fiskers_sleeping_fanI’m weary.

Weary of it all. The whole shebang. Weary of all the lies, the untruths, and the pandering to the hordes; of the cover ups, the denials, the spin and the deflections and the pure brass-necked cheek of it all.

I’m weary of the “next saviour” stories; of the “Wealth Off the Radar”, of the spivs and the Gallant Pioneers, of the war-chests and the Vanguard Bears, the Sons of Struth and the pure blind ignorance of it all.

I’m weary of the “Military Celebration Days”, of brogues and blazers and the lies that tie them together like the bandages that swaddle a dried out mummy. 

I’m weary of Charles Green, of Charlotte Fakes, of the Easedales and the sweaty, overweight fizog of Ally McCoist. I’m weary of Dave King.

I’m weary of the Daily Record and its attempted white-wash of history. I’m weary of Keith Jackson, Hugh Keevins, Tom English and the other so-called Journalists that plague us like biblical locusts.

I’m weary of Sevco Scotland, Sevco 5088, The Rangers Football Club, Rangers International Football Club or whatever name they’ll call themselves next. I’m weary of the court cases, weary of the slander, weary of the press releases by Jack Irvine, the inane ramblings of Jim Traynor, the suspicion and the hatred of anything that is not Sevco.

I’m weary of “we’re the same club”.

Why won’t they just accept the truth?

Accept it: your club is dead and gone. The world moves on. Accept it.

Think of it as karmic punishment for the crimes against football and the greater footballing community you exposed us all to. For the riots and the bigotry, the hatred and the violence that you rained down on those you saw as lesser beings, from your “lofty” position atop the Scottish footballing pyramid, placed there by the same grubby hands that grasped yours in darkened corners of the corridors of power.

Think of it as a chance to purge yourselves of all the bile accrued over decades of fiscal abuse.

Think of it as a chance to cleanse the footballing landscape of our once great country.  We can be great once again, as could you. We could rise again to footballing majesty…but the path cannot be walked with hatred, muttering conspiratorially under your breath about plots against your team by the rest of us.  Think of it as attrition. Apologise and we can move on.

I’ll tell you the single most important thing you’ll ever hear.


You. Will. Never. Be. What. You. Were. Before.

Got that? Your team will never again be at the top of the footballing food-chain.  Your methods and avenues of corruption lie ruined like all other systems of oppression.

Where now is your beloved Sir David?  Hiding in shame. The man who lorded it over the rest of us with his talk of decades of dominance and Tenners for Fivers hides his face from publicity and, rightly, the ire and wrath of your supporters.

Despite your protestations and your cries, you already know this deep down…and it hurts.

Oh, you can harp and sing about smashing 3rd division teams 8-0, with your 7 million pound wage bill, and dream up the next “world record” but it all rings false.  You must know this? But you’ll never admit it, will you? You, the people who threatened officials, who sent nail bombs to opposition managers. You: the “Peepul” consumed by fear and hatred and anger. You are not “The People”. You never were and you never will be.

This is why the rest of us watch on while the carrion birds pick over your undead carcass.  This is why we stand by idly while you’re smashed upon the rocks of administration.

This is why we laugh, why we point and why we chuckle. The jokes on you. There’s nothing better than a bully getting his comeuppance.

Think on that while you play Brechin, while you stand shivering in Stranraer and frozen in Forfar. While the rest of us try to piece back together the smashed image of Scottish Football, blown apart by your failure to help maintain the game, crumbled by the weight of your deceit, you’ll be standing outside the window, watching, waiting, hoping to be let back inside.

But you never will be as long as you act like this.

I’m weary of you. Aren’t you weary of yourselves yet?

Give us all a rest.

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2 thoughts on “Weary

  • 3 December, 2013 at 5:57 pm

    I wholeheartedly agree with every one of your words.

    However I claim to be even wearier than you. I am fast approaching my 64th birthday and I have been weary of these people since I was old enough to think for myself.

    Weary of the discrimination against people of my religion.

    Weary of the racism directed towards people from my background.

    Weary of being treated as second class by people who are my intellectual inferiors.

    Weary of years of bile and hatred.

    Weary of their marching season.

    Weary of the “Rangers man” syndrome” which permeates Scottish society.

    Weary of their “secret” handshakes.

    I wish to God I could go home!

  • 4 December, 2013 at 12:47 am

    A couple of weeks ago I was speaking with an old work associate for the first time in about 10 yrs. Once we got the work shenanigans out the way, we soon got on to football. I learned he was now a supporter of the new club from down Govan way, having done the fan’s equivalent of a TUPE with his supporters’ rights.

    The conversation followed the inevitable and obvious path in that Scottish football was weaker since the not-so-sorry demise (my words, not his) of Glasgow Rangers (1872); how Celtic have suffered with the lack of competition from not having The Rangers (2012) in the league. Although, it didn’t seem to affect our performance in last season’s CL from which they were also absent.

    The icing on the cake, or the ice-cream on the jelly, was this. He thought that the way The New Rangers are cantering through the 3rd tier of the SPFL was, quite frankly, embarrassing. When I stopped laughing, I had to correct this blinkered notion. It’s not that they’re on their way to winning the 3rd division by a record margin that’s embarrassing – it’s being in that division that’s embarrassing.

    The new club seems to be as deluded from the start, as the old club was at the end.

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