The Rangers Cancer

There is no doubt we have all enjoyed the audio clips of various parties involved in the ongoing saga that masquerades as a football club in Govan. Listening to secretly recorded shady back room deals being conducted provided a satisfying level of voyeuristic titillation. It was easy to abdicate ourselves from any dissonance regarding the morality of being a fly-on-the-wall due to the general perception all the main protagonists were, how one might say, as bad as one another. There was a sense of just-desserts as bright lights were shone on the dark arts practised by Charles Green during his quest to grab control of the sick patient that was Rangers Football Club. There was also a good case for these revelations being in the public interest as they untangled, or attempted to untangle, the many twists and knots involved in the Rangers takeover. Rightly or wrongly I have no problem with this.

What I do have a problem with is the use of covert video and audio to assassinate a man by highlighting his health issues. This tactic is the lowest of the low and, if justice is to be done, should backfire dramatically on the perpetrators. What other illnesses do these people think are okay to ridicule in order to achieve goals? Imagine the outcry if others followed their lead. It is unimaginable Peter Lawwell releasing secretly recorded conversations with Neil Lennon discussing depression. I thought about listing a few other possible examples here to highlight the utterly despicable and sordid nature of this type of tactic but, to be quite frank, I didn't have the stomach for it.

Some, especially those in the press, may be surprised at how low these people will go to achieve their goals. Journalists like Tom English, Graham Spiers and Hugh Keevins, having led somewhat sheltered lives, are so far out of their depth they're in danger of drowning in the pit of excrement that, so far, they've been unwilling to dip anything other than the odd toe. 

And don't these people know it. It is too easy for them. They discovered Scotland is nothing more than a tiny backwater state being run from top to bottom by amateurs and they are running amok. 

Maybe one day they will all end up in court in some sort of Mexican Stand-Off. For now, though, the battle is being fought in the court of public opinion. A dirty war is being waged for the hearts and minds of Rangers fans. Due to more leaks than a dodgy drain prominent Rangers bloggers are being spoon fed information on a daily basis by opposing factions. A civil war is in the pipeline. How civil that war will be remains to be seen. But to those lending their weight behind individuals who are prepared to use someone's illness as a means of attack I say take a look at yourself in the mirror. Do you see the dignity of your forefathers staring back at you?

And to the many decent Rangers fans out there, (yes, there are many, including friends of mine) I urge you to reject those who plan to gain, or regain, control of your club using despicable tactics. Is this really the type of person you want steering the ship? These people have no values other than monetary. Sure, they have a win at all costs attitude, but do you subscribe to that strategy? Do you wish to support those who trample others and prey on illness? 

The club had a chance to start afresh last year, and many thought that was actually what happened. Everyone now knows, or suspects, that isn't the case. Considering the latest tactics of those seeking total control of Rangers there's a touch of irony in how ex-chairman Alastair Johnston describes those now inside the tent. 'There is a cancer spreading throughout the club.'

Having lost two family members to cancer in recent years I know only too well of its destructive nature. Luckily, though, for Rangers fans, the cancer spreading throughout their club can be cured. But it won't be easy.

Neither city investors or those who hijacked the club a year ago are going to volunteer to walk away without a hefty pay day. If you're one of the few Rangers fans who still believe lofty statements such as, 'I only want what's best for the club' you have my sympathy but also my disdain. There has been more than enough evidence in the public domain to drag you away from that Utopian view.

Ridding your club of the cancer that Alastair Johnston refers to is going to cost a lot of money. Do you have the money to buy out these investors? Do you know anyone who has both the money and the desire to get involved? More importantly, perhaps, do you know any Rangers men with both the money and desire to get involved?

Wealthy Rangers men had the opportunity to get the club on the cheap last year but none stepped forward with what now seems a paltry amount. It will cost a lot more for a lot less this year.

If the answer to any of the above is yes then there may well be a chance to rescue the situation before it gets any worse. But if the answer to all of the above is no then it's only going to get worse. 

Plenty of noise is made about whether or not Rangers is the same club that has existed for 140 years. I'm not going to run over old ground here today listing all the reasons for and against each theory. Those different reasons, as you all know, could fill a series of books. 

Let's just focus on one. The transfer of SFA licence. And to keep it even simpler let's not dwell on the secret contents of the mythical five way agreement. 

One of the basic arguments of the 'same club' camp is the transfer of the licence from Oldco to Newco. It's not an argument I subscribe to but let's run with it for now.

In theory, that licence can be transferred among various parties from here to eternity yet the club will remain the same

If it's that easy to keep 140 years of history then why not transfer that licence again?

That licence is, in effect, more important to Rangers Football Club and its continued unbroken existence than Ibrox Stadium, Murray Park, the players and management combined.

If Rangers fans are happy to have anyone in the boardroom so long as they put a winning team on the park then I'm sure they'll welcome those who think it okay to attack opponents in whatever manner the choose. 

If dignity and a certain level of class are considered key traits then fans must do whatever possible to cure the Ibrox boardroom of the cancer to which Alastair Johnston refers.

