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.

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.

 

http://www.scotland.gov.uk/Topics/Justice/law/sectarianism-action-1/football-violence/bill

It was an imperfect solution that pleased no-one but leading prosecutors claim it to be a success.

http://www.heraldscotland.com/news/crime-courts/new-football-laws-hailed-a-success.1352122000

Note the date on the above article and then check the date on this somewhat contradictory one –

http://news.stv.tv/scotland/198491-no-convictions-secured-under-law-targeting-sectarian-hatred-online/

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.

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 actually attend football games in Scotland?

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. (fn-) Sports Of or relating to a team having possession of a ball or puck: the offensive line.

· 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.

So, any fans singing or chanting in a manner that causes anger, displeasure, resentment or affront are liable to be charged under this new Act.

What about Hearts fans reminding Hibs fans of the 5-1 Scottish Cup Final victory?

Surely there is not a Hibs fan for which such chants don’t cause anger, displeasure, resentment or affront.

Or what of the Queens Park fans who teased Dumbarton fans for living in council houses?

Of course, there are the caveats of the singing likely to cause public disorder or be offensive to a reasonable person.

Two questions spring to mind:

1. When was the last time in Scotland that public disorder arose at a football game because of songs being sung?

2. How do you define a reasonable person?

I’m sure most people consider themselves reasonable persons, although others who support opposing teams might define these self-proclaimed reasonable persons as idiots, bigots, etc. and likewise these self-proclaimed reasonable persons might call others idiots, bigots, etc.

Welcome to the world of the football supporter.

It is mainly like the rest of the world but with more whataboutery.

Phrases such as ‘they’re different from us, you can’t reason with them, they’re all the same, I hate every one of them’ are bandied about by rival fans around the country, especially when relating to their local rivals.

Even Inverness and Ross County fans engage in such ‘banter’ yet to everyone else they are both teuchters.

Of course, one would like to believe the reasonable persons in each group would surely outnumber the narrow-minded opinions of those who truly believe everyone supporting a rival team is exactly as their worst fears describe.

Unfortunately, that is not always the case.

Following a football team can be emotive and highly passionate, leading fans to fall into the trap of groupthink, seeking information that confirms their beliefs and dismissing alternative messages as nothing more than propaganda.

I’ve stated before but it’s worth saying again. Anyone who closes their mind to other opinions and reads only about their team, or political ideology, or religion is not only selling themself short but is also open to being brainwashed by those with an agenda.

It might be painful sometimes but it’s essential and enlightening to read opposing views.

With that in mind, it’s been heartening over the last few days to see the topic of offensive singing being discussed among themselves by Celtic fans, Rangers fans and Hearts fans.

None of these clubs is full of knuckle-dragging bigots like some would have us believe.

I’m not saying there aren’t any such fans among each club.

I’m not going to highlight the different sizes of the different groups in each club, but I will say it’s not anywhere near the one out of ten alluded to in the Scottish Government’s research.

And considering these are the three best-supported sides in the country it’s fair to say they represent a sizeable segment of football fans.

The fact this topic is being openly discussed within each group should be applauded.

It would be even better if once each club’s fans reach agreement among themselves they get together with the others and forward a proposal to the respective clubs, government and football authorities.

But that is a long way off.

At the moment some fans feel they’re being dictated to and treated like naughty children, not only by the clubs, government and authorities, but also from fellow fans seeking to position themselves on some form of higher moral ground.

Is there anyone out there who likes being dictated to?

I don’t believe there is.

But that’s not to say I agree with everything those are in that position of feeling dictated to at the moment say.

Here’s a brief ‘back in the day’ story for a bit of background:

I grew up in The Jungle. In fact, I’ve not been to many games since it was demolished to make way for the shiny new stadium Celtic has today. I sung all the songs of the time and didn’t give two hoots if anyone was offended. I’d think nothing of walking down Buchanan Street on a Saturday afternoon with scarves tied to wrists and Irish Tricolour draped over my shoulders while bursting into a rendition of, ‘Say hullo to the Provos.’

Looking back, I’m not embarrassed about singing pro-republican songs. It was a different era.

Would I do likewise today?

No, definitely not. Not in a football ground or walking down any street.

Not only have I changed, but the political and cultural landscape has changed both here in Scotland and in Northern Ireland.

