A SHORT, DAMP, SUMMER JUST PASSED US BY

And it’s Lance Armstrong’s much more impressive impersonation of a Tour de France cyclist which has been grabbing the attention of your Editor for the last few weeks. I’ve been true to pro-German type and cheering on Jan Ulrich but the Texan miracle man has pulled it off again … or pulled it ON agin, if we’re talking about the yellow jersey. There’s nothing quite so beautiful in sport as a team or competitor who can churn it out, where and when most required on a mind-bogglingly consistent basis.

Look at the way the Williams sisters are dominating tennis. Have a bit of a soft spot for Kim Clijsters because (a) she’s the daughter of KV Mechelen’s full-back when the Belgian battlers shocked Ajax in the 1988 Cup-Winners’ Cup final and (b) she’s a down-to-earth, non-glitzy, non-media-savvy type of star. However, again, I’ve enjoyed watching the Williams lassies destroying all that came their way (including Venus’s breathtaking come-back against wee Kim in the semi) before attempting to destroy each other’s reputation with a bit of play-acting in the Wimbledon women’s singles final. They were definitely up to something on Centre Court that day but they’re damn well entitled to run their family get-to-gethers however they see fit, especially considering all the borderline racism poured down on their amazing abilities from the commentary boxes and the stands.

(I’ll stick to the ladies game at Wimbledon - not just because it’s better but because I really don’t want to be getting into conversations on this site about a guy called “Tim” who continually crashes in front of a sea of Union Jacks)

Last weekend I found myself sitting in the boozer watching South Africa having their asses whupped by New Zeland in the Tri-nations clash in Pretoria. Greatest Rugby Union match I ever watched was the 1995 World Cup final when the Boks brought the all-blacks to their knees by hooker and by crook and, after Murrayfield’s finest, I’ve always rooted for the Boer bampots because of their self belief and their determination … and their lack of compunction when utterly filthy tactics are required.

Yup - all very refreshing. Everything I like in a football team can be translated to most other sports. No doubt about it, I love my sport and I can easily get right into following any one of the aforementioned pursuits. In fact, summertime - even as wet a summer as the first few weeks of July 2003 have given us - is the one time of year I can truly envisage a world outside football. Okay, let’s be more accurate, because the World Cup or European Championships mean that every other close season sees me realise just how much I in fact LOVE football. What I can in truth imagine between May and August is a world without Rangers … and it doesn’t scare me.

But then again it’s not actually RANGERS themselves I need a break from during the middle months of the year. It’s all the pettiness, tension, hatred, anxiety and - as is becoming more frequent as the Old Firm slowly jettison the rest of the SPL - occassional bouts of boredom which we’re subject to when our first sporting loves are in action.

In this respect, last season couldn’t have been much worse. The bitterness eminating from Parkhead in the face of defeat or even the threat of it, parcelled ridiculously in a hysterical delusion that theirs are The Best Fans In The World, sickened me to my family-value six-pack. Of course, it’s the base, reactionary bitterness the WHINGING BASTARDS encourage in myself which is actually upsetting me tum. They make me SO angry it scares me at times and this - this realisation that I’m nothing more than a mirror-image in blue glass of the “sellik-mindedness” I so detest - is brought about whenever Rangers as much as fart and the hooped hordes start getting paranoid about it.

So I sometimes just wish Rangers wouldn’t fart.

Like an over-protective father who refuses to let his daughter over the door because he’s sccared of what the cruel world COULD have in store for her, I often just want Rangers to hide away so I won’t have to get upset on their behalf. If anyone bad-mouths my Teddy Bears or refuses to show them the absolute respect they deserve then I get angry - and I don’t want to be angry anymore.

Then there’s the sheer physical and psychological exhaustion imposed by last season’s finsih to the title-race. That’s the kind of finish to a campaign which only comes around once a decade, so we should be allowed the kind of close season which is just as rare - a long one!

But, luckily, there’s an even baser, Sharon-Stone-flashing-her tuppence-worth-at Michael-Douglas type of instinct which takes the deepest hold of all. And that’s the one which, when it sees a new Rangers signing, a new Rangers away strip and a friendly fixture list which features Everton at Ibrox, forgets all the bile and horribleness and just says TAKE ME BACK HOME, DADDY!

Even if it is harder for so many of us to express, the love is always deeper than the hate. But the little football snippets which sneaked their way through my mosquito net of summer sports bit me in all the most sensitive places: Capucho seemed like a seriously interesting signing, that new away strip is probably the best we’ve ever had and Everton are a side I’ve never actually seen in the flesh but always wanted to. As I headed up Mafeking Street at 2:30pm on Saturday 26th July I’d already scratched as much as I could - the rash was full-blown once again and The Rangers have consumed me totally for another ten months.

Perhaps the lassie in the portakabin sat behind the Copland Road stand knew this when she handed me a ticket - probably as close as we’ll ever again be to pay-at-the-gate - in exchange for my