Would you look at this garbage?
Every single one of us has met someone like Ewan Murray.
Somebody who thinks life dealt him a bum hand and who thus takes pleasure in denigrating what others have, and sniggering over their every misfortune.
You see a lot of them on social media, and when you do this job you see more of them than you’d like.
They are a desperate lot.
Murray probably does have a nice standard of living. He writes for The Guardian and they don’t pay peanuts. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t get the occasional monkey for their money. The worst of it is that Murray can actually write well when he wants to, when he’s not injecting his own personality into the work.
But oh so often he does.
Oh so often he allows his resentment to become painfully obvious.
When did this happen to him? I could actually hazard a guess. And my guess would be this; Murray got like this sometime around 3 May 1986, AKA Albert Kidd Day, or at least that date is as seared into his brain as Black Sunday is seared into ours, no matter where we were.
That’s the closest a Hearts fan has ever, or in this lifetime will ever, come to a title. And I can understand why that might set you down the road towards a monstrous inferiority complex. I can also understand why, even outside of the sectarian nexus in which a lot of the Hearts support exists, you might develop a lifelong loathing of Celtic.
But at least part of it is being an afterthought in his own news organisation. The Guardian is EPL centric to a fare-thee-well. It employs brilliant, brilliant writers to cover that league. Murray isn’t even close to being as good as the Ronay’s and the Wilson’s and the Liew’s. He says that doesn’t bother him, that his first love is golf.
If I had been brought up a Hearts fan I might feel the same way.
He at least writes about that sport coherently, and without bias. He should stick to it, because when he writes about Scottish football his resentments towards Celtic are naked and on show and his disdain for the whole game up here – a product of The Cringe for sure, surrounded as he is by people covering the show down south – is clear.
Following a team that will never be good enough to challenge. Infused with the anti-Celtic feeling which is common amongst his club’s fans, and with special reasons having to do with that last day title win. A few cup final losses over the years and a throw in they should have had which went the other way and led to a Celtic goal once. Covering what your colleagues view as a one-club backwater when they are trusted to write about the main event.
These are some of his reasons for being an arsehole, and whilst I dearly wish that the sports section didn’t employ those sort of people so I could read all of it with pleasure, I’ve learned that Polly Toynbee would lick Satan’s arse if he was a Labour leader but would have fought to undermine him if he went too far to the left and that Simon Jenkins is a Tory apologist and that Simon Tisdall apparently thirsts for nuclear war and I’ve learned to live with it.
I would learn to live with Murray as well, or at least ignore him.
But that Twitter feed of his is just a screed of anti-Celtic bitchery and whining and it doesn’t even come close to being objective.
He is a curtain-twitcher, forever looking out at the neighbours with gnawing envy at their fancy car and their home improvements and looking up the number for the council in case they’re not on the level.
And because this is our club and we care about it, and this cretin who attacks it constantly apparently doesn’t care about anything, that means we have to give him the occasional slap.