Well we are officially through the looking glass now, people. White is black and Green is Whyte. The nonsense has come full circle, to where the solutions to Sevco’s problems and their path towards the future involve a look back into Rangers’ past. David Murray, as the saviour on the white steed?
Are you goddamned kidding me?
That’s too good to be true.
David Murray: hero of the hour.
Liberated from responsibility, as he’ll not be allowed to serve on the board. David Murray, pulling the strings from behind the scenes.
Just think; he didn’t part with a single penny of his own money before, but this time, united with his bitterest enemy, at a club living so deep in our shadow they could get mugged at any moment … this is where he’s suddenly going to decide that his own family’s inheritance should be risked on what Justin Currie called “a last cheap shot at the dream.”
I think not, but God how I wish it were not a complete fantasy.
Let me confess; I will be sad, I will be beyond sad, on the day Dodgy Dave King rolls out of Ibrox in defeat.
I expect it, you know.
I wrote his official “obituary” as chairman many months ago.
Not being immodest, I am damned proud of that piece and think it might well be the best I’ve ever written. It’s just not been published yet, but it will come and putting it out there will ease some of the regret I’ll feel as we say goodbye to one of the great circus acts in Scottish football history.
But of course, the performers may change but the so-called Big House long ago morphed into The Big Top and I am confident the show itself will go on.
In the spirit of that, I have long harboured a fantasy that the next phase of it will be like one of those amazing band reunions you hear about where all the old members get together one last time to see if they can squeeze a few more quid out of the fan-base.
And if you’ve seen any of the movies which occasionally feature this story – of which Still Crazy might well be the best, cheesy ending apart – you’ll know how that goes; egos collide, the past gets dredged up like something from a sewer, the fighting starts and the whole thing collapses like a house of cards when somebody puts on the hoover next to it.
Imagine Dodgy David Murray as chairman of a club where a decrepit Walter Smith is boss.
For some of their fans it would be all their fantasy wishes come true. But many, many more Celtic fans would be chortling over it, seeing in the moment the opportunities that arise, the Holy Grail of vengeance to be unleashed for sins past and present.
It makes my mouth water, it really does.
Can you imagine Murray at the helm of a club where, across town, we’ve built everything he had once hoped to construct at Ibrox?
Can you imagine him taking over an institution both bankrupt and exhausted, which is Rangers only in name?
How would his giant ego cope with it?
Imagine him on the day we post our next set of £100 million accounts?
How would he top that? By signing Mark Hateley again?
You know, I have long marvelled at the ability of those in command at Ibrox to keep on screwing up. When Murray, who’s arrogance and malice were so well-known that he was like a self-parody after a while moved on you wondered whether Whyte could really get them into a bigger mess.
It quickly became clear that they could not have done better had they gone to Central Casting for A Shady Geezer With A Troubled Past.
And for him to liquidate the lot and have the bits and pieces bought by Green was a twist no self-respecting scriptwriter would have dared submit to a producer. And he couldn’t have telegraphed his intentions better, with all his talk of those Big Yorkshire Hands … which of course their fans completely misinterpreted. He was hailed a hero for one demented Christmas video that no festive season is complete without watching at least twice.
To have gone from that to the Ashley era was taking the ridiculous to the sublime … but following that up with a guy so shady he is more like a cartoon villain than a serious personality … it’s almost beyond belief. And now they’re back where they were at the start, with Murray being touted as the man to turn it all around.
I love this. I love all of it. I am only amazed that this isn’t being covered by non-football blogs as well, as an example of a never ending shambles and corporate dysfunction on the scale of an epic. This ought to be up there with the politics sites that cover Brexit and Trump, one unfolding cataclysm after another, and just when you think you’ve seen it all another wrinkle completely blows your mind and you re-set the bar a little lower.
Throw fans with grossly over-blown expectations into this, just for giggles, and this is worthy of being the binge-watching box-set to end them all.
Label it under comedy.
Their supporters are the only people who have mistaken “obsession” with amusement. We’re not looking over at you enviously; we’re marvelling at a guy eating spaghetti with his fingers and dribbling it all down his brand new shirt. This is rapt fascination … this is Car Crash Television where you watch through your fingers, cringing, but just can’t look away. This is The Office played out in a sports setting and now we have this hilarious twist on top of it all.
I only wish I believed it.
Because if the answer was David Murray and the question wasn’t “Who was responsible for the greatest act of systematic cheating in the history of British sport?” then you honestly wonder what it could have been.
Someone somewhere has completely lost it. The last few marbles have rolled right off the table, onto the floor, found a crack in the siding and gone beyond the point of recovery. I literally get up every morning wondering what the next twist in all this is going to be.
This … this is The Walking Dead with real zombies, and so much more interesting, albeit slightly less believable.
How lucky we are to have it.
The show must go on.
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