This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
…. This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
T.S Eliot, The Hollow Men
Very few things that I’ve ever read are as evocative beautiful and bleak as TS Eliot’s staggering poem The Hollow Men.
And that title encapsulates every single person in a position of authority at Ibrox from the directors to the coaches and the senior executives and even more; to the most prominent members of the fan organisations, including the fan media.
What I’ve published above is the third stanza of the poem, and its brutal final lines.
The entire poem could serve as a metaphor for their club, but nothing rings as true as those wonderful lines, and the reason that at the end of Stanza 3 I skipped over the rest of the poem to arrive at its devastating close is because they are now significantly past the point were there are lessons to be learned or some wisdom to be gained.
The opportunities for that have been squandered by the dozen and all that is left now is the shattered remnants, the crumbling haunted house of Ibrox, the symbol of what Rangers David Murray once called “Scotland’s biggest institution after the church.”
For over a decade now, their fans have kidded themselves that they are still following Rangers, and that delusion has been seriously harmful not just to them, but to the club that actually stands. It brings to mind another fantastic poem; Shelly’s stunning Ozymandias.
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Except that when we look upon those “works” we realise that the prideful boasting is nothing but irony; the kingdom is in ruins, shattered, broken, destroyed.
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
This week, one delusion after another at Ibrox has crashed and shattered in the dust. What remains are nothing but the memories of something that once stood and in which they once took inordinate pride, and which fed and nurtured their monstrous egos.
This is the dead land this is the cactus land.
In short this is a place where only the strong survive but where nothing can ever grow. Because to grow something is to nurture it, to care for it, to tend it, to feed it. And it requires patience and tolerance and discipline and love.
And they don’t possess any of those qualities.
That is why their entire club looks like this.
It’s why nothing remains but this barren wasteland which they themselves have created.
Here the stone images are raised, here they receive the supplication of a dead man’s hand.
Everything about their club revolves around the past.
It dominates all thoughts of their future, and it poisons their present with its haunting memories of what they believe were better times.
Except those times are the ones that killed them.
It encapsulates not only their imprisonment by the history and success of Rangers, the dead club, but it is symbolised by those “stone images” that stand in the Ibrox car park and, in particular, the one of Walter Smith, their idol, their God.
It’s nothing now but a hollow statue, and it serves as nothing but a dark and terrible reminder of all that has slipped away.
Think about those last lines; the supplication of a dead man’s hand.
Because what possible assistance can Smith render them now?
He cannot change the course of their future; he’s gone and he can no more inspire them to a better place than they can wish away the present day.
Yet so many of them stop to pay homage every time they visit the ground. Theirs is just a club that cannot move forward, and that’s the reason they cleave so tightly to the past; they see no hope now in the future, and the present holds nothing but misery.
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Because that’s all they are now, a once bright star fading to nothingness, to irrelevance, as the star at Celtic Park grows ever brighter and dominates the sky. On their side of the city, once their star finally flickers off, there’s nothing but the darkness awaiting them.
Is it like this in death’s other kingdom
They cling to hope, yes, but deep down every one of them wonders if this is it, not just for them but for the generations that come after them. They wonder if there’s any respite even in death, knowing that their kids and their grandkids are destined to grow up in the shadow of Celtic. And they probably are, if they even care that much, which is the real danger here, of course.
Waking alone at the hour when we are trembling with tenderness, lips that would kiss form prayers to broken stone.
They’ve all had those nights tossing and turning, feeling their hearts break for the state their club is in, and hoping that its shattered towers can again be rebuilt and their fortunes restored, but all doubting that things will ever be the same as they once were.
And they are right to feel that way. Because those days are done.
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.
The days of almost, but not quite, catching Celtic are probably going to fade into memory soon, and as black as these days have been for them, they are probably as good as it gets. Their future may see them jostling for second and third place rather than first.
Talk about a collapse in status and power!
I’ve always said I wanted to see them fall into nothing—always hoped to watch them slip into oblivion.
But that was shortsighted, as we would have missed days like this. I think I prefer this scenario.
This is what Eliot meant when he wrote, “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.”
This is how their world ends—not with a cataclysmic collapse into another grave from which they can never return, but a future of mere existence: a diminished force, ruined, broken, shattered. It perfectly encapsulates the classical distinction between living and surviving.
They will survive. There will always be a version of them in our lives, in our league, and in our game.
However, that version will not resemble Rangers in its pomp and prime.
Oh, the club will look impressive from a distance, with that fine stadium and its brickwork façade. But remember, “façade” carries two meanings: it refers to the front of a building, but it also signifies a deceptive outward appearance.
Few places fit both definitions as well as Ibrox does.
Fear is a multifaceted word.
Here, it embodies the dread of further misery and pain—the fear of never again witnessing a club that can be deemed great. It’s the fear that the statues in the car park represent something lost forever and that their hope will ultimately be in vain. It’s the fear that one day they’ll find themselves devoid of hope altogether.
I understand this fear and where it comes from.
