Jackson goes all-in as two competing re-writers of history battle it out in words.

So, it’s that time of the week again—Monday—which means a new Keith Jackson piece is out for the dismantling and the slating.

And this one? This one’s a beauty. It opens with a dig at fellow writers—bloggers in particular—and it’s just so dippy, drippy and embarrassing that I genuinely want to cringe for him. But he’s more than capable of doing all the cringing on his own. A lot of what’s in this article is very revealing on that front.

This piece is about David Murray and his autobiography, which—as everyone now knows—has just come out.

What I didn’t know until last night is that it’s literally published by Reach plc. And Reach, as many of you will know, is the owner of the Daily Record itself.

So, it’s not as if they had to spend a fortune acquiring the serialisation rights. The national newspaper group that owns the paper is publishing the book. They apparently still believe that Murray has something to say and that he has some kind of meaningful contribution to make to our national sports debate.

Anyway, this is what Jackson has written—and we’re going to dive straight in rather than faff about. Because like most of you, I generally feel it’s better to get in and out of these articles as quickly as is humanly possible. So here goes, with the headline and sub-headline (which, to be fair, I know he doesn’t actually write himself)…

I asked Sir David Murray something straight out about Rangers 15 years ago and we haven’t spoken since – Keith Jackson

Already you can feel the pain, can’t you? Like something someone on the back of an unhappy breakup would have written.

Our man admits he got on well with the ex Ibrox supremo but their relationship changed

What relationship? That’s part of the problem right there; if you’re a serious journalist you are not supposed to have any “relationship” with the people you cover on a day to day basis. Whatever happened to professional distance?

Yes, I know Jackson doesn’t write these bits himself, but I already know that’s going to be the flavour of the whole article. Anyway, here goes …

There’s an old adage which ought to be etched in stone when it comes to the business of column writing.

This is going to be good … Jackson’s going to tell his colleagues and his critics and people like me how to write … strap in for a wild ride here!

It’s the ‘I’s, my’s and me’ rule. In normal circumstances, those words should be avoided at all costs and, preferably, outlawed entirely.

Eah? What absolute rubbish!

Their use tends to demonstrate a narcissistic, egotistical disposition and very often it results in laughter behind the back. Rightly so.

Is this guy for real? Imagine writing that and thinking that other people sound narcissistic and egotistical! Let me explain something to you Keithy;

There are three reasons why some of us choose to write in those terms;

First, we see what we do as a means of communicating ideas and starting discussions and not to impart the Word of God. You know what I mean by the Word of God? It’s what a lot of journalists think they do all day long. They think their words carry the heavy weight of proclamation; “this is how it is.” Some of us choose not to write that way. Some of us want the discussion and the debate.

The conversational style makes people feel like they are invited to the discussion. It is the opposite of egotistical and narcissistic.

But it’s nice that you read the piece I wrote on Murray yesterday, otherwise you couldn’t have spelled narcissistic properly, even with the in-house spellchecker at The Record.

Secondly, and in relation to the first part, it’s about ownership of what we write, not about the usual buck-passing that goes on elsewhere. It also clearly differentiates our opinions from some greater wisdom.

I don’t pretend to be here imparting wisdom. I’ll leave that to the kind of people who talked up The Motherwell Born Billionaire. It’s about taking ownership of what you write. It’s about saying, “I do this in my own name, I do this under my own flag, all opinions and ideas expressed here are my own.” As much as anything else, it’s about honesty. You remember that, don’t you? From way back when?

Third, it’s a stylistic choice. Writing in the first person feels nice to write, and it feels nice to read. I’ve written flat reporting on this blog, in what’s called third person – Word of God style stuff. That’s like column writing except that when I choose to do it it’s because I am imparting straight facts.

