DAY OF REST (GERS … 4 Gretna …2)

The Gers keep churning out the wins. Today we were as ruthless as ever. The final scoreline may suggest otherwise but we’re about more than beating Gretna now - we’re about beating Gretna in a way which allows us to beat everyone else in every one of the many competitions in which we compete. This game was over after twenty two minutes - it was dead and buried after sixty. Gretna may have delayed the funeral slightly - thanks to a Doctor called Deuchar who simply refused to sign the death certificate - but the game-plan was to have the points in the bag by half-time and to coast for the last half hour. We did. Coasting leads to negligence - but three-goal leads and a fresh strike force allows for negligent moments. The mistakes were factored in before kick-off. For the last half hour today we were preparing for Hearts on Wednesday. We’re not perfect - but our results and preparation certainly are.

Doesn’t matter how long it’s been going on for, I’m still finding it difficult to cope with Sunday football. The weekend wasn’t designed for calm on a Saturday and ire on a Sunday. Here I am, someone with a complete suspicion of and healthy contempt for organised religion - a proud heathen disgusted by the hijacking of the term “believer” by people who think there’s a big ghost in the sky which rules their earthly lives. And yet, here I am, a 100% ethnic Christian. Unbaptized - a product of a mixed marriage between two people who had all their doubts about their respective faiths proved when their first born was as ugly as me. And yet, here I am, completely supplicant to the notion that Sunday is the day of rest. It’s in the genes, you see - I can’t help it. My instinct is greater then my consciousness. Well, a a millenia and more of god-bothering on these shores, and however many decades of catholic and protestant fundamentalist melding in my native West of Scotoand, has dragged my subconscious down. I want to shout, bawl and cheer like crazy on a Saturday. On a Sunday - I want to go and watch Rangers … BOOOOOM BOOM! Naw - but shhheeeeeriously - on a Sunday I just want to chill.

Okay - I admit - it’s fuck-all to do with my “ethnic christianity”. That was just a bit of drama queen-ness. lets be honest, it’s only coz I’m working a 9-5 , Mon-Fri day job. Like all religious doctrine, the “sunday is the Day of Rest” pish was purely about social control - and the ministers, mullahs, rabbis and priests never dare let doctrine get too far away from the physical and emotional requirements of the majority of the flock. Ye don’t want folk realising it’s a lot of pish. I mean, Christmas isnae in the middle of winter because “that’s when the baby Jeeeeezus was born” - it’s at the tail-end of December because we need a big fucking party in the middle of the bleak mid-winter to stop us all getting totally fucking depressed. We need SOMETHING to look forward to at that time of year. Before all this Christianity, Judaism and Islam pish, folk still needed a right good party every now and then. Invent a saint or a god or a passage in a “scared” text to coincide with the time folk are most likely to get psychotically bored and - hey presto! - we’re all kept doctrinally on-side.

But even nowadays, when the genius of woman- and mankind is now regarded by most sane folk as a sign that the HUMAN spirit is all we have to believe in, I find myself hankering after a bit of near-solitude on a Sunday. Don’t get me wrong - it’s almost fuck-all to do with Reformation- or Roman-Zealot genes - it’s just the religious policy-makers knew exactly what they were doing to our bodies as well as our minds; They knew we couldnae go much more than seven days without having to “restart the week” in our head. And they knew that, ideally, the last day of that week would be teh best one to “have off”. When ye worked six days a week ye had no choice but to rest on a Sunday - ye were fucking knackered!. But when we also got that half-day off on a Saturday - later extended to a full day - we realised we could have a day to “Relax” before we then had our day of “rest”. Saturday, in other words, is the day for the big blow out. The day for fast-paced, sporting action - all interspersed with lager, swearing, gambling, shouting. pie and bovril consumption, racous group singng and snorting lines of cocaine off a lap dancer’s smooth, bronzed buttock (… or his cock - whichever you prefer) - and SUNDAY is the day for period dramas, reading the papers, painting yer fence, washing the car, listening to Desert Island Discs and snorting a line of cocaine off a family member’s buttock.

First time I ever saw Rangers lift a trophy, in the flesh, was the 1981/82 League Cup final. Dundee United at Hampden - we’re 1-0 down with fifteen to go and Davie Cooper steps up to smack a free-kick past Hamish McAlpine and send us all mental. Ian Redford chipped home the winner in the final minutes. Billiant. Amazing. I was on cloud nine - and it was a FUCKING SATURDAY!! The unbridled joy of seeing my heroes perform like heroes was augmented by the knowledge there was no school the next day - I wasn’t of an age to go out and get wrecked but I could still chill in front of the Dukes of Hazard or Wonderwoman, knowing I’d been to an historic game that day, and look forward to languisihing over the photos and headlines in the Sunday papers.

