Colinstein72

I was initially shocked to learn that when it was announced, Celtic Park would play a prominent role in the Glasgow Commonwealth games. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Celtic, the Commonwealth games?? With undue haste I consulted my dictionary and sought some clarification of the word 'Commonwealth". Common Wealth is the etymology of the word, well the taigs are certainly common, but I am afraid (for me at least) they will remain eternally the bheggars, "wealth" and Celtic is a clear oxymoron. Intrigued, I pursued the word and was heartened to learn that dear old Oliver Cromwell had established his very own Commonwealth in 1653, which involved putting the Catholic Irish and Scottish Jacobites to the sword. A man after my own heart. However, it seems that the current word Commonwealth refers basically to many of our former colonies. These blighted regions really have gone backwards since turning their backs on the Mother country. Amongst their number we have African despots, Asian autocrats and Antipodean spivs. They will fit in well to the Brendanbeu, whose dreadful inhabitants will admire the cut of their gib. But in all seriousness, this vulgar tawdry spectacle is an insult to the local taxpayer and the average British citizen. Just exactly what is Her Majesty doing in that Republican infested rathole? I don't blame her of course, She is just doing her job as Head of State and mother of the nation. What of her Governmental ministers? Her flunkies who surround her? I see that at great expense, certain superficial changes have been made at the Brendanbeu, presumably at great expense with inflated contracts to 'favoured' builders. They have constructed a major concourse, illuminated and glazed. Look, they can tart it up as much as they want, as far as I am concerned it is the equivalent of the local knocking shop getting a free facelift. It will still remain a place of ill repute despite their best efforts. The other thing is that after a day watching the sporting events, your average middle class Canadian family will leave Celtic Park, looking for an eatery in the immediate vicinity. Has nobody warned these poor innocents of the dangers that await them as they stroll down promenade de Gallowgate?The slop houses and illicit drinking dens are no place for these decent people. As for the fate of black and brown tourists, the mind boggles. I find it amusing too that major television channels warned foreign football supporters about the dangers of the locals in Brazil now and South Africa four years ago during the world cup. And yet nobody breathes a word about the impending doom which lurks in every alley and side street. As Dermot Desmond flies in to Glasgow in his very own Tarrier carrier, he must be a very satisfied man. Free propaganda for his club, huge external investment without him having to pay a single penny. Most of all, he is not British, he is not even a member of the Commonwealth. This is what Scotland has become.

I have always remained sanguine about our great club, despite our current difficulties. My optimism is based upon empirical evidence and rational thought. Put simply, there are far more Rangers supporters than there are Celtic supporters, that is a simple fact. Sheer demographics dictate that the Protestant majority rule the roost, the same applies to Scottish football as it does in Northern Ireland. In short, yes we ARE the people. Now some will have us believe that Celtic are going through some 'golden period'. Well, let's examine this thesis. Celtic's 'trick' is to identify raw young talent on the European continent, train them up and sell them on for a large profit. It sounds great, but unfortunately it hasn't quite worked like this, has it? I give you Mohammed Bangura, Balde, Pukki, Darrell Murphy......................... Celtic is actually losing money at an alarming rate. They have cut season tickets dramatically to try and stop the rot, but all to no avail. Celtic park is a morgue, the land of the living dead. Row after row after row of empty green seats cannot hide the bitter truth. Celtic is a dying club, moreover a club which needs Rangers more than the establishment team needs them. Like a flabby pimp, Peter Lawwell offers up his young lads to the highest bidder, soliciting European clubs for crazy sums of money. They have no shame, no self respect and for a team which proclaims its history, it pays scant regard to what they claim they stand for. Rangers will be back, as sure as night follows day. What is needed is a sense of proportion and context. Such names as Craig Whyte, Charles Green, Sir David Murray, Dave King, they are but transitory, ephemeral figures who will quickly disappear into the vast abyss of oblivion. Rangers will re-emerge, stronger, leaner and fitter. Moreover, we will return well aware of what they tried to do to us. Not just Timothy, but his vassals like the Arabs, the sheep and other provinical midgets. They too will feel our wrath when the day of judgement cometh. Just two weeks ago, I was engaged in banter with a Shettleston Harrier, except his idea of banter was not mine. To use a terrible cliché, his face was like the map of Ireland. He said something derogatory about Rangers, believe me when my mate had finished with him, Connaught and Munster had been reduced to a bloody pulp and Leinster was still hanging on. However, good old Ulster remained untouched. They will never defeat us.