Have a quick read of these two links -

http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/local-national/northern-ireland/is-catholic-support-for-a-united-ireland-on-the-wane-16013433.html

http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/local-national/northern-ireland/northern-ireland-report-statistically-the-future-is-catholic-and-female-16124117.html

Obviously, as we see from the on-going disturbances over the flying of a flag, Northern Ireland still has some way to go before it is viewed, in political terms at least, as a normal country with normal problems.

The rise of the Alliance Party in recent years, however, must be viewed as progressive as it attempts to take religion out of politics.

If the majority of the people of Northern Ireland want rid of sectarian bombs and guns, who has the right to tell them otherwise?

Certainly not me.

Meanwhile, back in Scotland, we’re still trying to take religion out of football.

Of course, it’s not the clubs who are sectarian; it’s only a portion of the fans.

Both Hearts and Rangers recently sung The Billy Boys and, judging by the volume, it was more than one out of ten fans that joined in the singing.

Let me be clear, I’ve never been offended by that song, or any other song for that matter. They’ve been singing it for so long I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re now up to their necks in Fenian blood.

I have friends who have been season ticket holders at Ibrox since the first Jock Wallace era. One of them took great delight in telling me he bought two season tickets this season because they were so cheap. I even jokingly asked him if he’d take me to a game, to which he replied yes.

I laughed, and he laughed.

I’ve known him all my life and never once has he tried to be up to his knees in my blood, although he did kick me on the shin one day while having a kick about.

Anyway, as far as I’m concerned anyone can sing what they want. I’m all for free speech, or free singing in this case.

However, even though I sang so-called offensive songs myself, and I don’t get offended by others singing different so-called offensive songs, I believe that if the clubs are now being punished for the fans doing so then the fans singing those songs in question should ask themselves why they still do it.

It is up to those singing songs deemed offensive or sectarian to justify their continued defiance to other fans of their club.

Other fans may offer reasons why they shouldn’t sing particular songs but, in my opinion, under no condition should any fan be telling any other fan what they can or can’t sing.

How does that song go again...Let The People Sing.

Old Rangers Last Hurrah

Allow me to congratulate old Rangers on their last hurrah.

If you were to believe most of the media or the old Rangers fans you could be forgiven for thinking this was the defunct club’s greatest victory since winning the now defunct European Cup Winners Cup in 1972.

But what exactly have they won?

A trophy? No.

A place in the Champions League? No.

A watch? No.

They have won a reduction in the amount of tax owed to HMRC.

Well, three cheers for that. Everyone likes a victory over the taxman, don’t they?

Let’s be honest now.

Have any of you skilled tradesman out there ever done a homer?

How many of you have an ISA?

Who’s rejoiced when a cheque from the Inland Revenue drops through your letterbox for overpaid tax?

So, in a nutshell, it’s a victory for the little guy over the government, is it not?

Well, as Dalglish might say, mibbes aye mibbes naw.

We’re not talking about a small, local business struggling to get by from month to month, are we?

Again, some might say yes, others will argue no.

In terms of social and cultural factors old Rangers were a major Scottish institution, supposedly respected around the world, and heralded by their fans as the greatest club in the world.

Of course, all fans believe their club to be the greatest club in the world, for differing reasons; some with more of a rightful claim than others.

Old Rangers fans pointed to the number of trophies their club had won and, rightfully, highlighted no other club could equal their tally.

That’ll be that then.

Well, no, not really. Would Manchester United, Liverpool, Barcelona or Real Madrid swop their history for that of old Rangers?

Of course not. And to suggest otherwise is delusional beyond reason.

Here are a couple of historical examples:

Renton declared themselves world champions in 1888 after defeating FA Cup holders West Bromwich Albion.

Scotland declared themselves world champions after defeating World Cup winners England in 1967.

David Icke declared himself son of God.

As much as I love those first two, and will argue Renton’s case with anyone, I accept there is room for debate.

Self-declarations can be fun, but ultimately hold no real weight in the wider world.

Remember that old Burns saying, ‘To see oursels as others see us’.

But, just for fun, let us assume old Rangers were the most successful team in the world. Or, if that’s too much for some, let’s assume old Rangers were the most successful team in Scotland.

Yes, I know that can be disputed too, but let’s run with it for now.

Well, this most successful team, this proud Scottish institution, this pillar of society, decided to adopt an aggressive tax-avoidance strategy that sailed close to the wind in terms of legality.

So close to the wind it took a majority decision from some of the country’s best legal minds to rule their strategy legal.

Such was the nature of these tax-avoidance schemes David Murray offered HMRC £10 million to settle rather than pay the full amount.

