Yeah, I’m talking to you lot. You know who you are. The gutter scum, the filth, the detritus of humanity who disgraced your club, who disgraced Scottish football, who disgraced yourselves (not that you’ll acknowledge that) with your act of criminal singing on Saturday at Berwick.
I think it’s fair to say the rest of the country has been tolerant of some of your bitching and moaning up until now, because you, poor heartbroken, sad and tragic you are having to get used to the fact the team you claim to follow – I refute the notion you have anything at all to do with football, of course – have been reduced to a third rate side in the fourth tier league of Scotland, a country most of football ranks as a fifth tier power.
You know what though? Tolerance and understanding are so yesterday. It’s time to call you what you are. An occasional embarrassment and a permanent disgrace. Not to your football club, but to humanity in general. You say you want to leave Scotland? Shit, just tell me when you’re thinking of going, and I’ll help you pack your bags. Do you think Scotland wants you? Do you think Scotland needs you? Backward, bigoted and bitter, you will not be mourned. You will not be missed. If it would get rid of you quicker, I’d pay for the buses to drive you all to the airport.
To take you where? Anywhere. And your hate-filled song book with you. No more tolerance and understanding. Some can label it a response to the circumstances you find yourselves in, others can make pitiful excuses for you like you don’t really understand what you’re singing. But those of us with half a brain cell (which makes us 1000% smarter than you) know full well that’s a crock, a pile of steaming bullshit. You know exactly what you’re doing. The hate is the purest part of you, the essence of all that makes you who you are.
We don’t want it here. So take your show on the road. Piss off.
So go. Just sodding well go. Depart, for wherever the Hell you want. Launch your legal actions. Fight tooth and nail to get out of the country which has oppressed you and hates you, the country where if the Unseen Fenian Hand isn’t trying to steal your titles its pushing your face into the shit. You know, the shit? It’s that place where you belong, the place you crawled up from, the place that vomited you forth into this world.
You don’t belong here. Not in Scotland. Preferably not on the Earth. Maybe, out there, amidst the stellersphere, there is a Planet Arsehole, and if so I’d suggest you go there. There you can indulge the full gamut of your hate. There you can give vent to the totality of your detestation for anything not you. Hell, do you even like each other? Weren’t your brothers-in-arms across the water not offing each other at a prodigious rate before they got all steamed up over a flag recently? You do know those ideas you espouse went out of style about 500 years ago, right? If your clothes matched your ideology you’d get laughed out of the grubby dens you drink in.
This isn’t my normal level of debate. I usually like to write long pieces, removed of emotional language, unless it’s for effect. But those pieces also tend to use big words, often words of more than one syllable and which you would find hard to understand. This is why I’m lowering the tone. You know, the way you did at the weekend.
Your own club has condemned you. That should be the first big hint that when you sing “no-one likes us we don’t care” you’ve got a better grasp of your place in the world than your chants of “We Are the People” would suggest. Because the People, you most certainly are not, unless by People you mean semi-illiterate, sewer-dwelling, inbred trailer trash brought up on rotting meat and Mad Dog 20/20. Then, yes, I’d have to give you that one too.
I say it again; your own club has disavowed you. Yes, I think they could have been more forceful in their condemnation, and I think the manager showed himself up as either a gutless fraud or a closet bigot by pretending he didn’t hear you, but to have apologised for your actions before the game was even finished says it all. Even the fans forums in which the mindless tend to congregate were filled with condemnation for what you did. I ask you; when even RangersMedia is calling you a disgrace, you have to wonder how far out of bounds you allowed yourselves to go.
Most of the people on those forums care about their club, and they realised on Saturday, and probably not for the first time, that you people don’t. Call yourselves football fans all you want. You have as much to do with football as I do with ballroom dancing, and you have as much business in a stadium as I have putting on a leotard and a pair of pointy shoes. (I shudder even thinking about it, to be frank).
People will say your club has not done enough to get rid of you, and I agree with that, but I also think that on some level there’s been an understanding within consecutive boardrooms that they would be better off if you were gone. Murray knew the anti-Catholic signing barrier had to be broken down, but he and Souness found a way to do it that screwed us, and so they got away with it. Once the barrier was broken there was no going back. I always secretly admired them for that, for finding a way to do it which didn’t alienate the people like you. What I couldn’t understand was this; after that wall came down, and the majority of fans got over it, they still insisted on pandering to your moronic, mindless attitudes. Yes, we can have Catholic players, but they must not demonstrate or advertise their faith. Yes, we can have a Catholic captain, but he must learn to sing The Sash as loudly and proudly as any home-grown Protestant boy.
Yes, your club could have done more. It could have done a lot more. But even I know they look at you and see nothing but a shit smear on the carpet. Yet that’s nothing compared to the contempt with which you’re viewed elsewhere, and I don’t mean across town at Celtic Park, or in the stands at other clubs. I mean within your own support. In the stands at Ibrox, you are surrounded, every single week, by people who wish you were rooted out.