Time and time again residents of the Ibrox boardroom have brought the game into disrepute, and the impotence of the SFA has encouraged the culprits to become increasingly bolder.

The Scottish football authorities and the majority of Rangers fans have been taken for one massive ride by those who have sought to capitalise for their own benefit. They, like the old-boy network of Scottish journalists, were totally unprepared for the level of skulduggery  others are prepared to stoop in order to get what they want. 

How long can this go on before someone has the balls to say enough is enough and kicks the lot of them out of the game? 

Rangers fans and bloggers continue to sit back and complain about when is it all going to stop. What can we do is a question I hear them say often. It's out of our hands.

Well, they can get up off their backsides and lobby the SFA to revoke the club's licence for bringing the game into disrepute. 

They can ask for that membership licence to be transferred to them. That same licence that carries with it 140 years of history, allegedly. 

The cancer running through their club will be left holding a holding company, or several holding companies, such is the labyrinth of deceit.

If the stadium-less, fan-operated Rangers has to play at Fleshers Haugh to begin with then what a symbolic gesture that would be. A return to the roots of what the club is supposed to be all about. 

An opportunity to start afresh was missed last year in the rush to keep the club playing football at any cost. Charles Green then spent the next few months ingratiating himself to certain elements of the fan base. Most have now seen through his shallowness.

Last week new Chief Executive Craig Mather said he was attracted to Rangers because his parents were Church of England. Why on earth would he say that?

Is it just me who's feeling a sense of déjà vu?   

Another chance to start afresh is fast approaching. Have the Rangers fans the stomach to fight the cancer running through their club?

Celtic Anthology Project

In the greedy corporate world we now live it is sometimes easy to forget the reasons Celtic Football Club was formed.

Working-class Irish immigrants had come to Scotland to escape the horrors of the Irish Famine, find employment and build new lives. They ended up living in severely overcrowded poor quality housing, starving and unable to find work. Not only were they competing with ever increasing numbers of immigrants but also the indigenous Scottish population.

Into this background came the main player in the founding of the club; Brother Walfrid was a Marist priest and Headmaster of Sacred Heart School. A tireless community worker for the deprived Catholic residents of Glasgow's east end, Brother Walfrid saw the new football club purely as a fundraising enterprise. The name of the club, Celtic, was Walfrid's own suggestion and was intended to reflect both Celtic's Irish and Scottish roots.

No one back then could've known how this club from humble beginnings would become world famous.

And now, as Celtic celebrates its 125th birthday, the club has set the challenge for fans to each raise £125 for charity.

http://www.celticfc.net/1254125

Many have already completed a variety of challenges, such as cycling from Sligo to Celtic Park, and walking the West Highland Way.

Once aware of the challenge I thought about getting involved, which surprised me, as I'm not really one for getting involved in anything. However, being a bit of a lazy sod, the mere thought of climbing the steps at Celtic Park or climbing Ben Nevis was enough to tire me out, so I decided to go for a wee lie down instead.

Don't be too harsh on me. I do most of my best thinking while enjoying a wee lie down. Many of my stories, poems or blogs have been born while horizontal. Well, that's my excuse anyway.

During one particular lie down I drifted into a land of stories. Celtic stories.

Over the last few months I've stumbled across a number of pieces of writing that touched and inspired me.

I'm not talking about the number of great bloggers who write so well about Celtic-related issues. I was more interested in short stories and poems. Pieces that took readers on a journey and left them feeling proud to be part of the Celtic family.

Works such as Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan's story linking Johnny Madden to Lubo Moravcik, and Tirnaog's tale of spreading Paddy's Ashes after the recent Celtic v Barcelona game at Celtic Park are just two that stood out.

I felt them deserving of a larger audience.

An embryo of an idea was born.

I contacted a number of people whose work I'd admired and asked if they'd be interested in compiling an anthology of Celtic-related short stories and poems.

The only qualification being that each piece captures the spirit of following Celtic.

To everyone's credit not one person said no.

Such was their enthusiasm I began to suspect we were on to something special. I hope you agree.

The next step is to spread the word and find other writers, poets, fans who'd like to get involved.

With such a huge fan base around the world there must be many pieces of work written over the years.

There may be fans who have stories to tell but haven't got around to putting them on paper or computer.

Perhaps there are stories or poems lying around on computers that have never been shared.

Perhaps there are stories or poems lying around in drawers, boxes or cupboards that have never been shared.

Perhaps your dad or granddad or uncle are no longer with is but they used to write stories or poems and you have access to them.

Maybe you've read a great Celtic-related story on a Celtic website. If so, point me or Lorenzo Wordsmith or Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan in the right direction, or contact the author and ask them if they'd like to get involved.

Submissions can be sent direct to celticanthology@gmail.com

This is a fan-orientated project, and having more fans involved will undoubtedly enrich the outcome.

When there's enough stories and poems to fill a decent-sized book the plan is to get it published and donate all proceeds to the Celtic 1254125 Charity.

I hope you find this a worthwhile project and do what you can to support it.