Second time I saw us lift a trophy live was the 1984/85 League Cup final. Ian Ferguson - only goal of the game, right in front of me again - great. But then, little more than an hour after Craig Paterson lifted the glinting trophy and led the lap of honour, I was on the Stevenston Masonic RSC bus on the way home, KNOWING I HAD SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY. Shite. By the time I got off the bus, life was a bit anti-climactic. That was my first taste of how SHIT it was to have football on a Sunday … (unless, as I say, ye have the Monday off!) By the time Sky and now Setanta got involved with the Scottish game, I was thoroughly fucked-off. Still am. Love my team winning the title on ANY day of the week - but winning it on a Bank Holiday weekend Sunday is nice - winning it on a Saturday is just so much better. Ye get saturday evening and Sunday morning to go mental with the drink - ye get Sunday afternoon and evening to recover. Yer all fresh and ready to be expertly smug by Monday morning. When we won the helicopter Sunday title on 22nd May 2005, I was still supping a can of Tenennts and wearing just my Broxi Bear t-shirt when I staggered into work on Monday morning with a look of total shock and awe on my coupon (Still, my fellow heart surgeons saw the funny side and only let me carry out a half dozen procedures that morning …). Whether the fitbaw gives ye a high or a low - Ye need a day to chill before returning to the grind of the workplace. THAT is my IDEAL weekend scenario.

Think we all know on this blog that I love the football TOO MUCH. If we have midweek games as often as we like, by the weekend, and our second game in seven days, I need time to recover. I need to get to the game, rant about the game on the PC and then recover from the excitement of my reaction to the game, through the use of copious drugs - and donner meat - that evening. Next day I need a football-free zone, to allow my brain to re-boot. If the Rangers game’s on a Sunday, however, I’m gonnae be at the gemme or watching it on Setnata and I’m gonnae be writing and raving about it straight afterwards. And, the previous day, I’m gonnae watch Match of The Day or even go to another game somewhere - ye end up with 48-hur football-compacted weekends and, before ye know it, yer eye-balls are swelling up during the week and yer forced to take sick days from work.

To get round this phenomenon, I’ve often tried treating a Gers-free Saturday as a Sunday but my body clock just couldn’t cope. My instincts always gave the lie to my calendar tampering. After a long-lie and washing of the car, and reading of last week’s Sunday supplements, I would watch a period drama on a Saturday afternoon, on DVD, and find myself jumping out my seat every time the dashingly hadsome male lead failed to trun up at the pump rooms as he’d promised our innocent, love-sick heroine! “WHERE IS THE CUNT???!!” HOH! HOH! REF - HE’S WELL OUT OF ORDER - THAT’S A YELLOW AT LEAST!!!!”. When the sickly youngest sister took ill, displaying all the symptoms of TB and causing the quietly-brave and good retired-but-still-vaguely-sexual-Major General to offer god his mansion and inherited fortune in exchange for the well-being of his secret object of his affection, I’d bounce an enraged can of lager off the TV - and when she fully recovered and married the a-sexual local vicar I’d shove my face up to the telly and goad her eveil spinster sister :”IN YER FACE YA UGLY COW!!! GET IT RIGHT UP YE!!! SHE’S GOT A HUSBAND - SHE’S GOT A HUSBAND - YOU’VE NOH! YOU’VE NOH!! SING WHEN YER MARRIED! - YE ONLY SING WHEN YER MARRIED! SING WHEN YER MAAAARRIED ….” And so on.

And so forth. Saturday is Saturday. Sunday is Sunday. I was on the verge of giving in. I almsot thought I could never happily enjoy Sunday football with a Saturday vibe - or enjoy a restful Sunday, whilst at the game. But fuck me if this weekend hasn’t seen the best attempt yet to happily confuse me into finally swapping these days round in my body and mind.

I gets home from a restless meal out yesterday evening and what’s on the box - BBC4 - but none other than the Andrew Davies adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Colin Firth - soaking wet simmet; Jennifer Ehle - soaking wet sofa. Genius piece of work and the best period drama ever on telly. Sunday made worthwhile by the BBC when it first came out in 1995. Last night they were showing the last two espisodes back to back. So I watched and I tried to immerse myself and I tried to have my Sunday night on Saturday night, knowing only too well where I was going today. In the first episode, the evil Mr Wickham has eloped with young Lydia Bennett and where have they gone? GRETNA!! Gretna feking Green! Brilliant. The town which was once, and for hundreds of years, known only as the wedding place of thousands of secret lovers and is now known as a Scottish Cup finalist, serial promotee and European humpeee of Derry City, was thrown in my face as many a time as to make me think of the football team last night but, more importantly, think about Jane Asuten’s genius today.