In fiction I’ve experimented with even more of the conventions and styles, including that bizarre “second person” perspective where you write as if you are the reader. I’ll give you an example;

“You get out of bed, and pull on your slippers and walk through the house, avoiding last night’s beer bottles and kicking the empty takeaway carton under the living room couch. You sit down on that scuzzy, stinking sofa and you turn on the TV; some show about politics, who has the attention span for that? You stretch, fart, scratch yourself through week old boxer shorts and make your way slowly, hangover raging, to where your laptop sits closed amongst the detritus of a week long bender; empty bottles, half-filled glasses, the stink of booze high in the air, and you sit down and open it up. You check your inbox. Nothing. No-one loves you. More important, no information from your dwindling contacts book. Guess you’ll have to make something up. You bring up Word. You start to type. God, that hurts the head … where to start? “There’s an old adage that ought to be etched in stone ….”

So you’ll have to excuse me just this once. Because, on this occasion, the subject matter happens to be so deeply personal that a bit of blatant self indulgence is required.

Here’s a response to that in third person narrative just in case you doubted me;

“Jackson sat up and admired what he wrote. ‘Aye, that’ll teach the bastards who slag me for my work.’ He winced as more pain shot through him. He leaned over, as though about to be sick, and chose to make the reader sick instead. ‘Time,’ he thought, ‘that I gave the reader some ‘deeply personal self indulgence.’ Because he’d never done that before, right? (Actually he did it all the time, as his readers knew full well.)”

There’s no other way of saying it and little point in beating about the bush. I liked Sir David Murray. If truth be told, deep down I admired the man.

Oh Good God. The truth is, that’s not exactly secret information you are imparting there, Keithy. Most of us had grasped that fact way back when.

But the fact is we haven’t spoken for the best part of 15 years and it’s highly unlikely that we ever will again.

Here’s more third person perspective.

“He finished the sentence and then let out a long sigh. He choked back a sob.”

Now let’s switch to second person.

“There is an old dirty napkin on the table, stained with God alone knows what. You grab it and use it to wipe your face, your eyes, you sit there for a moment, you blow your nose into it, you wipe the eyes again, stemming the flow of tears. Why does it still hurt after all this time? Why haven’t you moved on from it?”

And to first person at last …

“I actually know that I should get over this. I know I should act like a professional. I also worry that I am going to come across as a bit pathetic here. So I wipe my eyes again. I focus.”

We didn’t fall out. As far as I can recall there was never a cross word spoken.

Aaah people drift apart Keith, you know how it is … that’s just part of life. Be strong buddy. Take another shot of whiskey. You’ll be alright.

Rather, we simply ended up encamped on two sides of a divide at a point in time when Murray was attempting to convince the world that black was Whyte. And when it was my job to call it out.

A little third person omnipotent called for again here.

“‘Whyte. That name. The most embarrassing episode of my career,’ thought Jackson, still haunted by it after all this time. He knew he had done nothing to call it out, knew in fact that he had helped facilitate that charlatan as he made his bid for Ibrox power. It was not, after all, some other journalist who had written those infamous words; ‘Motherwell Born Billionaire.’ That had been him. He knew it. The memory of it ate at his insides like rot.” 

So, now that Murray has broken cover and told his own story by releasing an autobiography, allow me this chance to explain.

You just know this is going to be good, right? It’ll be up there with those Mills & Boon romantic novels of old, except with heartbreak at the end of it instead of the couple running into each others arms.

The Murray that I got to know as a young reporter was a genuine behemoth.

Second person, just for fun, and we’ll make it like one of those books;

“And oh how you looked up to him! Oh how you swooned in his presence! Even now, thinking about his might and his majesty, his towering strength, the wonder of him, you feel that familiar stirring in your loins! ‘Oh great noble David! Let us not forever be apart! Let us now, with the publication of your mighty tome, be joined anew!’ It is your fondest wish!”

He was Scotland’s Jordan Belfort. The Wolfe of Charlotte Square.

You do know that Jordan Belfort was a con man, right? You do realise that you are not damning him with faint praise as much as just … damning him? I think we need to change up again and go with what’s known as stream of consciousness writing.