My teens were spent in the ’90s, watching their first club hoover up titles and trophies while I wondered if I’d ever see better days. There were moments when I felt Celtic was not a positive force in my life, but a curse I had to carry—something I could never let go of, no matter how much pain it brought me.
Yet Celtic has been the enduring love story of my life.
What I struggle with is the loathing.
I cannot fathom how an entire institution and its mentality can be built on such hatred.
I look across the water to the US Republican Party and see another institution led by hollow men that preaches division and thrives on conspiracy theories, loathing everything around it. I cannot see how it ever recovers its former grandeur.
Loathing defines them. Even their ambitions are tainted by it.
They don’t want to win; they want to beat us.
That’s not the same thing. This should keep them awake at night, wondering who and what they are, because so much of their identity hinges on opposing us. It’s unhealthy and exhausting, and their entire club appears drained from this effort.
They arrived here because they never took responsibility for anything.
They refuse to acknowledge their history or the root causes of their former club’s demise.
Their loathing is a form of self-loathing, in a way, as deep down, they must know that the real failure was theirs. This is how the world ends—not with a bang, but a whimper. When their former club was dying, what did they do to save it? Stand around and wait for someone else to intervene.
And as we began, so shall we end, and it’s fitting to conclude at the beginning, for all that follows flows from there. In the case of this Ibrox club, the end was indeed in the beginning—at the very moment they donned the clothing and embraced the name of Rangers.
All the elements of their downfall were contained in that singular act.
As I leave you now, then, I will share the start of Eliot’s bleak poem, which requires no interpretation. Its words speak for themselves. In this moment of fear and loathing, we can see all involved at Ibrox for exactly what they are … even if they can’t see it themselves.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Quite possibly the finest article I have read from you on this site James. Chapeau!
Every bit of their downfall has been their own doin. Even their bizarre, ridiculous mindset, that officials are ‘Celtic biased’ any time we get a decision, is a result of the sheer entitlement they’ve had through the decades. On a sidenote, it’s a fkn disgrace, young of the DR today, deliberately paintin a target on Celtic tv presenter Gerry McCullochs back, for any ibrox crackpot out there tae take notice of. GMcC was only holdin back the ht pittodrie score, tae have a HARMLESS bit of fun with his OWN support. Young highlights it as ‘laughing out loudly’ and ‘putting the boot in’ ! When it was nothin that should have been portrayed the way young has here. This clearly hurtin ratbag knows exactly what he ‘s doin and it’s a prime example of how their sly, nasty mindedness works.
I see it a bit more like The Walking Dead – Dead City, zombies everywhere, nine making sense.?????????
Fantastic article James. Wonderful.
And to misquote Eliot’s first lines to The Wasteland, for Sevco, ‘next April will be the cruellest month’ as Celtic win the league again!
Here is my poem for the day James…
“The Sky is Blue”
And The Grass is Green
And They’re League Was Fucked
By HALLOWEEN !!!!!
Their nuts are off and can’t be replaced.
Gelded, caponised, castrated.
This is their life now.
They better get used to it.
Great James
Delighted with last nights result from Aberdeen and relieved with our own result, BUT the nerves were shredded when I saw who BR had picked for the game,I don’t think he will be so daring again with the selection, I know our Japanese talisman missed a few chances but
Brendan also learned a lot about our two wingers Palma and Yang….. not near good enough. We need another winger and a third striker going forward to the January window.
HH
Great article my friend and some nice comments. 100% spot on, they and their lackeys have caused their own downfall.
No lessons of the past learned, no safeguards against what will inevitably come, no way out and no hope except bending rules loans and ‘investors’, effectively loans paying loans.
Their accounts guy is aff his trolley if he can subjectively make their fiscal report look anything but dire and as you so eloquently put it, their mindset and past illegally bought glories imprisons the klan and those that are supposed to be running the klub.
One thing I may add, thrre is no white knight coming to save the day, they have crossed the rubicon.
King will be back shortly with some scheme to get his dough out of the klub.
Fookin brilliant James. How I laughed, uproariasly so.
Whilst I enjoy their pain
All of the officials last night realised the football world was watching and to my mind they helped put the huns to the sword, Bravo
Reading the rangers banter pages. They are all in meltdown . If their club does go the way of admin 2.0, they will not save it by dipping into their own wallets . Some see it as throwing their money away
Die ya bastards, Die
Impressive piece today James.
Their not so glorious reign ends as it began, with delusion and anger.
It wasn’t meant to be this way for them. Their response will be to turn their anger outwards
well away from the real deserving targets. They will fixate on the Games Administrators,
the fellow clubs in the SPFL, Celtic in particular. If they can’t reign over us then they will attempt
to destroy the Scottish Game.
Really BRILLIANT writing today James..
Throughly enjoyed the read.
To include Elliott’s The Hollow Man was genius and so descriptive of that club.
Great job.
Change of name for Sevco fan site – Hollow Hollow
Excellent piece james. TS and Poe are particular favorites.
Bit unfair on Clement if u ask me. Not his fault that his players didn,t get their toenails cut before playing