Gretna FC, in what is their first and may well be their only season in the Scottish Top flight, are such a recent feature in the mind of most Rangers fans. Yet the primary association of that town’s name has so instantly been transformed from matrimony to soccer given the amazing work of the seriously ill Brookes Mileson that last night’s screening of Pride and prejudice and its continual references to Gretna has worked a fantastic inverting of visceral Saturday with placid Sunday: I got enough football referencing in my period drama to make it convincing Saturday night fare and, today, I got enough period-drama-style relaxation in my football feasting to make it seem like the classic day of rest: Gretna are at the bottom of the league we top, they have an owner who is seriosuly ill and can’t sign the players’ pay-cheques. They are faced with liquidation and their management duo walked out on them before this fixture against the best team in the country. Trauma for Gretna FC equalled almost guaranteed relaxation for Yours Bluely. Relaxation, SUNDAY-style!

When I saw Gretna today I thought about Lydia and Wickham - I thought about Jane Austen - I thought nice, relaxing thoughts. And when I saw The Rangers, I gave them the adoration they were due after their mid-week Hellenic heroics and I worshipped them as they maintained their SPL lead. If Ibrox, bathed in sunshine, isn’t the most beautiful of modern-day temples then I don’t know what is. The players were blissfully at ease, the crowd were so content as to be reflective and - man! - this was Sunday worship if ever I saw it. Panathinaikos away last Thursday - Hearts at Tynecastle this coming Wednesday; That’s scary, hard-going stuff - that’s the weekly grind for our players: Today, with disintegrating Gretna at home, our players wore their sunday best and engaged in ritual relaxation. This was the leisurely interaction of a typical Sunday, rather than the fractious, intense engagements of the working week. This was Sunday as God intended it.

But, I don’t think God was at the game today - although I have seen Andy Goram doing a few tombola draws at half-time. Ronnie McKinnon was a more than able stand-in and helped us all pay reverential homage to our forebears in European competition: Ronnie played his part in the 1971/72 Cup Winners Cup run. He was a classy icon for us iconoclasts to worship at the commencement of today’s service. The reverend Andy Cameron’s sombre patter kept us all somnambulently tepid of temper and, although the amazingly tacky and seedy Girls Get Active Rangers Cheerleaders threatened to ruin the mood with their misguided sublimation to sexism, the raunchy backing track for their high-kicks and butt-shaking was Areosmith’s Dude Looks Like a Lady - and, hey, I suppose Jesus did!

The congregation was far from packed into the Govan Cathedral and one suspects many of the regulars were worshipping the feet of Sky TV, and the Carling Cup Final (A Big CONGRATS to Son of the Manse, Alan Hutton. Gawn yerself, Alan - ye were gonnae get SOME sort of League Cup medal this season, weren’t ye!). Well, church attendances are dwindling these days and I was able to stretch out and yawn my way through proceedings. Sunday, folks. This was Sunday - not Saturday. Rangers started with what could effectively be called four up-front. Gretna’s previously stated condiition (A big GET WELL SOON to Brookes Mileson too, btw), combined with our fielding Cousin, Darcheville, Naismith AND Burke, left us Bule-hue spectators with little to worry about. Even Brahim Hemdani’s midweek strain was of no consequence today. The absence of one of our best and favourite players, in this particular game, actually mean we had no intention of holding the midfield - Rangers were simply gonnae miss it out.

Result guaranteed, pre-match. Points in the bag, pre-match. Lazy sunny afternoon. No reason to fuss or fight. Even Celtic finally managed to win their game at Love Street - thank goodness. Imagine if we’d gone six points clear today! The horror! I’d have had to get all excited and animated and we’d all have been out our seats singing “we’re gonnae win the league, we’re gonnae win the league” etc. Too much effort - too extrovert! Sunday’s about the chillin’. We’ll keep wild deviations of joy or despair for a Saturday or Wednesday, thanks.

Mind you, what happened on the field, in the end, could well have roused me to retrospective ire. The past fortnight has seen me slowly begin to understand, ever-so-slightly, why some Rangers fans seem to take an almost perverse delight in their own side’s failures. They’ve obviosuly put too much personal pride into naming a player or a tactic of Walter’s which they think isn’t any good. When we concede a goal, this Bear suddenly feels justified and wants to rub it in the face of the bar room-mouthies who laughed at his complaints. Me? I don’t give a fuck as long as we’re winning. Me? I would never delight in a Rangers falure of any kind - although I fequently try to expalin away and accept them as part of a greater good - and am slated for being TOO NICE!!