If you can help in any way, either by submitting a piece of your own work, or pointing us in the direction of suitable work by others, or by sharing this message as widely as possible to create awareness, then please do so by contacting us at

celticanthology@gmail.com

Please share this message and email address as widely as possible.

Thank you for listening.

Oh Love Street In The Rain

I wake on an armchair, head banging like a Lambeg Drum and neck feeling like it's been gripped all night by Mick McManus. I'm in a council house not too far from home judging by the layout. But nothing is familiar other than the Westclox on the wall above the mantlepiece. It's the same as my mum's and it's telling me to forget any wet dreams of a hot shower. I've fifteen minutes to get my arse to work. I tiptoe into the kitchen, trying not to wake the two bodies on the couch and run the cold water tap over the plastic basin full of mugs, plates and scummy water. My mouth fits around the tap and I drink half my body weight in water, then splash the other half on my face. A quick spike of my hair and I slip out the back door as if I'd stole the last bog roll.


The Carman Hills on the horizon confirm I'm somewhere up Bonhill. If I jog at a steady pace I'll make it to work in ten minutes and straighten myself up a bit in the process.
 Nothing clears my head like an early morning run. Doesn't matter how heavy the night before -- blood gets pumping, adrenalin takes over and the competitive edge kicks in, even when I'm just racing myself.


No sooner have I upped the pace and one of my slip-on sannies flies off my foot and on to the road, reminding my why they only cost £2. Picking the shoe up I have a flashback to arguing with my girlfriend last night. No doubt I've said something I shouldn't, like always. Probably something to do with the football, or her mates, like always. Fuck it, no doubt she'll be up to nip my nut tonight about it, like always
.

I curl my toes to try and keep my feet in my sannies as I pound the pavement to the same beat as the thumping in my head. Then it hits me. Jesus Christ! Never mind last night. Doesn't matter what happened last night, or the night before that. Personal crises have no bearing on today.


Today's the day Celtic win the league...hopefully. I slow down at the bottom of Bank Street, partly to think about the potential gravity of the day and partly because I'm fucked. My legs are willing, but my heart's giving larger palpitations than usual, whether that's from running or the thought of the game I'm not quite sure.


Hearts are still overwhelming favourites, though, and might have something to say about us winning league. If it was a three-legged race they've already got two feet standing on the finishing line. All they have to do is stumble over it, which, going by the unbeaten run they're on, doesn't look likely. But I'm a bit daft that way. I've got the Celtic faith. Hearts luck can't last forever. They're not even the third best team in the country. Aberdeen and Dundee United are better. Dundee can beat them today. In fact, Dundee can pump them today. Mind you, Dundee are shite. I might have faith, but I'm not that kind of daft. 


I start walking up the hill towards the shopping centre, sweat running down my face as if I've played the full ninety minutes. I've got things to think about. Davie Hay's got things to think about, too. We need to do our bit at Love Street. It won't be easy but, if we play like we know we can, winning four goals to nothing is possible. It's more than possible. It's probable. What am I talking to myself about? Why the fuck am I going to this stupid job? There'll be other jobs, but only today can Celtic win the league. I should be heading to Love Street. The jingle of loose coins in my pocket gives me an idea and I head to the phone box the top of Mitchell Way. Thing better be working.


I've got my ten pence ready, waiting until I hear the pips. 'Alright, big man. What you up to? Want to go to the game? Aye, I'm on my way to work now, but don't worry, I'll think of something. Brilliant. See you soon, Bobby.'


I have two options. Three if I consider doing nothing. But doing nothing isn't a practical option today. I can wait until after tea break, stick fingers down my throat to encourage the re-emergence of my rolls and square sausage, then dutifully inform the manageress I'm too ill for work and have to go home. 


Or I can be honest and tell her I need to meet my Da at Love Street today, hoping she understands the importance of the situation to my general health and mental well-being.

'Sorry about the mess, Gordon.' My colleague fills the mop bucket while I'm putting my jacket on. 


I hobble downstairs to the shop floor as if I'd just came second best in a fifty-fifty with Roy 'Feed The Bear' Aitken.


'Thanks for letting me go home, Christine.' She's too busy ushering customers around the pile of sick at the checkout to pay much attention to my pantomime performance. 'It must've been something I ate. I'm sure I'll be okay for Monday.'


Once out of sight of the shop my resurrection is almost complete. I head into Ahmed's for a packet of Rizla and a few cans of Tennents for the train. 


I’ve only been to Love Street once before. 11th October 1980. An unremarkable game probably not remembered by many. Celtic won 2-0 on their way to winning the title that season.

That game stands out for me as it's the last one I attended with my Da. At the time I was thirteen and usually made my own way to games with my mates. I only got to Love Street that day because my five year old brother, who my Da took to the games after I became too big for a lift over the turnstile, was ill.



