Radio-Controlled Torture (GERS … 6 Pars … 1: CHAMPIONS!)

At times on Sunday I would have given anything to be back at my desk in that open-plan, air-conditioned office, casually wishing for the onset of my lunch-hour and inanely chatting to colleagues about the weather, my wages or that shadey bloke who never re-fills the paper in the photo copier … even when he was the last one to use it, GODDAMMITT!!

In fact, with approximately four minutes remaining of Rangers V Dunfermline Athletic, I would rather have been down a feking coal mine with a lamp and a pick-axe or exposed to the rain and flying rivets of a dry dock or doing whatever the hell it was an artificer did in a textiles factory all those years ago. Any of those Victorian working conditions would have been better than the slow removal of my intestines and delictate slicing of my nerve ends which constituted my time in Row M, seat 198 of the Govan Rear stand, Ibrox Stadium, Glasgow on the 25th May 2003.

Thank Goram we’re in the Scottish Cup final. Thank Gawd, Sunday wasn’t the end of our season. It’s not just the possibility of clinching a Treble which has me clutching my