Yet today, when we lost those two goals, both to headers at set-pieces, I was reminded of my diagnosis of Thursday night’s set-piece negligence in Athens. Wasn’t unduly worried and certainly didn’t care in view of what eventually happened against Pana - but I just thought it was worth a mench in an attempt to, ye know, explain how I saw the game. Yet some Fellow Bears - and good cyber friends too - had given me a hard-time for even mentioning that we looked shaky with high balls into our box against Panathinaikos. This hurt. Not in a real way - only in a petty, thank-god-I-dont-have-anything-REAL-to-worry-about way (Big shout out to Gazza. Get well soon, mate!). But to be labelled as someone who is too hard on the team really had my rattle hanging very precariously over the pram’s edge - especially when I was simply pointing out the bloody obvious, no criticism implied. Today, when Kenny Deuchar was allowed to nod in twice from Rangers’s failure to deal with routine flighted set-pieces I felt justified in my previous diagnosis. But not for one second did I feel pleased - just more sickened than ever to be doubted. My opinions can be doubted as much as anyone likes - I ain’t no football coach - but my MOTIVES for expressing any doubts should NEVER be doubted: It is always and only to help my club. And my MANNER in expressing any doubts shoudl neve be doubted - it is always with reluctance and sadness if I think it’s a real problem or with humour and disinterest if I think it’s irrelevant.

My opinions are rarely accurate - unlike most loudmouths, I’m honest about how little I know - but they come from a good place and there is a certain amount of education and thought behind them. I thought we’d win on penalties in Athens. We won on away goals with a late-equaliser. That’s about as nail-biting and close as I was expecting. I thought we looked shaky in the air in Athens - especially at set-pieces: Today we lost two goals from corners to a team who’ll be playing First Division football next year - that’s another case of actual events being pretty much in the ball-park what I was predicting.

I also state, on a regular basis, that Daniel Cousin is my preferred option as a striker, in European games. I prefer him to Kris Boyd because Boyd is a phenomenal finisher but Cousin can make the goals as well as score them - Boyd needs the kind of service which European games seldom allow. Today Daniel Cousin and Kris Boyd both scored by rounding the keeper and slotting in. Boyd did so by latching expertly onto a sweet pass from the ever-improving Steve Davis. Boyd did so by making his first contact with the ball at the edge of the Gretna box and walking it past their goalie. Cousin did so by taking the ball deep in midfield and beating at least one Gretna player, out-pacing another and screaming past the goalie at such a pace and angle that his finish had to be all the more sublime. Cousin’s finishing is not as expert - but his goal was more crafted by himself; Cousin, in other words, made a goal from nothing - he was both supporter and creator and finisher. That’s a handier talent in big European games. Again, I’d like to think that my opinions, if not perfect, are well-enough informed to merit a granule of respect but, more importantly, AGAIN this does NOT mean I have ANYTHING against Kris Boyd - I fucking love the guy. I don’t SLAG, I EXAMINE - and I try to relay the results of my examination in an honest, readable fashion. If we played Alan McGregor in midfield he’d be PISH - doesn’t mean I don’t love Alan McGregor. I simply think Boyd and Cousin are suited to different roles but they are suited to them equally well. SIMILAIRLY, I won’t panic if my defence loses 2 daft goals when the points are already in the bag and they have one eye on their next match.

I will NOT be pushed into a fucking corner of FOR and AGAINST with my own team. Expressing opinions - and stating the fucking obvious - are what it’s all about, football fandom. But never ever misunderstand my motives. I only want what’s best for Rangers - fuck, I’m embarrassed to even have to say that - and if I say something’s wrong, you can be sure I do it only on-line and I NEVER do it in a way which isn’t constructive for Rangers.

Steven Naismith volleyed home neatly from a corner after 22 mnutes. We slept through the half-time show. Gretna had a man in the middle of the park - John Paul Kissock - who has the hair of Carlos Puyol but not the height, and the style of Russell Latapy, but not the age … nor quite the skills. He was very inventive in the middle of the park and, of course, they always have The Doctor. Gretna hit the post on the half hour, we made it 3-0 through Burkey on the hour. The sunlight faded, the rain and the flodlights came on and so did the neo-classical strike partnership which had done tragedy upon the Greeks on Thursday. It would be trite to say that, with Darcheville and Cousin on the pitch we scored three and lost nil yet, with Nacho and Boydy on the pitch, we scored one and lost two. That would lead me down the path of bitter, twisted misreadings of Rangers performances - readings designed purely to satisfy my own ego, and not that of the team. That would be disgusting - Nacho and Boydey came into a game which was already won today and they kept it won; that’s all that counts - and I urge anyone else who has become victim to this way of non-thinking to recalibrate their priorities. Because, after all, as Jane herself would say …

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a team in the hunt for four trophies, must be in want of support.