Sitting with a can in my hand I keep a low profile on the train to Paisley. I do a bit of foot tapping as I look out the window but I'm not yet ready to go Roamin' in the Gloamin' or March with O'Neill. Bobby is belting out tunes with a donkey-hoarse voice. He gives me a wink with the 'Oh it's good to be a Roman Catholic' line, even though he's a Protestant. Industrial wastelands whiz past quicker than Jimmy Johnstone on the wing and I wonder if my Da will be at the game today. Of course, he'll be there. He couldn't miss a day like today. He's a man of faith. I wonder if he can pull a few harp strings with the big fella to swing it in our favour. 

The train slides into the station and I wonder where we can build a couple of joints and buy another few cans and half bottle of Eldorado. It's at least a fifteen minute walk from Gilmour Street to Love Street so we don't want to get caught short.


We reach the ground half an hour later with drunken memories of a hangover and take our place level with the eighteen yard box opposite the Main Stand. It might not be Celtic Park but today it feels like home. It feels like The Jungle. I have a quick look around but there's no sign of my Da.

My heart sinks a bit when the team take the field wearing the green away strip instead of the famous hoops but I don't say anything. I gee myself up. 


'Come on the Celtic!' I shout. My high-pitched teenage voice is drowned out by the roar of hope and expectation from the ever-growing Celtic support cramming in to the away end, the middle end and the home end.


We need a miracle of five loaves and two fishes proportion and an early goal would be a start.

Six minutes gone. Brian McClair rises above everybody in the box to meet an Owen Archdeacon corner. One down. Three to go. I can see a few punters with trannies to their ears. I don't want to know what's happening at Dens Park yet. Let's get our job done first.


'Come on the Celtic! Get into this fuckin' mob!'


Thirty minutes gone. Still one nil. We're playing alright, but we need goals more than we need silky fitba. Still no news from Dens.


Paul McStay finds Maurice Johnston in acres of space.

'Come on, wee man!'


Two down. Two to go. I don't want to think about it too much, but can't help it. We might just do this.


Danny McGrain's in our box facing Paddy Bonner with two St Mirren players closing him down. Somehow he hits the ball over his shoulder straight to Murdo McLeod on the edge of the box. Murdo lays off a first-time ball to Danny who’s turned, always on the move forward. 'Go on Danny! I shout. He’s still one of the world’s most attack-minded full-backs. Danny plays a first-time pass to Paul McStay who's popping-up everywhere wanting the ball. Paul cuts inside and looks up for options. Danny's still overlapping down the right. Roy Aitken gathers the ball from Paul and passes to Danny who’s now in the St Mirren half. Another first-time pass from Danny down the line finds Brian McClair. With a gallus flick he nutmegs the incoming St Mirren defender and lays an inch-perfect pass to Johnston in the box. Mo finishes with his first touch. Sublime.


I'm pushed forwards, sideways and settle on a safety barrier several steps down, there's a roar in my ear and I'm hoarse from shouting too. I'm jumping about hugging people I don't know. I look for Bobby to tell him that's the best team goal I’ve seen Celtic score, and one of the best goals ever.

Another part of me begins to believe. We're the Pope's eleven. We can do this.


Great run by Archdeacon. Paul McStay skelps it into the top corner with the outside of his boot. That's the all-important fourth goal, and it's not even half-time. 


Celtic have done what they had to do, and done it in a style worthy of champions. I grab Bobby and shout at him above the bedlam: 'Fuck sake. If we played like this every week the league would've fuckin' been won last month.'


At half time we go for a pee and finish the wine, and reality sets in. Dundee aren't doing the business for us at Dens, it's still nothing each with Hearts over there. 


I'm feeling sick with nerves. Not knowing is worse than knowing. As the second half begins the players on the park seem to have eased up but it doesn't stop us adding another.


'Yes!' I jump up, but it's a bit half-hearted now. 'Well done Brian McClair.' I talk to the old guy next to me and nobody in particular. 'That fifth gives us a bit of a cushion, just in case St Mirren sneak a flukey one.'

Torrential rain starts. It's an omen of sorts. It must be. I wouldn't want to be behind the goals today, or in the enclosure under the Main Stand where I stood with my Da on our last game together. That's probably where he'll be.


Our Father, who art in Heaven

Hallowed be thy name...


Right, fuck that. It's too early for the prayers. I look about in front of me for inspiration, a sign even. A small group of older men have burst into a wee chorus of my Da's favourite song.



Oh Hampden in the sun,

Celtic seven Rangers one. 

All my days I will sing in praise 

of the Celtic team that played the day.


I join in the singing as if I'm joining my Da, my memory travelling backwards-- him telling me how on his way back from the League Cup Final in 1957 an eager Rangers fan, on seeing my Da's scarf, confidently approached him and asked about the score. This was during a period when Celtic were not at their best, so there was more than a hint of confidence about the request.
 With a straight face my Da informed him Willie Fernie had scored for Celtic with a last minute penalty. 


‘Jammy bastards,’ the man said. 


‘Aye, jammy bastards alright, that only made it seven. It should’ve been more,’ came the punch line. 


