Again, in Boredom: Lennon
It gives me no pleasure to once more address the Lennon issue.
I am at a loss to why anyone would wish to improve his standing among his tribe by assisting him to martyrdom. Let’s all give those wise fellows of the Celtic Board the opportunity to deal appropriately with their manager’s predilection to violence – in every aspect of his life.
Lets us give him not the oxygen of publicity, but instead wish him and his kind a long and happy retirement – preferably down the Shankhill. That way he won’t have to deal with a balanced, plural society. A communion of equals.
…. the small matter of football
I watched with pride and confidence the composure of Naismith, Weir, and Whiticker, as they guided the hand fate to beat a very good Dundee United side. For an ugly moment I felt Scottish Football wasn’t in the parlous state I frequently alluded. In fact a few moments of pride captured my sentiment as my eyes ran over the line of the old wall, adjacent to the technical area, I sheltered behind in those bleak mid-winters of yesteryear. I welled up – or was it the torrential rain? Most likely rain.
The ghosts of triumphs past danced across my inner eye as Willie Waddell tripped the wing, magicing the cross to the head of Kitchenbrand with which he’d demolish the posts (rather than score). Did they ever play together? Memory is such a fickle thing when recalling the romance of youth in football past. Was that Fergie that fell rather than scored? (we called him Fergie, or young Fergie back then, not Sir Alex or God).
Eh? The past. How we loved our heroes! And there were none like Scott or Henderson putting the impudent interlopers to the sword. Caldow swerved and manoeuvred the twenty pound soaking leather to Niven as big George kept things safe at the back.
But the quality and style fetched me back from the warmth of recall to football present as Walter urged, in his firebrand mode, that his men of the moment be all they can be.
But in that moment of victory, when the old songs that would call the faithful to arms in times long passed, rang out in my reverie, I was grateful for the rain as I sang my pledge to long lost tribal loyalties. In these moments the last thing I needed was Walter to rise to the call for his esteemed presence to bow away gracefully as he hugged his most precious legacies – no, not his all be last team – his grandchildren.
Mercifully, the vision of football future hove into view as one young Mr McCoist made a modest, cursory appearance to haul me back to reality.
Does he need to spend money to make things even better? Just an aside: How do you make things better than coming first boringly often? However, he probably does if he’s to resurrect our hopes for doing something convincing in the Europa League or possibly even the Champions’ League. It was indeed a happy football carol.
But ….. the moving finger writes and having writ moves on ….
Talking Finance
Modern financial disciple demands that a business ignore its customers, their wants and needs, create a monopoly position for itself, pillage the poor and needy, the faithful, the stupid; get direct debits, to access bank accounts, as frequently as possible from the gullible, and create a system and a workforce sufficiently degraded to allow for an explanation of incompetence to account for over billing, and banditry.
Mr Whyte promises front loaded investment and financial discipline. OK, but hold the show! What did we do to him? We’ve just kept his latest investment opportunity (in case you weren’t listening while I was talking, that means Rangers Football Club) alive for more than a hundred years.
But isn’t Rangers an altogether other investment opportunity? For hopes, for dreams. Modern consumerism is largely devoid of meaning, cultural communication, social integration.
Football exist for exactly the opposite purposes to financial discipline; fraternity, brotherhood, honest endeavour, spiritual questing.
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