Absolute staunchness

Someone so staunch . . . someone so chosen  . . . someone who's one of the people . . . you'd think he would look happier:

Stuck in Perth pissed off . . .

Your lads scrambled a draw against St J., and news comes through from the east end of Glasgow:

Hideous Kent

That's my screensaver sorted for the rest of the season:

C'est Magnifique

They welcome the chase, don't you know?

A Judy Collins fan blubs . . .

One drawback of leaving stuff on your desktop that you were meaning to use in happier days is that if you leave it lying around long enough, it will come back to bite you in the arse. December 30th 2017 was not a good day . . . and nobody in green and white was laughing. 

Granted, it could have been a lot worse. Can Dembele do an offski for a shedload of cash now? I fear my current hoops dream, Leigh Griffiths, will go the way of Riordan and McCourt. (I know, I'm stretching it a bit here.)

The above screen grab has been waiting patiently on the desktop since the 18th of August of last year. I really missed my punchline there, reader.

"The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades . . . " (Part 1967)

Not my own work, obviously: too witty and touched by genius.

"Did anyone see the Eclipse? HH"

Back in the old world

Pack Men by Alan Bissett (Hachette Scotland 2011)

Let us blame nostalgia. I was born in 1984, two years before Graeme Souness took over Rangers and caused a sea-change in Scottish football. Rangers were thinking big and spending big, and the rest of the Scottish league trailed in their red, white and blue wake for well over a decade. I had a phase of Rangers-supporting, which lasted from about the ages of eleven to fifteen (until I grew out of it, y'know, like proper adults should) coming just at the end of the Nine In A Row era, when Rangers won the league year-upon-year and the only thing Celtic fans had to cheer was Ireland winning Eurovision, and when they were still challenging to be a major European club. That kind of thing leaves a mark on a boy, which even the deep mental cleansing of an arts degree can't quite wash away.

Let us blame: Colin 'Frannie' Franton.

WhoHasBeenwaitingForThisDayAllofHisRangersSupportingLife

AndWhoHadtheBusBookedtheMinuteNachoNovoScoredThePenaltytoPutRangersintotheFinal

That'sRightAlvin

TheUEFA!

C U P!

F I N A L!

Let us blame: Wee Jack. Neil took Jack to a game at Ibrox last month, and Dolby, incensed, demanded of Leanne that he, as the boy's own father, should be the only one permitted to take Jack to a football match. This is despite the fact that Dolby can't even stand football, let alone Rangers, and that Jack described his Ibrox experience with Neil as both 'boring' and 'weird'. So how does Dolby top Ibrox? Manchester. All to get back at some other fucker.

Aye well that's men for ye, son.

Leanne only let Dolby on the condition that Jack wasn't going to be subjected to drunk men pishing against buildings. 'Never mind the songs,' she'd said. 'He cannay understand whit they're about anyway. It's the pishin in public I cannot abide. Dirty.'

Let us blame: given Dolby's a father, I've been working like a pharoah's slave on the pyramids of books at the front of Potterstone's, and Frannie's out spinning discs in Falkirk bars most weekends - fuelling his dream of swapping the early-morning shifts in Tesco for the Radio 1 Breakfast Show, ignoring the playlist with a crisp wink and a thumbs-up to the webcam - we just hardly ever see each other any more. Trying to get the bastards twenty miles from Falkirk to Edinburgh requires the summoning powers of the One Ring. We have to take an opportunity for Lads' action where we can, especially with Brian gone, the same way everyone rushes outside when there's sunshine. I didn't want Dolby being the only poor, lone, not-that-fussed-about-the-Gers-refusenik on the bus, so I came with him. Why not? It's the sort of thing we would've done, way back, when both Brian and I were still in Falkirk and all four of us were presuming our eternal presence in each other's lives.

Rangers 1872: The Gallant Pioneers by Gary Ralston (Breedon Books 2009)