The song dies out and my attention is drawn back to the park. The rain is running off the terracing roof above us but we're snug enough were we stand. Nothing much is happening on the pitch. The only thing moving is the clock and the drink filling my bladder. There might as well be a wee guy walking around the track wearing a 'The End Is Nigh' sandwich board.

I can hear someone behind going on about how we lost the league at the Aberdeen game or the Rangers game. I turn around and tell him to shut up, the league's not lost yet.

'Come on Dundee!' an old guy next to me shouts.

He's steamin' right enough. But I'm not far behind him in that field of expertise so I join him in shouting. 'Do something for fuck sake!'

The St Mirren fans know it's hopeless. They've been well gubbed, but for the first time today they start singing – The Sash. Normally, we'd accept the challenge right away, but today it's like fog in the brain, a half-hearted chant is flung in their direction, before grumbling away to dirty bastardin' silence. Even the police patrolling the ground are smiling. 


I wish to God I had a radio. I can't even see those I seen with one earlier.


Something's happening. Pockets of fans around the ground are erupting. It must mean...it can only mean...surely to God.


I'm jumping, I'm up in the air scrambling forwards, somebody has their arm round my neck, somebody is kissing me on the forehead but I still don't know why. My mind's telling me something I can't allow myself to believe. Not without proof. Like a doubting Thomas I need to see or hear it for myself.


The whole place is jumping.


Bobby appears from nowhere and grabs and hugs me. 'Dundee have scored! They've fuckin' well scored!'


The tears come, but I don't mind. And neither does anyone else. All around me grown men are bubbling like weans. It's a sight to behold.


We jump among the thronging, jubilant crowd; upstairs, downstairs, tears streaming down faces of men and boy alike, feeling part of something, something special. 


Even the idiot who was moaning about where we lost it has become a wise man. He's greeting, too. 


Fuck sake. I hope that's not pish I'm standing on. I've lost a bastardin' shoe.


Everybody's got an eye on each other, waiting, making sure that it's not a dream, getting ready for the final whistle. I'm hopping about trying to find a shoe worth a pound.


There it is, about five steps away. I crouch down, keeping my eyes on the prize.


The place erupts again.


Instinct kicks in. I jump up and join the celebrations. I haven't a clue what we're celebrating but I'm certain it's not a Hearts goal. I'm hearing mixed reports. It's either full-time at Dens or Dundee have scored again. Don't care either way.

By the time the jumping stops I'm about ten yards away from my starting position, and fifteen away from my shoe.


'Come on, Ref. Blow your fuckin' whistle.'


Thousands of Celtic fans are flooding onto the park and the players are running for the tunnel. 

Bobby finds me and makes a grab for me and tries to drag me towards the park. I hold up my shoeless foot. He laughs like fuck and pulls a nip of a joint from his pocket. A few puffs later the terracing's empty enough to reveal my shoe.


We scramble to join the Celtic fans singing in the rain around the tunnel, but by the time we get there the call has already gone out to clear the park so the team can come back out and do a lap of honour. 


I scan the enclosure under the Main Stand for a sighting of my Da. I don't see him, but I feel him. I know he's here. He's here with his Da, and his Da's Da, and his Da's Da's Da. They all love Celtic. I love Celtic. If I'm lucky enough to have a son he'll love Celtic, too. It's in the blood and, on days like this, the blood sings.

Soaked we traipse back off the park to where we started. But nothing can dampen our spirits. Not even this Chernobyl rain dripping off my nose.


The team lopes back on to the park. They can't believe it either. The fans remind them.


'Walk on...Walk on...With hope in your heart..’


There's not a better sight or sound in football than Celtic fans doing You'll Never Walk Alone, but I can't join in, not yet. I've a smile as big as the great escape we've just pulled and cant get this other wee tune out my head:


Oh Love Street in the rain,

The Celts have won the league again...


God bless you, Da. You'll never walk alone.

Time To Bring Back The Jungle

On Saturday 6th April I attended a Celtic game with my son, almost forty years to the day since my dad took me to the Celtic v Dundee Scottish Cup Semi-Final. He took me to many games before that one but that's the first I can definitely place a time and date. I was six years old.

It's thirty years this month since my dad passed away suddenly. He was a typical working class man from the West of Scotland. Worked in a whisky bond during the week and watched Celtic at the weekends. Back then it didn't cost him anything extra to take me to the games; a lift over the gates ensured that, meaning I got to experience watching a Celtic team that was one of the best in Europe at a time when televised games were rare.

It's twenty one years since my own son was born. For many different reasons I've never attended a game with him. Money, or lack of it, being the most prevalent reason. I'm sure that's a similar tale for many.

Two friends attended the game with us on Saturday. Both were season ticket holders until recently and attended games home and away. None of them can afford that level of expenditure now and don't attend any games.

Over the last few weeks I've conducted a somewhat unscientific bit of empirical research. It won't be published in any respected scientific journal but it may or may not ring a few bells.

If I'm not working I watch most televised Celtic games either in my house or a friend's around the corner. There's usually about ten of us, ages ranging from twenty to forty six.

The youngest sometimes go to a few games but it's never planned and not regular.