“Oh David, you were such a great man, such a thinker, such an innovator, such a genius, such a role model and totem in my life and the lives of a lot of other Rangers fans, Peepul desperate for some validation, which you gave us … now I need to find someone to compare you to, someone great, someone with cut-through, someone people will know and who they like and admire … what’s that guy again from that movie? The one with Matt Damon? Was it Matt Damon? No, it was … it was DiCaprio, right? The Wolf of Wall Street, wasn’t it? The one where they chuck the dwarf at a dartboard … he was pretty rich that guy, seemed like someone to admire and respect … quick Google search ,… ah there we go; Belfort. Jordan Belfort. Love that film. Would have loved to have worked in that office man, how cool would that have been?”

His personality was so huge and so much larger than life that simply being in his presence felt oddly intoxicating.

I swear to God, he wrote that. That’s not me going back into the Mills & Boon style, a grown man actually wrote that to express his feelings about simply being in the same room as another man. That is not Jacksonified in any way. That’s the man himself, writing in the real and the raw. Are you starting to understand why he shies away from writing in the first person? You couldn’t do that every day and not hate yourself.

He also inherently understood that fostering healthy media relations was all part of the game. And he was more than happy to play it.

No, he was more than happy to play you and those like you who were so “intoxicated” by just breathing the same air that you happily played the Idiots Role.

Phone him and he’d almost always pick up. Ask him questions and he’d almost always provide a straight answer. Yes, there would be instances when, in return, he’d ask for discretion or for that particular story not to go to print for 24 hours or so.

He loved that. You start by talking about narcissism and then miss what it actually looks like in real life? “Of course I’ll take your call, Lesser Mortal, and impart to you the wisdom you seek. Will it make tomorrow’s paper?” And of course he asked you to sit on stories, as though he were not your editor but the owner of the paper. That’s the sort of man he was. Christ, the paper itself is the one publishing the book! What does that tell you about where the centre of power still lies here?

And that was fine. It was all part of the information trade off. David Murray played the game alright and there are plenty of others in the newspaper world who would testify to this.

Graham Spiers at least had the self awareness to recognise that it was a one-way relationship that was toxic to the trust between the paper and the reader. He was the guy who coined the phrase “succulent lamb journalism” in response to it. Yes, too much of the media felt the same way. They used terms like “information trade off” at the time; but what information was being traded to Murray himself? Answer; none. The relationship was entirely one way. He gave. You took. He told. You wrote. I understand why this is hard. You thought it was a partnership. It was all at his convenience. You felt special. You were actually being used. It’s tough to take.

He was the powerhouse behind a period of dominance which saw Rangers romp to nine league titles in a row. He was the man responsible for buying Mo Johnston and shattering a sectarian singing policy which disgraced the Ibrox club.

Jesus H. Second person for this crap.

“You type those words, and you wonder to yourself how an audience is ever going to swallow any of that. Then you remember; most of the dwindling readership of your paper are stone stupid. That’s why they keep coming back for more. Because who knows better than a journalist at a national title who has been on top of the story for years that Murray was not behind anything; it was the bank behind Murray which powered all that. You read what you wrote again about ending the sectarian signing policy and you snort laughter so hard that gouts of phlem come out of your nose. Yeah, but he did nothing about the bile that flowed from the stands, did he?”

On a personal level he was capable of considerable kindness too, which is where this story really begins.

Airdrie fans will tell you all about the kindness he showed their club.

I had a question for Murray which needed an answer. So much time has passed that I’ve long since forgotten the details behind the actual enquiry.

Let me get this straight; you are basing an entire article around a discussion you don’t even fully remember? Are you joking? And you open this same piece with a rant about how embarrassing other people are?

Suffice to say, it was a story of some significance, most probably involving the identity of a potential new Rangers signing.

A story of some significance. You read that and you think something dramatic, something firmament shifting. Not “bank-fed club buys £200,000 defender.”

Anyway, the call went in as usual. Murray was busy attending to some other part of his business empire but assured me that he’d get back later the same day.

If it was 15 years ago it was likely to be a crisis meeting involving banks finally realising they were in deep trouble having loaned so much money to people like this, and telling them to start unwinding the position. He was probably flogging some once prized asset in order to meet his repayments. Or meeting with lawyers, grievously concerned about the noises coming out of HMRC.

