Good God, I wish I’d had a fiver for every time I uttered those words
over that brilliant, unforgettable, GIRUY weekend. In fact, my lady of
the moment threatened to stab me if I didn’t find a more endearing
chat-up line. It was unreal, out of this world, unbefuckenlieveable.
Aye, like I said, you couldn’t make it up.
The Gers had done what they had to do at Easter Road and it was clear
Hibs, with one eye on the goings-on at Pittodrie, were content to
settle for a 1-0 defeat. Having heard the Trainspotters cheer so loudly
when news of Mutton’s goal filtered back from Fir Park, I was a bit
pissed off that it wasn’t 4-0 or 5-0, or that the Two Jimmies’ lot
hadn’t gone right ahead against the Jambos. Ah well, it looked like it
was going to be one of those days. We’d done our bit but events
elsewhere were not going our way and we faced a tortuous summer of
reflection, regretting the points thrown away against Caley Thistle and
Dundee United and, even more dismally, listening to Timothy crawing
about two-in-a-row.
But wait, there are still two minutes left…GO-O-O-O-O-OAL! Scott
McFuckendonald has scored for Motherfuckenwell. Yabadabadooooooo!
Suddenly those of us who’d slipped into the Main Stand incognito,
having been on our best behaviour for the past 88 minutes, couldn’t
give a monkey’s. We could bouncey-bouncey just like the Bears behind
the goal. If any of the resident Rock Steady numpties were inclined to
do anything about it, they quickly thought better of it. What were they
going to do? Throw us out in injury time? No way Jose! Indeed, full
marks to one of the stewards who, having moved in on the guys who were
waving a Union Jack, seemed to spend the next 20 minutes saying ‘If one
of my gaffers is watching, I’m telling you to put that away – but I
really couldn’t care less.’
Somewhere in midst of the mayhem, Motherwell got a second goal but
it simply didn’t matter. The Gers had got the three points they needed,
the Mhanky Mhob’s bottle had crashed and it was party time. It was
beep-beep beep-beep all around as text messages flashed here there and
everywhere and the most unexpected title triumph was acclaimed by the
lucky 4,000 or so in the ground and, of course, the millions of True
Blue people worldwide.
For a few minutes I feared that our celebrations would be curtailed
when a crowd of HIVs fans came on to the pitch making come-ahead
gestures to the Rangers end. Knowing how it would be reported and
gloated over if the presentation ceremony had to be cancelled, I’m glad
our guys resisted the temptation to take them up on their offer and,
with the appearance of the Lothian & Borders Cavalry, it was just a
case of waiting patiently for the helicopter to land and the trophy to
be brought out. Hardly surprisingly, we passed the time away with a
song or two. Cheer Up Martin Who?
A few days later, still beaming from ear to ear and muttering ‘you
couldn’t make it up’, I tried to get my head around it all. As a bit of
an old bassa, this was my 20th Championship clincher as an active
Rangers supporter (first was 29/4/61, 7-3 v Ayr United) and, while I’ve
always believed the sweetest success must be the most recent, I
genuinely don’t think there will ever be another day like that which we
enjoyed at Easter Road.
Looking back over the years, there have been some really special causes
for celebration. The Easter weekend of 75 when we put an end to
Septic’s ten-in-a-row notions, Souness’ first title at Pittodrie in 87,
the last day of the season win over the Sheepies four years later,
Gazza’s hat-trick for eight-in-a-row, the magic of nine-in-a-row,
Tricky Dicky’s first flag on Sellick’s day of shame at the Mockit Dome
and the nailbiting drama of the goal difference triumph of two years
ago. Each and every one pumped LBB full of pride and continue to
quicken the heart when I relive the dramas over and over again whilst
partaking of a quiet shandy or two.
But these were occasions when, with our destiny in our own hands, we
really expected to triumph, if not on that particular day, then surely
a week or two later. No matter how optimistically I tried to psyche
myself up, I’m afraid I just couldn’t see us having too much to
celebrate at Easter Road. Apart from the fact that we were facing a
Hibs team who needed a point to be sure of their UEFA Cup place (and
for the first 75 minutes of the game they certainly played like they
wanted that point), there was no way I could envisage Motherwell
getting any joy against Them.
Ach, who cares, what the hell do I know about this funny old game? Big
Marv told us all to believe, the banner behind the goal repeated the
message, but c’mon, did any of us really think it would happen? To
those who did, I bow to your positive outlook and, as one who is more
inclined to have a half-full glass than a half-empty one, I've often
felt like beating myself up for not keeping the faith.
With MON shipping out, the possibility that he might slip off into the
sunset on the back of another SPL Championship success turned my
stomach. This twisted wee jobby has encouraged his team to clatter and
cheat their way through the past five years and, with the Hack Pack
only too willing to hero-worship him, a myth has evolved about the
sainted Martin and his magical powers. But just in case any of his
lackeys with laptops have missed the point, his mob have once more been
found out and finished the season behind a Rangers team which can
hardly be described as being one of our best.
And it is the modesty (I’m reluctant to say mediocrity) of this Rangers
squad, the unexpected nature of our glory and a multitude of other
'wee' things - that heart-warming feeling when news of Motherwell’s
goal caused lift-off at Easter Road, the vision of all those smug Timmy
faces preparing to party, the ripping down of the bunting on Royston
Road, the helicopter pilot filing a new flight plan, the aw-naw faces
at Fir Park, the Hack Packers having to work overtime on their Plan B
tributes to the Champions - which sets this season’s title apart from
the rest.
Hey, it is great and it will last all summer long because, this time
around, we’ve run out of opportunities to hand the initiative back to
the Great Unwashed (Phew...ain’t you glad about that!). And no matter
how hard the Press Gang try to gloss over the collapse of O’Neill’s
knuckledraggers or how much coverage they give to ‘the exciting new
regime’ at Breezeblock Boulevard, it is no more than a sideshow. WE
ARE THE CHAMPIONS!...and not even a rusty stanley knife will get this
smile off my face.
Against all the odds, the Gers are back on top of the heap and, with
the right sort of backing from upstairs – we are watching you, Messrs
Murray and Bain! – Big Eck has got to fancy his chances of building on
this season and pushing further ahead of our rivals. Casting our minds
back to April 24, it is a position we didn’t dare hope we would be in
but, believe it, we are…and each and every one of us should savour this
feeling of superiority.
As that wise old Chinese proverb says: You just couldn’t make it up.
LITTLE BOY BLUE