The late twenties to early forties have all been season ticket holders in the past. None of them attend any games now.

I've never been a season ticket holder and rarely go to games these days. My time was the seventies and eighties, then I got married, a mortgage and a management job working weekends.

The reasons given for not attending games now were mainly cost, working weekends and watching weans.

I contacted a few old mates who stood in The Jungle back in the day. None of them go to the games now. They gave the same reasons as above.

All but one of those in this small sample has a job. The one that doesn't have a job lost his sight after being attacked.

Some of the jobs are security guard, plumber, social worker, waiter, labourer, factory worker.

More than half of them rent their home from a housing association of local authority.

They are working class.

They are working class Celtic supporters.

They are working class Celtic supporters who would love to be able to take their kids to games at Celtic Park.

They would love to not only see their team playing attacking football and winning matches, but also get their kids into the habit of going to games, like their dads did with them, and their dads before that.

The working class have been the core of the Celtic support since its humble beginnings.

It is this group who kept faith with the club during the lean years on the park between and after the wars.

That's because our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers' fathers believed Celtic represented them and their beliefs.

Not only was the club proud of its Irish roots but it also stood up for the poor in Glasgow's East End.

How many of today's poor in the East End of Glasgow can afford to watch Celtic at Celtic Park?

There's been a lot in the press recently, as well as a petition, about whether Conservative MP Ian Duncan Smith could survive on £53 a week.

More to the point, as far as this piece is concerned, is whether a father could take one of his kids to Celtic Park with the same £53.

Buying the cheapest seats for an adult and under 16 juvenile for the Celtic v Hibs game last week cost £40. This got you both seats with restricted views.

Adding travel and food costs soon took you over the £53 target, unless you lived within walking distance and are on a diet.

This level of pricing is a substantial barrier to many in Glasgow who class themselves as Celtic supporters but can't afford to physically support the team they love.

It is not their fault Glasgow is an economic black spot.

http://www.glasgoweconomicfacts.com/GetFile.aspx?itemid=22

The vast majority of the fan base are unseen for one reason or another. Many are below the poverty line and socially excluded.

These are the people the club was founded to help.

Does being skint make anyone less of a supporter than those able to afford going to games?

Does being able to afford Season Tickets, away games, European trips elevate individuals to preferred supporter status?

Is love of the club measured by an individual's economic status?

Season ticket sales boomed when the old ground was knocked down and replaced by the shiny new stadium.

I remember it fairly well for many reasons.

Here's one that stood out.

A number of my friends, most of whom I'd never attended a Celtic game with, all bought season tickets, because they could afford one.

This same group also took great pride in boasting about how many shares they'd bought.

The lads who'd travelled the country watching Celtic with me during the eighties stopped going to the games because they couldn't afford a season ticket.

Neither did any of them buy shares.

Looking back, it's fair to say there was a feeling of disenfranchisement among those of us in the lower socioeconomic grouping.

A split in our support had occurred.

However, the club could afford to ignore this split as the ground was full every week. In the eyes of Celtic everything was rosy.

The pounds were rolling in.

Quality players from around the world lined up to pull on the famous hoops.

The club was on the road to success off and on the park.

Yet, even with sixty thousand fans packed into the ground, the atmosphere during most games was sorely lacking.

There was a better atmosphere during the games I attended in the seventies and eighties even though the average crowds were much lower.

Surprise yourself by clicking the following link and finding out what size of crowds followed Celtic throughout their history.

http://www.fitbastats.com/celtic/club_records_league_attendance.php

The large average crowds of the last sixteen years have been something of an anomaly.

I believe, that like the UK's economy, the Celtic attendance bubble is about to burst.

What will the atmosphere be like when average crowds fall back to the levels they've been for the majority of the club's existence?

If sixty thousand fans couldn't create a decent atmosphere week-in week-out what chance for twenty-thirty thousand spread out in a sixty thousand all-sweater stadium?

This is one of many dilemmas facing Celtic.

Section 111 was given to a group of Celtic supporters to help create a better atmosphere at games.

Unfortunately, for Celtic's Chief Executive Peter Lawwell, this boisterous group of fans don't appear to subscribe to his vision of what Celtic represent.

This is not a criticism of Peter Lawwell's stewardship. He and the board have steered the ship well during the good times as the club rode the crest of a wave in terms of full houses at Celtic Park. But the times are indeed changing and the board must act accordingly.

The fans who packed into the old Jungle for decades were the beating heart of the atmosphere at Celtic Park.

The fans in Section 111 are now the beating heart of the atmosphere at Celtic Park.

Both beating hearts like to make a lot of noise and celebrate Irish history as well as Celtic's.

Celebrating Irish history entails remembering how a disenfranchised nation threw off the shackles of British Imperialism and oppression.

Celebrating Irish history entails recognising that the struggle for a united Ireland is ongoing and didn't end with the partition of Ireland.

Celebrating Irish history entails singing about individuals who gave their lives for their beliefs.

What today's group of fans don't sing about is Protestants.

Neither do they sing about any other religion.

