It’s SEBO TIME! (GERS … 3 Killie … 0)

Association Football is, of course, my only concession to popular culture. It is the blot on my otherwise irreproachable character. Like a High court Judge having his nappie changed by an 18 stone, 6ft 3 leather-clad lady called “Madame Pain”, a married, Family Values-advocating member of Her Majesty’s Cabinet looking for “a bit of rough trade” on Hapmstead Heath, or a CEO of a multi-national company in a toilet cubicle with a 20 note rolled up his nostril and a powdered compact mirror on the cistern, attending live “soccer”matches is the dirty little secret which, one day, will undoubtedly see me exposed by the tabloids for the hypocrite I really am.

Everything else about my life is, as you’ll all know, the very epitome of upper-class, wealthy, eductaed urbanity. You may own an estate which has four wheels, one big door and 2.5 children, playing with their “Game Boys” and “Happy Meals” in the back. I, on the other hand, have an estate which comprises 300 acres, a Capability Brown lawn, a driveway listed in Pevsner and over thirty bedrooms the best of which was slept in by Elizabeths first and second. A typical Saturday night sees me relaxing in my old college cricket pullover, teddy by my side, reading some Nietzsche to the soothing tones of Brahms and the glowing warmth of a 54 Margaux coating my throat with the best tannin of the century.

I own a TV, yes. I own a TV in the way Frank Bough used to own a pair of handcuffs. It’s kept hidden away - albeit in 17th Century Mahogany cabinet plundered from Flanders - it’s kept hidden away til I can resist my dark urges no more. Those Saturday nights of relaxation - the wine, the music, the recommendation of Bachanalian debauchery so prevalent in the works of the “Old Hermit of Sils Maria” soon have my inhibitions dulled beyond all relevance and my senses raised to such a dangerously feversih level that, “oh lente, lente currite noctis equi!”, I simply MUST grab the remote and bang on Setanta’s “Full SPL”, followed by “Match of the Day” with Links,Lawro and Hansen.

The shame is deep, my weakness apalling. What would mummy or ganpy think of me? Yet I try to console myself with the fact this is my only deviation from the way of grandeur inbuilt into my family name. And, one night, when nosey old Tristan and Jemima were visiting and accidentally discovered my “Television set”, I was amazed at how easily I coudl lie to cover my reeking footprints of working class dalliance. Explaining that I couldn’t obtain tickets for Glynebourne’s latest production of “Cosi” and had to settle for watching it on BBC4, I duly fumbled about with the remote control with all the skill of a man-servant leading a hunt and we accidentally stumbled upon one of those AWFUL, DREARY proletariat programmes on one of the non-Beeb channels. I can’t remember the exact name of this ghastly little endeavour - Something like “I’m a Pop Idol big X-factor Brother Could You Get Me Out Of This Celebrity Here Please (with Trevor McDonald)” - but it was remarkable for one thing: A chap by the name of “Chico”.

Chico had no chance of winning this tired little competition of the masses but he seemed to have a certain appeal to the audience none the less. His non-winning popularity reached such levels that he was able to talk of himself in the third person and announce his arrival on stage as being nothing less than “Chico Time”. He was eliminated from the competition soon enough but his legacy - “It’s Chico time” - has apparently been more solid than that of anyone who went on to produce a 78 rpm Long Playing record disc after apparing on this commercial television programme.

And, today, at Ibrox, when Filip Sebo took to the pitch, it struck me that everyone was so unalterably HAPPY that the match had reached a point of such one-sidedness that the Slovakian weight-lifter was allowed to take to the pitch, that the same phenomenon had occured amongst the football followers of Rangers FC. We know he’s crap but - hey! - when “it’s Sebo Time” everyone is happy! Coz it’s game fucking OVER!

Okay - okay - that’s cruel and it’s not really true. Not really. Filip Sebo wears the Rangers Blue and he’ll never get nowt but encouragement from me , from the stands. I don’t even like slagging players, even if it is gently, from the safety of this here, un-read blog. But there’s something remarkable about the way no-one wants to say out loud that Sebo is shite. Especially as we’re Rangers fans - the most notoriously hard to please in the whole world. We usually jump on the back of anyone unable to meet our supra-high standards. If a striker doesnae grab a hat-trick every game we might volubly slag the shit out them but Big Filip, with every useless cameo, just has something about him which makes us groan internally but refuse to slate him verbally.

He came on against Auxerre the other night, in France, and we scored soon after. So “It’s Chico time” could mean “we’re DESPERATE” as well as “we’re cruising”. Today, thankfully, it was the latter. Charlie Adam scored a screamer mid-way through the first half and Kris Boyd notched a striker’s special soon after. Big Dado completed the day and sewed up enough goal-difference to ensure we stayed above Aberdeen in second spot, by notching his first for a long time. It was a great goal from the Croat LEGEND but signalled the end of the first-choice strike force. Novo, Boyd and Dado soon becoame Sionko, Sebo and Buffel. Thomas played well, Sionko struggled and Sebo - well, Big Fil just doesnae really know what he’s doing, does he.

At one point we had Killie ripped open and the ball fell to Sebo well inside the box, with the visiting defence all at sea. He swung at it with all the nervous trepidation and inaccuracy of a toddler who’d watched grown-ups doing this on the television but wasn’t really sure if he could manage it himself - kick the ball, that is. 3-0 it remained but “It’s Sebo Time” can now, hopefully, mean the game is won, more often than “the game is up”.

He’s almost a cult hero. He’s a lovely big guy and he works his socks off with the running - aimlessly. I predict that he’ll notch 8 SPL goals this season. Four will be winners against Aberdeen - the games which ensure we’ll comfortably take the second Champions League spot - and the rest will be consolations against Hibs during the four losses which confirm we are still far from the finished article. We’ll beat Celtic in the latter stages of the Scottish Cup, Filip will get the winner and when we go on to lift the trophy next May, he’ll get the biggest cheer of the day. That’s my prediction.

Celtic dropped two points today - for the first time in Goram knows how long they are fewer points clear than games played. That’s about all we can realistically hope for, that we’ll make the margin twixt first and second a little more respectable - but we can try for so much more: Since the St Johnstone horror show we’ve won three SPL games on the bounce, scoring six goals and conceding none in the process. Thrown in for good measure was qualification for the knock-out stages of the UEFA Cup.

It’s been a good week - “It’s Sebo time!”.

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Published:
11.26.06 / 7pm
Category:
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