Today A Bitter Clapped Out, Anti-Celtic Hack Has Finally Scraped The Bottom Of The Barrel.

I am often wrong. That will not surprise regular readers.

But on certain subjects I feel on secure ground almost all of the time.

When I write that The Daily Record and Sunday Mail have no inclination towards self-preservation I know I’m onto something.

At a time when you can look around the internet and see good writers everywhere, when journalism has never been a more popular course to study, and when doing the news and doing it well has never been more important in every area of our lives, that group recently went out and re-hired one of the most discredited “journalists” in the business, a self-promoting, clapped out hack who believes that being controversial is a substitute for having talent.

Some people say this wizened eejit is from a pro-Celtic background; since when has that mattered?

He suffers from several age-old afflictions, the first of which is what, in the realm of Scottish politics we call “the cringe”, which is a deep-seated inferiority complex based on where you’re from. He was brought up as “one of us” but he harkens back to a time when our community saw itself as being put upon and downtrodden.

He still views himself in that light … which is why he hero worships the institutions which make him feel that way.

When you combine “the cringe” with the second affliction you get something truly rotten.

Let’s call that affliction by its proper name; collaborationism.

We all know how he and others like them, those of a Celtic background, get ahead in Scottish sports journalism; they turn their guns on their own.

There are a lot of names for what this guy is; the African American community would call them “Uncle Tom’s”; our community calls them Uncle Tims instead. But that’s a phrase which means those who suck up to “the man” and copy his language and outlook … these guys, like the one in question, are much more than that.

They actively attempt to do down and undermine where they come from.

I’ve heard them called “quislings.” I’ve heard them called “Vichy scum.” They are traitors, doing spin for the enemy, whipping those on their own side, wrapped in the colours of the foe. I make no bones about using such harsh language; I could say a lot worse.

What are the main character attributes we associate with the collaborator?

Opportunistic; check.

Disloyal; check.

Cheaply bought; check.

Cowardly; check.

We’re talking here of a “journalist” who writes “Rangers and Celtic” in his articles instead of “Celtic and Rangers.”

Would any of us do that?

I don’t even use the word Rangers any longer, being that I write in the present tense and that club no longer exists in that sphere.

But it’s a small thing, but telling just the same.

I cannot remember an article where he was swinging lead at us where he wasn’t also telling the world how brilliant the Ibrox club is.

His article today was nauseating in its sycophancy towards Ibrox, even as it was slamming our club for perceived weaknesses.

He may think he’s being smart or stirring the soup, in fact he just comes across like a gushing fan-boy of Sevconia … there’s no zealot like a convert, isn’t that what they say?

Amidst all of it, of course, is that other thing, that thing many dare not name, that driving agent which has, for a long time, got this clown up in the morning.

He views Celtic with nothing but spite.

Because within the walls of the club, within the stands, within the support, there is nothing but contempt for him.

I could address the points in his piece today – and some of them are begging to be – but it doesn’t meet my standards.

I have no interest in knocking down, for example, the idea that clubs will come begging Gerrard to become their manager because of a handful of performances in Europe even if he continues to be a well-financed flop in Scottish football.

That is so ridiculous a statement that it doesn’t need to be subjected to critical analysis.

Anybody who read that without rolling their eyes is beyond reach.

All I’m going to say is that his newspaper knew what it was getting, and presumably this is exactly what it wants; the journalistic equivalent of ramblings by the town drunk, lying in the gutter outside the boozer, marinating in his own pish.

That’s about as far as I’m willing to go in response to his piece.

He doesn’t even get a name.

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