Neither do they think it's alright to call anyone Pakis.

If there's one thing that needs repeating it's songs about Ireland are not in any way sectarian, no matter what some biased observers may claim.

Only recently Rangers blogger John Gow tried to pigeon-hole this type of singing as political sectarianism.

This is the sign of a desperate man who wants the Celtic support tarred with the same sectarian brush as the Rangers fans reported to the police by a television company.

Not even the Scottish government tried to attach the political sectarianism label to the signing of Irish songs.

They claim songs about the IRA are offensive, but they know the songs can't be classed as sectarian, because Flower of Scotland would have to be labelled likewise.

The dilemma facing Dermot Desmond and Peter Lawwell is this.

He could easily disband Section 111 by not renewing season tickets for that area for those situated there at present.

But doing so could prove disastrous. Season ticket sales will fall next season and without a dedicated singing section the old graveyard would have a better atmosphere than Celtic Park on match days.

There is, however, one way I'd give full support to Peter Lawwell if he decided to disband Section 111.

Follow the model implemented by the German teams in recent years. Remove all seating from the Lower North Stand. Reincarnate The Jungle.

Embrace the club's roots and make this area affordable to the poorer sections of Celtic supporters.

The place would be full and the noise incredible.

Alas, I am a dreamer.

For this group of supporters have more in common with those in Section 111 than those in the Celtic boardroom.

They won't go to watch Celtic. They'll go to support Celtic through colour and noise.

Some of that colour and noise might not be Peter Lawwell's cup of tea, but we must all remember, it's not his or Dermot Desmond's club.

The club belongs to the fans, and not just the fans who can afford Season Tickets, but also those fans who can't afford to actually go watch the team play. The poorer people in the East End of Glasgow and beyond. The reason the club was formed in the first place.

The business model that's served the club well over the last twenty years is a busted flush in terms of filling the ground.

The country is in a deeper recession than Thatcher's eighties.

Cameron and Osborne's austerity measures are attacking those in low-paid jobs and the unemployed.

The inhabitants of Scotland, and Glasgow's East End in particular, will suffer more than most.

It is time for the Celtic board to return the club to its roots, and one way of doing so is to introduce affordable pay at the gate safe standing areas to Celtic Park.

It is time to bring back The Jungle.

You Dare To Call Me A Terrorist?

Well, what a week. I'm sure if you're reading this you'll know exactly what I'm talking about so I won't spend time regurgitating a blow by blow account. However, I hope you'll forgive me for attempting to take a slightly irreverent look at recent events. The reason I ask preemptive forgiveness is due to the sky-high levels of anger, resentment, mistrust and desire for a fight among individuals and factions all claiming a stake-holding in this story.

Even the high and mighty (tongue firmly in cheek) and obsessed (tongue not in cheek) Chris Graham of The Rangers Standard thought the story too good to pass without a lengthy blog.

Let me make my position clear at the onset. I am part of no faction, cabal, clique, forum, website, knitting group or provisional army. I'm a humble independent. A bit like the anti-sleaze MP Martin Bell, but without the white suit. I'm also an advocate of free speech who finds it difficult to be offended by anything anyone says...or sings. Maybe I'm just not a reasonable enough person.

A small, but vocal, group of fans are at the vanguard (Can I use that word when discussing anything related to Celtic, or has it been hijacked by the uber-Protestant tub-thumpers who have a penchant for threatening anyone, including some of their own, that don't fully subscribe to their La-la land vision of planet earth?) of all that is dominating, not only every waking hour of Celtic fans obsessed with all things Celtic, but also the consciences of leading politicians, QC's and, of course, obsessed Rangers bloggers.

Love them, loathe them or don't really care about them, you have to admit that, like Celtic in Europe this season, this small group are able to punch above their weight regarding being heard.

Disclaimer: just because I use the the phrase 'punch above their weight' doesn't mean I'm trying to attach any subliminal messages of violence to the group. Nor am I insinuating they're all wee men in need of a good feed. Just like race, religion, political beliefs or class I don't discriminate against fat, thin, tall, small or medium people, or those who prefer Coronation Street to Eastenders.

Such is the heightened anxiety among some, and the feverish appetite for digging dirt among others, it seems every word must be carefully chosen and triple checked for fear of it being used against you in evidence, whether in a court of law or the court of public opinion on social media.

And lo and behold anyone stupid enough to want to sing songs that any reasonable person may find offensive.

There's that 'reasonable person' again.

Okay, let's get it out there.

Anyone who gets offended by someone singing about their history or traditions, and wants them jailed for doing so, cannot possibly be as reasonable a person as they would have us believe. In fact, if they are intolerant of those who wish to sing such songs then it is these so-called reasonable persons who are the bigots.

Singing songs is how some people celebrate their culture. Would all the politically correct middle classes be so quick to condemn if one of the teams had an African connection and sung about slavery?

I think not.

I'm not saying all the songs are wonderful little melodies with enlightening lyrics. But it is part of the culture of a larger section of society than just those who frequent social media with their 'I'm offended at everything' philosophy.

