There have been times during my time on this blog when I’ve tried to find a proper analogy to explain the difference between what Rangers was and what Sevco is.
Well I think I’ve got one, and this one is going to stick.
I was watching some classic cartoons the other day when I actually stumbled across an old favourite, and the introduction is so spot on that I am kicking myself for not spotting it sooner. Let me tell you how the story goes; you’ll see that I’m right.
For thousands of years, an old dilapidated castle had housed dynasties of vicious, brutal, blood-sucking monsters.
Vampires.
Vampire ducks to be specific. (It’s a cartoon!)
The legend says that each can be destroyed by a stake through the heart or exposure to direct sunlight, and during those eons fearless hunters had dispatched these creatures time and time again.
But there was a catch; an evil ritual could be performed every so often when the moon was full and in a certain part of the sky … and so the monsters could be brought back to inflict more terror and suffering on the world at large.
Except, on the 16th time of asking “the latest reincarnation did not run according to plan.”
A silly maid mistook a bottle of ketchup for the required bottle of blood and instead of resurrecting a vicious killer the servants of the dark power brought something else to life.
We know him as Duckula.
The 17th Count Duckula to give him his full title.
We know what Rangers was … and we know that in 2012 they vanished down the hole of a grave.
The resurrection ritual should have been perfect.
Bigotry? Check.
Hatred and paranoia? Check.
Supremacist mindset? Check.
Moronic fans with delusions of granduer? Check.
What else? Oh, money. Riches. Wealth. Got that covered? Well what do we have that we can use instead …?
You see the results, right?
Now, at the weekend, as we all know, the latest manager at Ibrox presided over a 0-0 draw which puts his first season in charge there on the cusp of total failure.
That failure might well be completed tomorrow night courtesy of Steve Clarke’s Kilmarnock. Fresh from losing a late goal to us they are smarting for revenge. Clarke clearly has no love for the Ibrox club or for his clownish opposite number. He would relish the prospect.
Gerrard’s response at the weekend was hilariously brilliant.
He lashed his own team with the ferocity of a slaver who’s caught a couple of runaways. He scorned them for lack of leadership too, which some of them must have found a wee bit puzzling since that’s something that’s traditionally come from the manager. This guy never takes responsibility; you can imagine what that does to the morale of his players in the dressing room. It’s a matter of time before he loses them.
He spoke to the media today without a hint of remorse; he said he intends to “keep being honest with them”, which means he’ll continue telling them they are shite. This is not the measured response of someone who knows what he’s doing.
This is a manager, and a club, that is going down like a one legged man doing the hokey-cokey. They are Duckula FC, the reincarnation of something that was once dominant and monstrous and terrifying but which is now reduced to a pale shadow, desperately scrambling for fame whilst chewing on a carrot.
As the Count had gone from being a terror that sunk its fangs into everything so that it could suck in sustenance to a pitiful state resurrected as a vegetarian wannabe playboy obsessed with status he’ll never get, this club of theirs is ruined and toothless, biting down as hard as they can, but not leaving a mark.
Oh yes, with their media associates they can still rattle on the bars and make noise as they like, but they no longer have the juice to force their views on the rest of the game, try as they might to build alliances that will allow them to do it.
Stewart Robertson’s pathetic rant did nothing more than draw a BBC rebuke and stony silence from Hampden; the days when they could push people around and get their own way are long behind them. Gerrard can’t get his dressing room to do what he wants it to, and the CEO can’t get the rest of the sport to fall into line.
Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?
Still they solider on.
Robertson knew exactly what he was doing the other day. The club needed a distraction from Gerrard’s floundering, and striking out at old targets did the trick.
For a while.
Tomorrow, Kilmarnock can drive another stake through the rotting heart of the Ibrox operation.
Sooner or later, all that’s going to be left over there are the ashes … and the hope of another dark ritual, using God knows what to bring it back to life.
You think we’ll ever get tired killing off versions of them?
Me neither.
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