In between times I received another phone call. My dad Joe had been blue lighted into an emergency hospital ward where he was in a critical condition and fighting for his life.

Did this take a surreal and dark tone?

I was rushing to be by his bedside when Murray returned my call.

Okay, I’m in … tell me more.

Having explained the severity of the situation we agreed that the story could wait, whatever it was.

More important things in the world, I get it.

By the time I arrived at Hairmyres, Murray had sent a hand written fax to my old man, wishing him a speedy recovery. The pair had never met.

Hmmm. Sentimentality. Manipulation. Two of the traits of psychopathy.

That was the David Murray I knew. A genuine, decent man.

Or one who knew that it’s easy to get people to be loyal. Also, isn’t there a core of egotism in that gesture? “I don’t know this guy, but how good will it make him feel to get a personal message from me!” That, right there, is the classic “self-serving motive” and a clear sign of megalomania.

But what happened around 2010 – at a time when Murray’s world was on the brink of financial collapse – would change the nature of our relationship permanently.

Wait a second, wasn’t that meant to be the story that led to the big breakup? What the Hell is this then?

Circumstances dictated a change in his own persona. For the first time, he seemed vulnerable and perhaps even uncertain of himself.

No, he was just reacting as most sociopaths do when their backs are to the wall.

And it was during this period that he spirited up Craig Whyte from almost nowhere and presented him, via the pages of this newspaper, as the man best qualified to take on his own mantle as the next custodian of Rangers Football Club.

That was a conspiracy involving so many people it’s now pointless going over them all again. The newspaper lied. Whyte lied. Murray himself lied and is still lying about the totality of his own role in that. Everyone should be ashamed of it, especially since a lot of Celtic sites and independents were doing their own digging and knew exactly who Whyte was and, crucially, said so before he parted company with his quid.

I’ve done the mea culpa on this one many times before. But, for what it’s worth, I apologise for my part in it once again. The whole Motherwell billionaire abomination will go with me to my grave: Here lies Keith Jackson, finally off the radar.

Apologised for it, but never actually learned from the mistake. Because you did the same thing all over again with Green. And then with Ashley. Then with King. And now you’ve played the Idiots Role again in handing the whole shebang over to a group of Americans only a handful of whom you know anything about.

What has been forgotten along the way, however, is what followed almost immediately and would go on for most of the next six months between November 2010 and May 2011.

Third person omnipotent for this.

“Jackson squirmed at the words in front of him; ‘Right,’ he thought, ‘how do I emerge from this with some credibility?’ Well, there was an obvious strategy; invent some facts. People never remember this stuff anyway. In fact, you can lean into their stupidity in the next sentence. ‘What has been forgotten along the way …’ There you go. Perfect.”

And it would be, except we’re not as stupid as you think Mr Jackson. Not even close.

Within a day or two of that initial story naming Whyte as the man on the brink of an Ibrox takeover, it was becoming very obvious to me that the Daily Record had been misled and used, largely to Murray’s advantage.

A barefaced lie. Sorry, but no, you’re not getting that one past us. Because nothing of the sort is reflected in your coverage of that time. Not one word of that is supported by a shred of evidence in the public domain. Your paper continued to be his principal cheerleader way after that made any sense at all. Some of us have longer memories than you give us credit for. And archives too. Deep ones.

Around this time I first met Paul Murray, who was a director on the Rangers board. He smelled a rat from the start and for the next six months we worked together to expose it while there was still time to do something about it.

Howling at the moon, Keithy, at least from what we can see in public. It was Celtic fan media who covered every part of the Whyte story. They broke every major exclusive, even the one you like to claim as your own, the Ticketus story, was on a Celtic fan forum many, many weeks before it found its way into your newspaper columns. I know that some of your colleagues on your paper have recently hailed you as the unsung hero of this, but they’ve based it on your self-styled legend … signs of a narcissistic and egotistal disposition if ever I’ve seen one.

David Murray, on the other hand, was battoning down the hatches.

He did have one or two other things on his mind, yes.