Undoubtedly, Rangers suffered at the hands – and wallets – of the English clubs, who set up raiding parties that would have been the envy of any 16th-century border reiver. First to go in 1880 was Scottish international Hugh McIntyre, older brother of Tuck and a member of the Cup Final team of 1879, who quit for Blackburn Rovers after they bought him a pub in the town. He went on to win three FA Cup-winners’ medals in successive seasons with his new side in 1884, 1885 and 1886. He was followed to the Lancashire club by founding father Peter Campbell and, although he played several times for Blackburn, he never moved to the area. Rangers lost another stalwart of the 1879 team, William Struthers, who signed for Bolton Wanderers in 1881, quickly followed to the same club by half-back John Christie, no doubt lured by the promise of riches extolled by his former teammate. The finger lingered around the influence of Hugh McIntyre, in particular, in convincing young Scots to ply their trade in the south because then, as now, there were lucrative finders’ fees up for grabs. Agents were despised and routinely beaten up and one G.L. Harrison from Nottingham had cause to wish he had never wandered down the Copland Road on 1 August 1889, when he arrived in Glasgow in a bid to lure defender John Hendry, an early darling of the Light Blues legions, south of the border.   Harrison’s plan was cunning, as he roped in then Scotland striker Jimmy Oswald (who later went on to play for Rangers) to accompany him to Ibrox on the promise of a £5 commission if they persuaded Hendry south. They had already trawled the player’s home town of Uddingston in a vain bid to track him down, but the fear of losing their top talents was so strong among many of the leading Scots clubs, including Rangers, that they regularly formed vigilance committees to keep their non-professionals (in theory at least) away from the paid ranks of the English game. Word quickly spread around Ibrox, which was hosting an amateur sports that Thursday evening, of the danger in their midst. Panic ensued and Hendry was quickly shepherded away from the dangerous suitors while Oswald, who played for Notts County, was led to safety, surviving the baying mob only because of his standing in the game and the presence of a team from the Rangers committee around him. Harrison was not so lucky as he attempted to sneak from the ground and down Copland Road, only to be accosted by two irate Bears. The full story then unfolded in the Scottish Sport, filed by ‘an eye witness’ with more than a hint of eager pleasure:
‘“You are looking for someone?” politely enquired the smallest of the two, as they came up with their prey.
“No-no,” replied the tall, handsome swell – for with all his audacity he looked a swell – but he did so with a look and hesitancy which identified him at once.
“We were told you were looking for someone,” insisted the sly, self-possessed questioner.
“Oh, no. There…there must be some mistake.”
“Were you not wishing to see John Hendry of the Rangers?”
An enquiring glance at his tormentors and a faltering “no” was the reply.
Then the second party spoke, but it was aside, and as if to his companion. “What’s the use o’ makin’ a clown o’ me. I thocht it was a good thing. I’ll awa’ back to Oswald,” and he cast a withering look at his apparently perplexed companion.
The trick had fairly trapped the agent however, for in answer to a last attempt to draw him, his wily inquisitor was at length assured, in a half apologetic tone, that he did want to see Hendry and that he had at first denied his real mission because of the fear he had of the club’s supporters, whose attentions were evidently not of the most reassuring.
“Well, this is Hendry,” said the sly one, after a little more cross questioning, and pointing to his companion who, I need hardly say, was only a cruel impersonator playing a part in the interests of his club.
The “swell” became reassured, looked more like his audacious self, and prepared to do business.
“Do you want me to go to England?” inquired the bogus Hendry after being duly introduced and informed of the terms.
“Yes, I want you to go to England.”
“Are you perfectly sure you want me to go to England?”
“Yes.”
“Well, take that!” and before anyone could say Jack Robinson the seducer was sent sprawling on the ground with a lick which could scarcely be described as a baby-duster.
 The elongated representative of the ascendant element in English football was not long in getting to his feet, but there was no fight in him. He took to his heels and, as if pursued by an evil spirit, careered down the road at the most undignified speed imaginable. Unfortunately for him, a crowd of unsympathetic Rangers were coming up the road as he was frantically tearing down and they, taking the situation at a glance, cruelly intercepted him and he was once more in the remorseless hands of the Philistines.
  There is no use in prolonging the sequel; sufficient to say that, after a good bit of running in as earnest an obstacle race as was ever ran, he reached Princes Street, about half a mile away, where he was mercifully taken in by a young Samaritan married couple, and allowed to sufficiently recover from his baptism of fright and fists to be able to be sent to his hotel [St Enoch’s] in a cab. When I saw the bold adventurer lying low upon a couch, blanched, speechless, and sick unto death, with several well known members of the Rangers holding his low lying head, and timing his quick beating pulse, I did think that the way of transgressors is hard. Probably G.L. Harrison will not again put his prominent features within a mile of Ibrox Park on a similar errand.

Wahlööped

MALMAO

A joke shamelessly nicked from AB over at Facebook.

Five minutes in . . . .

Kilmarnock 0 Rangers 3

A Peace Envoy from Polmadie

It's getting repetitive but I can't resist another YouTube clip via the good folk at Urban 75.

