suggest nine out of ten Scots find sectarianism abhorrent in today’s society.
But, as we all know, statistics can be manipulated to suit any agenda.·89% of Scots agree that sectarianism is offensive
·89% of Scots agree that sectarianism is unacceptable in Scottish football
Those are fairly convincing figures and suggest nine out of ten Scots find sectarianism abhorrent in today’s society.
A few of the questions I’d like answered are –
What method of primary research was employed to collate the data?What sampling method was employed?
Who decided the demographics of the sample to be researched?
How many of those questioned have really been offended by someone singing a particular song at a football match?
According to the government the Act will only criminalise behaviour likely to lead to public disorder which expresses or incites hatred, is threatening or is otherwise offensive to a reasonable person.
This offence will cover sectarian and other offensive chanting and threatening behaviour related to football which is likely to cause public disorder.
An online dictionary defines offensive as follows -
· of·fen·sive
· adj.
· 1. Disagreeable to the senses: an offensive odor.
· 2. Causing anger, displeasure, resentment, or affront: an offensive gesture.
· 3.
· a. Making an attack: The offensive troops gained ground quickly.
· b. Of, relating to, or designed for attack: offensive weapons.
· 4. (
· n.
· 1. An attitude or position of attack: go on the offensive in chess.
· 2. An attack or assault: led a massive military offensive.
I think the government must be relating to definition number two with their Offensive Behaviour Act.
Certainly not me.
How does that song go again...Let The People Sing.
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