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Brothers, Can You Spare A Dime For Bankrupt Barry Ferguson, The Tax Cheat?

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It was Yip Harburg who wrote the following lines, as sung by Bing Crosby, Rudy Vallaee, the Youngbloods and some others.

They used to tell me I was building a dream
Playing for the Ibrox mob
When there was Tims to beat or laugh at
I was always there right on the job

They used to tell me we were building a team
With nothing but glory ahead
Now I find myself standing in line
Waiting for knock-down price bread

Once I was a captain, I made Rangers run
Everything changes with time
They’re liquidated, all my money is gone
Brother, can you spare a dime?

No, wait a minute … that’s not right, but it’s close enough.

Today, Barry Ferguson declared himself bankrupt.

A man who, if it wasn’t for football, would have been doing security at Mothercare.

He better hope that The Daily Record stays afloat, or he might well find himself washing pots in the back of a Cantonese restaurant. His football days are over and that probably includes his ill-fated, relegation dance as a manager.

If you’ve ever heard him try to mumble his way through an interview you’ll know even Radio Clyde would not give this guy a punditry gig … so that doesn’t leave much except for working PR with Jim Traynor. But when you consider that his finances have crashed via monies owed to the Revenue, well that’s hardly the kind of reminder Level 5 needs about what their biggest client is still inexorably tainted with by virtue of pretending to be Rangers.

No, this one is a perfect storm.

Coming to a curry house near you, Bazza the Dish Washer.

It is certain.

He’d be as well to embrace the horror now as continue to put it off.

Some have suggested that he’s transferred all his assets to his wife’s name …

I wouldn’t want to allege that but neither would I do it in his shoes. There are a lot of wives who would murder their husbands if only the insurance pot was big enough; imagine giving your significant other not just half of what you own but the lot of it?

If she’s got the keys and the mortgage papers, one argument and he’s toast.

She could have him out on his backside and a toy-boy moved in before he can say “did you at least put my toothbrush in the suitcase?”

And this, of course, is before HMRC gets around to sending him a bill for his EBT.

That one’s coming, friends and neighbours, and not just for him but for all of them.

Look out for a procession of these clowns rattling the tin cup in the papers, and wailing about how their lives have been ruined.

Who’s got the violin this week?

If I were Bazza I would be careful with the pot-washer rubber gloves; he’s not going to be able to afford being docked them out of his wages.

Do you get the impression I’m not terribly sympathetic here?

That’s right, I’m not.

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