But it's against the law I hear the panty-wetters also cry from the safe distance of their conservatories.

Do they believe revolutionaries who decide to make a stand against the state will be treated in an appropriate manner whereby the full force of the law will hit them so hard they'll be shot through the earth and reemerge in Australia?

No, wait, an enlightened nation wouldn't send criminals to the other side of the world for what is, in effect, victimless crimes. Well, not now anyway.

But still, these dastardly criminals, especially the ones who dare sing songs about terrorists fighting the evil empire, should be locked up, according to Darth Salmond and his FoCus stormtroopers.

Perhaps he has a valid point. What reasonable person wants to live in a society where sections of the community rejoice in the actions of alleged terrorists?

Some readers might be shocked at the use of the alleged in that last statement. In fact, many will be downright outraged at this humble writer taking such a liberty. Everyone knows the British government labelled the Irish Republican Army as terrorists.

But, as I'm sure many of you will say, it's not as simple as that.

Here's a link to a lengthy article about the problems of defining Terrorism.

http://www.ict.org.il/ResearchPublications/tabid/64/Articlsid/432/Default.aspx

And here's a link to an article about atrocities carried out by the British Army.

http://www.britisharmykillings.org.uk/page/113/The-Issuess

How does the song go again?

You dare to call me a terrorist while you look down your gun.

But we must follow the laws of the land in which we live is still the call from those with their eyes closed.

If everyone thought like them Britain would still own America.

Thankfully, American rebels, brave enough to stand up for what they believed, took on the might of the British Empire and won their freedom.

What's the difference between those gallant American patriots and the Irish Republican movement?

Imagine if Britain had said to America, 'Okay, you can have your independence, but we're keeping six states.'

How long would that have lasted before an American Republican Army attempted to right that wrong?

But let's not get too bogged down in history. We're here for a quick laugh at the ludicrousness of Alex 'The Fuhrer' Salmond's flagship Bill.

I can't help think it's just as well this new Offensive Behaviour Bill isn't retrospective. If it was then The Special A.K.A. could be facing life sentences for their blatantly outrageous propaganda campaign that culminated in them releasing a song calling for the immediate release of a terrorist convicted of plotting to overthrow the regime.

Warning: clicking this link will not only lead to a song about releasing a terrorist from captivity, it will also linger in your head longer than necessary and may pop out at an inopportune moment thus causing personal distress and embarrassment.

http://youtu.be/fm7p-RLFg2I

It is worth repeating that not only did this song directly challenge the British government's stance on Mr Mandela, it was also one of those tunes that, once in your head, would stay there all day and drive you nuts.

This was an example of politically motivated subliminal subversion, or words to that effect. Radio stations promoted the evil campaign by constantly playing the song.

Once-innocent, law-abiding citizens found themselves absently singing aloud whilst performing menial chores or watching landscapes drift by sitting in trains, buses and cars.

'Freeeeeeee-eeee Nelson Mandela.'

Friends and family would give these lost souls a little nudge to awaken and disturb them from their renditions, only to start doing likewise a short time later.

'Freeeeeeee-eeee Nelson Mandela.'

It finally got to the stage where millions of people around the world where being driven nuts by the horribly catchy tune loitering in their heads for days and weeks on end.

There was only one thing to do in order to save the world.

Nelson Mandela the terrorist was freed, and instantly became Nelson Mandela everyone's favourite uncle.

The world rejoiced at the sight of Nelson Mandela strolling to freedom, and breathed a sigh of relief as the song about freeing him was finally and definitively confined to the archives.

But, lest we forget, if this Offensive Behaviour Bill had been operational and global at the time, the song might never have been heard publicly, and poor Nelson Mandela would still be locked-up to this day.

In fact, if the British government of the day had their way Mr Mandela would still be locked up.

Here's a few quotes:

'This hero worship is very much misplaced'- John Carlisle MP, on the BBC screening of the Free Nelson Mandela concert in 1990

'The ANC is a typical terrorist organisation ... Anyone who thinks it is going to run the government in South Africa is living in cloud-cuckoo land' - Margaret Thatcher, 1987

'How much longer will the Prime Minister allow herself to be kicked in the face by this black terrorist?' - Terry Dicks MP, mid-1980s

'Nelson Mandela should be shot' - Teddy Taylor MP, mid-1980s

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/from-terrorist-to-tea-with-the-queen-1327902.html

Yesterday's terrorists could be today's political and moral leaders. Because for everyone who claims so and so is a terrorist there are others who claim so and so is nothing more than a freedom fighter fighting oppression.

http://antiwar.com/pat/?articleid=2141

So, as you can see, tarring anyone with the terrorist brush is not as clear cut as some would like to believe.

If only Jerry Dammer's (founder and song writer for The Specials) muse had grabbed him earlier and taken him in a different direction then Scotland and Britain, if not the world, might be different place.

He wrote Free Nelson Mandela in 1984 after attending an anti-apartheid concert. Imagine he'd written a catchy wee number and called it Free Bobby Sands instead.

Where's the Justice?

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.

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?