One of the local Rangers Supporters Club buses leaves from right outside my door. It has been a source of some banter between us that, while they have to run to catch the bus, with my other half acting as my chauffeur, I can enjoy an extra pint or two in the pub before heading for the match.
But that was then and this is now. One Monday night earlier this season I emerged from my humble abode, I said my hellos, my 'not a penny more’ stance was acknowledged, I hoped the guys would have a good night, then I crossed the road to the pub.
And therein lies a tale. Previously there might have been as many as 30 guys waiting for the bus, with various other pick-ups ensuring a full busload, but that night there would have been no more than ten Bears awaiting their lift.
The pub on the other hand was as busy as it has ever been on a Monday night, yet each and every bloke at the bar would class himself a good Rangers man. And I'm not talking about glory-hunting fair-weather fans here, these are guys who hitchhiked to Turin during our Cup-Winners’ Cup run in 1972, who suffered Timmy’s nine-in-a-row, who follow-followed to Europe to see the Gers getting gubbed by Twente Enschede in 1977, who planned their summer holidays to take in pre-season tours, who endured all the pre-Souness embarrassments and who were so loud and proud when our club got its act together and returned to the top of the tree.
Since then, we've celebrated our own nine-in-a-row, sang about Super Ally, Laudrup and Gazza, we’ve argued about Wee Dick, Big Eck, PLG and Walter, debated the relative merits of Negri, Mols, the De Boers, Lovenkrands, Prso, Novo and Boyd, the mismanagement of Murray and Bain never failed to have us at each others’ throats and, of course, the sad state of affairs which ensued when the Charlatan masquerading as the Custodian fecked off to his vineyard and placed our beloved club in the grubby paws of the most despicable collection of fly-by-nights, including a convicted fraudster, has seen as all grow a little greyer and more dependent on the blood-pressure tablets.
Each of us has now made the decision that enough is enough. Like most Rangers pubs, over the years the guys in my local have spent tens of thousands (do the sums, it ain’t long in adding up!) following our team and, while we all accept that we have to take the rough with the smooth, what has been done to us towards the end of Murray’s reign and in the wake of his abdication of responsibility has amounted to one monumental piss-take. Well, nobody is taking the piss out of us any more.
We have no issue with those who are still in the everywhere-anywhere camp. I have agreed to disagree with some of my closest friends but I can’t help thinking that, with more displays like that Monday night’s debacle, the ‘not a penny more’ crowd will grow and the numbers continuing to follow on regardless will steadily diminish.
The saddest thing of all was that, before the half-time whistle had gone, our attention had turned away from events on the telly and we were discussing the Ryder Cup, the post-Referendum fall-out and a weekend incident which had resulted in the polis descending in numbers on a nearby street. Nicky Law’s consolation goal was hardly noticed.
In a recent item on the FF Messageboard, poster ‘support cluan place’ raised the topic of his pals choosing to play golf rather than go to watch the Rangers. It is a decision I reckon many have already made and the danger is that, having found an alternative way to pass our leisure time, it will be so much harder for the Rangers to lure us back once we finally get shot of the current crop of conmen in our boardroom. Sooner or later we will rid ourselves of them, of that I have no doubt, but I fear that the damage they have done and continue to do will leave us stuck behind the eight-ball for years to come.
We need to be able to believe in the Rangers again. The recent utterances, whether from Easdale, McCoist, his former team-mates or cheerleaders in the media do neither our club nor the manager any favours. Seeing our team outplayed by a Hibs team which has been struggling underlined the shortcomings of our coaching staff and our first team squad. Failure to recognise this is head-in-the-sand denial and, as our desperado directors jockey for position by shuffling shares around in the build-up to the forthcoming AGM, it all suggests things are likely to get worse before they get better.
The possibility of Rangers not playing in the top flight next season is quite simply unacceptable. Yet the evidence of recent games and the ever-present threat of another brush with administration, with the inevitable heavy-duty points deduction, casts a dark cloud over any future ambitions. Under current management, on and off the park, there is not the slightest sign of any light at the end of the tunnel.
The prospect of Rangers stumbling back to the top flight, only to be the laughing stock of those who have gloated so loudly over our plight, turns my stomach. When we are again amongst those who've made no effort to conceal their hatred of us it will test even the most mild-mannered Bear's temperament. I'm not quite ready to put myself to that test. When we are back in the midst of the corrupt ones, I want us to be there to deal out retribution on the pitch and to sing ourselves hoarse as we enjoy their pain.
The Rangers of today are a million miles away from delivering payback time and, while that is bad enough in itself, the most depressing issue is that our hopes are conspicuous by their absence from the wish-list of those currently calling the shots.
So some of us will be heading for the golf course, others for the bowling green, some will be dragged through the shopping malls with the wife and weans, while quite a few of my mates now check out the local junior scene. I tend to spend my Saturdays and Sundays with the best seat in the house, whether at home or in the pub, watching genuine top quality football from all across Europe, the likes of which I haven’t seen at Ibrox for a long, long time.
Guess what? I’m actually enjoying it. No national-minimum-rate numpty in a high viz jacket telling me I can’t do this or I can’t do that, no bounty-hunting polis looking at me suspiciously just because I’ve left a pub on my way to the fitba, no big-mouthed small-minded supporters of wee diddy teams feeling free to give me the verbals, no being herded here there and everywhere just because I support the Rangers. I pass my weekend doing what I want to do, in pleasant surroundings with good people and it will take something pretty dramatic to tear me away from such a stress-free lifestyle.
I daresay a Souness-like spending spree, letting all our enemies know the days of having a laugh at our club’s expense are drawing to a close, might tempt me. The ball is in the Rangers’ court, the club has to re-establish itself as the treasured institution I want to be part of, work has to be done to coax me and so many others back to the fold.
C’mon Rangers, at least give me some food for thought
CHARLIE HORSE