Absolutely hilarious and, as the uploader on YouTube points out, beware of the:

". . . dangers of running clips of people with strong Scots accents without checking what they're saying. BBC North West Tonight, 6.30pm, September 14."

Hat tip to 'Strung Out'.

If I Was . . .

. . . the Daily Record's sub-editor, 'Murray's Prayer' would have my back page headline for this wee bit of transfer news.

I'm away to put the kettle on whilst you, dear reader, tries to work out what I'm wittering on about.

A (previously used) picture tells a thousand words and all that . . .

Tony Mowbray leads R*ngers to their 53rd league title.

And the bloke in the blue is not a young Frank Skinner. He sussed out Mowbray months ago.

FFS, I'm away down the farmer's market.

24 Carat Winker

Lafferty hears that Drogba might be leaving Chelski, and decides to submit an audition tape.

Yes, and R*ngers are now odds on to win the title.

Cometh the hour, cometh the high bee?

I've no need to hastily construct a Temporary Autonomous Hibernian fan zone; I'll always have the highest regard for Derek Riordan. Even if it is the case that I can never pronounce his name properly.

'Tonight, Matthew, I will be diving that way'.

Is it too much to hope that Riordan does the business tonight?

It's all well and good(ish) winning dodgy penalties against the jam tarts, and then winding up the home support after cooly slotting home said pen but think of the pleasure of sticking it to both R*ngers and Gordon Strachan in the space of one match?

As Hibs are 0/3 against R*ngers this season, this is written more in hope than judgement but if Hibs don't get a result tonight - and by result, I mean three points - I can't see Celtic winning a fourth consecutive title.

Actually, what am I thinking? Riordan will probably get the winner against R*ngers tonight and then score two against Celtic on Sunday. It's probably what Celtic deserve this year.

This stream of rambling consciousness has been brought to you via 10 chewed down fingernails and a seen better days Brooklyn sofa.

Their Wullie

"But the final years of his career were dogged by controversy. His most shameful act came during his stint at Ibrox, when he stamped on John McMaster's head; the Aberdeen player needed the kiss of life as a result. "I'm not proud of that," he says today. "It's no excuse but I thought he was Willie Miller. Miller was a great player but he was a hard man and deserved some of his own treatment back. Unfortunately I got the wrong player."

Skip past the opening paragraph - which is absolute bollocks - for an entertaining article about R*ngers' Willie Johnston, half wing-wizard/half thuggish wind-up merchant, from yesterday's Guardian Football Blog.

It pains to me to write it but people forget what a good team R*ngers had in the late sixties, early seventies. It just happened to be their misfortune to come up at that time against a better team . . . better club . . . better fans . . . better set of human beings . . . you get the partisan drift.

PS - Be sure to check out the comments to the article as well for other 'wee incidents' from Johnston's career. It turns out that decades on from his retirement, he's still a footballer and human being that splits opinion. This comment about his time playing football in Canada caught me eye:

I had the pleasure of watching Willie in Vancouver. They were an exciting squad to watch.

In one game at old Empire Stadium, Johnston was bedeviling the visitors (I forget which side) and the Caps were winning handily. His marker, tired of being skinned, had resorted to all manner of tactics in a vain attempt to contain the winger. Finally, deep in the second half, he grabbed Johnston's sleeve and pulled quite briskly two or three times, without a whistle or any sign from the ref he was going to control the player. Finally, exasperated, Johnston spun around, grabbed the defender by both shoulders and planted a knee in his groin.

The ref saw that.

After the watershed

I know it's through a glass darkly but don't you think that Billy Mehmet looks a wee bit like Henrik Larsson in the pic?

I think what makes me think that way is the combination of the bald head and the joyous expression on his face after his team have gubbed R*ngers.

Brings back happy memories.

Before the watershed

R*ngers supporters in humour bypass shocker.

This time next week: *Pope admits to wearing pointy hat*.

Special K

Weekly Bulletin of The Socialist Party of Great Britain (58)

Dear Friends,

Welcome to the 58th of our weekly bulletins to keep you informed of changes at Socialist Party of Great Britain @ MySpace.

We now have 1316 friends!

Recent blogs:

Poles Apart? - The Arctic, Capitalism and Global Warming

The Curse of Money

History as mystery

Quote for the week:

"Et non dicatis aliquid proprium, sed sint vobis omnia communia": 'Call nothing your own, but let everything be yours in common'. [St. Augustine, ca. 400AD.]

Continuing luck with your MySpace adventures!

Robert and Piers

Socialist Party of Great Britain