This isn’t about Rangers. I haven’t even categorised this as a Rangers post, because it’s not. The truth is, you have sod all to do with Rangers anyway. Your hate would exist if the club did not. Your bile would be poured out regardless.
Everywhere the decent supporters of Rangers go they carry the baggage of your behaviour. When they tell the world what their team is, they invariably have to cope with someone in the vicinity rolling their eyes. That’s not their fault. That is your fault. They hate you more than we do, because they have more reason to.
Two of the greatest events in the history of their club were ruined by you. There aren’t many clubs who can boast two riots at two European finals. Rangers can. That is your crowning achievement. Not many clubs can boast numerous UEFA warnings for sectarian singing – a phrase UEFA didn’t even consider existed before Rangers. Your club can. That is your accomplishment. Aside from the last 12 months, some of the darkest hours visited upon your football club were a direct result of your actions. It must make you proud. I know it gets a reaction from the rest of your fans.
The pure and simple truth is this; it is not really your club that is hated. It is you. It is not really the institution which is despised, but your version of it. The anti-Catholic, anti-Irish, wrapped in the Union Jack, God and Ulster version of Rangers which, actually, exists only in your own small, simple minds. Only a staggeringly huge arrogance, and an astoundingly low intellect can believe the essence of the club would be removed if you were gone because your removal would be the single best thing that has happened to Rangers in years.
You are what’s dragging it down. You are what’s holding it back.
So I say again; why don’t you just go? You talk about it often enough. You hate your country, with a passion that’s almost unbelievable, and with the way you behave your country hates you, and with plenty of good reasons. What are you waiting for? Get going.
Except … no-one else wants you. It’s only here in this country, where the media is subservient enough to tolerate you, where the political class is too cowardly to take meaningful action, and where there are enough shallow sympathisers to your cause that you could actually find a home. Even across the water, they don’t want to know about all this crap anymore, except for a few hold-outs, existing on the margins.
You think you’ll be welcome down in England? Bzzzz! Wrong answer! For one thing, all that “No Pope of Rome” cobblers just won’t fly down there. You think you’ll get away from religious education? Ha! You’re in for a big surprise. Per head of the population there are more Catholic schools down there than there are up here, and the further south you go (how about Lands End? When you get there, just keep on walking …) the more you come into contact with Sikh’s, Muslims and other religions … and if you think condemnation in the Catholic Free Press is bad, wait to see what happens the first time you sing “we’re up to our knees in Muslim blood”.
England doesn’t want you. Memories of Manchester are fresh in the minds. Fat beer gutted yahoos, fighting with the cops, urinating in gardens, staggering along the street pished one minute, charging the police line the next … honestly, leave your girlfriends at home next time you travel away in Europe … and your own behaviour was no better! (Obviously, I’m trying to be funny there. Talking about the next time you travel away in Europe, I mean … )
Italy and Spain are out, out, out, for obvious reasons. Not a chance. Let’s face it, Scandinavia is out because they don’t do the Buckfast Diet in any of the supermarkets. France wouldn’t have you, and besides, didn’t you know? The Unseen Fenian Hand is powerful there, so powerful our own Craig Whyte has retired to the south of the country to sup wine, eat grapes and get himself a tan. He gets 100 Best Wishes cards a day, I hear … someone likes him anyway ….
What about Germany, I hear some of you thinking? (It makes that sound you get when you shake an empty spray paint can). Germany is definitely out. Look again at all that wonderful TV footage you have from the “good old days” and take note; it’s in black and white you morons. It’s from the 30’s. The guy with the moustache is long since dead, and those big fancy meetings they used to have, the ones that look like an extremely well regimented Orange Walk, they’re illegal over there now and just about everywhere else. Sorry to burst your bubble. Yes, Glasgow is twinned with Nuremberg, but in that city, at least, they no longer allow the filth of the day to parade through the streets preaching hate. One day we might even follow suit.
You are loved by no-one. Wanted by no-one. Respected by no-one. Hated by everyone. Us, the club you claim to follow, its supporters and all the neutrals who, on Saturday, were watching in utter bewilderment and disgust as the songs of hate polluted their TV screens.
In the movie Michael Collins, Liam Neeson is talking to Aiden Quinn about the corrupting power of hate. Collins realises he’s become a violent man, not the man he wanted to be. And he’s realised too that he does hate his enemies. But it’s his reason for the hate I’ve always found to be right on.
“I do hate them,” he says. “I hate them for making hate necessary.”
That just about nails it for me, yet, in another movie, Braveheart, there’s an even more wonderful summary for how myself and many others feel when we hear your disgusting anthems. Robert the Bruce’s father is about to die, and he has taught his son one final lesson, or so he thinks. The son draws a different conclusion from it.
“Now you know what it is to hate,” the father tells him. “Now you’re ready to be a King.”
The Bruce walks to the door and looks back and says, “My hate will die with you.”
The sooner you lot are gone the better.
Whenever you’re ready gentlemen … let’s get those bags packed.
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