To this day I vividly remember what was to be one of our final phone conversations. I asked Murray straight out if he truly believed Whyte to be the real deal.

He must have been embarrassed for you, as you were one of the people who had a primary role in sealing the deal on Whyte’s behalf.

Not only did he admit to not knowing for sure but, moreover, he also expressed his concerns about Whyte’s apparent lack of ‘trappings of wealth’.

Which I had established on Day One – i.e. the same day you posted your Motherwell Born Billionaire piece – by going through the Sunday Times Rich List to see if he was on it. Which he wasn’t. From that point on, we knew what we had to know about him. Wealthy, yes probably. But not to the extent that you’d need to buy, own and operate a football club. Far from wealth in the billions, Whyte didn’t even have wealth in the tens of millions. It was Celtic fans who got there first, and that’s just a fact.

From memory, it went something along the lines of, ‘Yes the guy owns a castle but you’d struggle to buy a two bedroom flat in Edinburgh for the same price!’.

A fact that could have been gleaned from a five minute internet search of its purchase history, if anyone at a national title who wanted the full story could have found out. But nobody did because nobody wanted to.

That was the moment I realised without doubt that Murray was, at the very least, prepared to take an enormous gamble by signing off on the takeover deal. Six months later he went through with it anyway and the rest, of course, is history.

Six months later you and others were still singing his praises, so stop pretending that there was some great bit of digging going on. If there was, you certainly weren’t the ones who were doing it. And if our work had revealed more than you wanted to know, how come your column wasn’t screaming “the truth” every single day? You know what would have stopped the sale? A national newspaper publishing a story that said Whyte was a delusional charlatan who people inside the club thought shouldn’t be near the place. The one thing you could have done, you didn’t do it.

And it’s why it’s so unedifying to see Murray doubling down on his position in his newly published memoirs.

Which your newspaper isn’t just serialising, but is actually responsible for publishing in the first place. And it’s no less unedifying watching him try to justify his bullshit than it is watching you try to justify yours. Isn’t the truth here that what we’re really watching is two guys who are up to their necks in the scandal of Whyte trying, desperately, to justify their behaviour by any means necessary?

He wasn’t duped. Don’t be so ridiculous.

But you were. By a couple of dodgy press releases and a steer from a PR company. You remained in a state of denial long after Murray was. He knew exactly what he was doing; that’s a stone cold fact. But he was under pressure from a bank that wanted out and from an HMRC investigation which crept ever closer to the centre. I understand why he grabbed the first pound coin that was on offer. You have no excuse.

On the contrary, he was warned over and over by his own directors and a whole load of others that selling to Whyte would almost certainly have catastrophic consequences for the club. And he chose to ignore them.

But the readers of your shit newspaper never were, right Keith? Not by you or by anyone else working there. And still you aren’t asking questions, just regurgitating press releases and spin. Nothing’s changed in any of it.

At the eleventh hour, in sheer desperation, Paul Murray tabled a counter offer and one which would have safeguarded the club by making Murray International responsible for any tax liabilities left over from the reckless use of EBT’s.

Which Murray was in no position to accept, having lost any remaining sway he had at the bank which had funded him, no questions asked, for years.

Given that the full extent of those HMRC penalties was unknown at that time, no other deal made any sense at all. And Sir David knew it.

But Murray could not have made that deal even if he wanted to!

In many ways, it’s really quite sad that this will be his lasting legacy. But Murray is just going to have to live with it.

Second person perspective to close this down I think.

“You sigh as the Word document saves and then closes. You shut the laptop. You look around for a bottle which contains even a drain of what you need to get through the rest of the day. One beer bottle shows promise; liquid sloshes around in it as you carry it back to the sofa. One swig is enough; you throw it into a corner. Piss! Piss! Why oh why are you pissing in empty bottles again? You want to retch but this floor is filthy enough as it is. You channel surf. Nothing grabs you. So you sit and you ponder what you just wrote, and if anyone, even amongst your audience, is daft enough to believe a word of it.”

For the record; they’re not. Nobody is.