HMRC refused David’s offer, believing their case strong enough to potentially win more then £10 million.

Remember, we’re not talking about a local painter and decorator wallpapering your hall for a few quid cash in hand.

We’re talking about tax avoidance on an industrial scale.

Of course, old Rangers and their fans will claim, rightfully, that most of this avoidance was legal. Some may even claim that it was all legal and above board.

But they weren’t all legal and above board, were they?

Old Rangers conceded various EBTs were not administered properly and tax was indeed due on those.

So, rather than an out and out victory, as claimed by the media and old Rangers fans, it’s more a case of Rangers still being guilty of tax evasion, but not on the scale HMRC said they were.

I ask you, how can admitting tax evasion on any scale be classed as a victory?

But the new amount due is nowhere near the amount HMRC claimed, or so we’re led to believe, as the exact amount hasn’t yet been published. Surely that’s a victory?

Call me old-fashioned, but I thought a victory would’ve meant there was no tax to pay. Total vindication would be a victory. But there was no total vindication. What came out of the tribunal was an insight into the way old Rangers tried everything they could to conceal what they were up to.

Of course, there will be those who still shout about everything being in the Annual Accounts, but as some of them know, if not all, the devil is in the detail, and the detail isn’t in the Annual Accounts.

Throughout the FTT and before it’s obvious David Murray, no matter what he said in public, didn’t truly believe he would win the big tax case.

This is why he offered HMRC £10 million to settle the case years before.

This is also why he refused to accept the tax liability of the big tax case when trying to sell the club.

This is also why he ended up selling a club with over £100 million assets for £1.

For years he refused to cooperate with HMRC and withheld evidence.

Some evidence was only discovered when the City of London Police raided Ibrox.

City of London Police? Raided Ibrox?

What on earth has been going on over the years down Edmiston Drive?

Still, they somehow managed to wriggle free of around £100 million of tax debt.

So what will they do with that £100 million they’ve saved?

Build a new team?

Pay for essential maintenance to Ibrox?

Pay off all those other creditors that forced the old club into liquidation?

No, you’re quite correct; they won’t do any of the above.

It didn’t matter whether the final tax bill was £2 million or £40 million or £140 million. Old Rangers still don’t have any money.

So, the victory, as some see it, was, paradoxically, nothing more than a moral victory.

Yes, I know. How can a club using an immoral, aggressive tax-avoidance strategy claim any sort of moral victory?

That, my friend, is the old Rangers way.

And, such is their myopia, many fans and commentators are now shouting for the SPL Tribunal into double contracts/undisclosed payments to be cancelled.

Like those above who pointed out that EBTs were included in the Annual Accounts, some realise the two issues are not in fact related, but they won’t let the truth get in the way of their agenda to see old Rangers totally cleared of every wrongdoing.

However, the FTT and SPL Tribunal are, unfortunately for old Rangers, mutually exclusive.

It might even turn out that in order to ‘get off’ on one case old Rangers had to sacrifice the other.

Included in the findings of the FTT, on page 39, is this little piece of potentially explosive information.

‘On any view, Mr Thomson argued, Rangers could have sought a ruling from the SFA or SPL about disclosure of side-letters but, clearly, they had chosen not to do so. There was a conscious decision to conceal their existence, and that extended even to the Club’s auditors.’

So, not only did old Rangers try and hide information from HMRC for many years, they also deliberately withheld information from the footballing authorities.

Again, call me old-fashioned, but if you believe you’re not doing anything wrong you don’t go out your way to hide your honest endeavours.

But, for now anyway, old Rangers fans can walk down the street with heads held high, safe in the knowledge that their old club didn’t steal as much tax as everyone thought.

It’s like someone breaking into your house and stealing your laptop but leaving your iPad, TV, car, etc. If only there were more kind-hearted thieves the world would be a much better place.

Old Rangers fans might also try and claim some kind of high moral ground but will find they’re on a slippery slope. After all, as we have seen, David Murray and those around him tried everything they could to deflect and hinder HMRC.

Outwith the big tax case the old club still owed far more than they could ever afford to pay.

Many hundreds of small local businesses are still out of pocket to the tune of millions of pounds.

But neither old Rangers or their fans care about such matters.

They have, in effect, got away with it one last time.

So let them have their last hurrah. For, in effect, they are cheering about how they ‘legally’ in most cases, managed to dodge paying tax of millions of pounds.

What a fine upstanding model club they were. Probably the most successful tax-dodging/avoiding club in Scottish, if not the world’s, history.