Much has been written about Rangers triumph in May 24th, 1972 and it will always remained etched in my memory as to quote a terrible cliché, I was there! My brother Crichton, my future brother-in-law George and me made up the intrepid threesome bound for the distant Mediterranean port. Our means of transportation was an ancient Humber camper van which served as our sleeping quarters during the week long Odyssey. Since neither Crichton nor I had a driving licence, George was left with the Herculean task of conveying us single-handedly from the wilds of West Fife to Barcelona and back! We somehow made it over the Pyrenees with the Humber creaking ominously as it climbed the huge mountains which separate France from Spain. It was clear that from the moment we entered Spain that it was very different. We were ordered out of the van at customs control by uniformed men in strangely shaped, black patent hats. This was our first encounter with the notorious Guardia Civil, General Franco’s paramilitary force notorious for their brutal methods of suppressing any form of dissent. Much has been written about “Barcelona 1972”, much of it true some of it fantasy. What is clear is that to gain any understanding of the events, one has to understand the Spain of 1972. Francisco Franco took power illegally in Spain, following the end of the Spanish Civil War in 1939. Along with his buddies Hitler and Mussolini, he ruled ruthlessly and was particularly brutal in those regions which he saw as dangerous and disloyal. Barcelona being the capital of Catalonia was essentially a city under constant oppression. People were not allowed to associate in groups of more than three people, trade unions were banned, speaking Catalan was banned in schools and in public, there were no free elections. It was into this strange, alien world that Crichton, George and I wandered, true innocents abroad. On the day of the game the number of Rangers supporters suddenly became much more visible. They gathered in the Plaça de Cataluyna and began the songs which were regarded with curiosity by the locals. The Guardia Civil stood back, nervous at seeing so many people express themselves freely. Gradually the locals' curiosity overcame their natural caution to observe these strange tall, fair skinned Aryans from the north. Divided by language, religion and culture, two diverse peoples engaged initially at least in nervous social intercourse. As I recall it was a clear morning with just a few clouds in the sky, perhaps a harbringer of the eventful day which was about to unfold. By two o'clock as a result of the chartered planes arriving, the Plaça de Catalunya had suddenly filled to overflowing. In those days, one of Her Brittanic Majesty's notes would get you 320 pesetas. That is a lot of vino tinto and cerveza! At just forty pesetas for a carafe, the day was set and it was fiesta time. I remember clearly attempting to have a conversation in broken English with a diminutive Spaniard who reeked of garlic. ‘Señor, eet ees a pleashure to ‘ave you weet uz, thank you, thank you” he muttered with tears in his eyes.’ After two litres of red wine, the wee man knew "Derry's Walls" and "The Sash' by heart. By this time, the huge square could no longer contain the thronging mass of humanity. New friendships had been established between one oppressed people and another with a long and dignified history which cherished personal rights and freedoms.They may have struggled to understand the impenetrable dialects of Larkhall, Harthill and Skye, but instinctively the locals knew the good guys had come to town. From the Plaça de Catalyna the great human cavalcade headed down the Ramblas, the main thoroughfare of Barcelona. From the high balconies dark eyed beauties tossed carnations, wine was offered and gratefully accepted. Then almost imperceptibly at first, a faint chant could be discerned, growing each second in volume until it reached an incredible cacophony. 'Libertad! Libertad! Libertad! The people had found their voice, Rangers being the main orifice for Catalan pride. All the while Franco's acolytes watched on nervously, their itchy hands ready to dispense a blow at the drop of a hat. We sensed what was coming but we were young, we were free and above all we were Rangers. At the end of the Ramblas, we turned left under the stunning "Arco de los Alamos" and onto our date with destiny at the Nou Camp. The game still has a surreal quality to it, almost dreamlike. Any aspiring screen writer could not have come up with a better script. The venue of the game held in the last bastion of fascism with its unhealthy link to the Catholic church and its religious fanatics. Ranger's opponents? The Godless, soulless artifact that was the Soviet Union. A society in which human beings were reduced to the status of 'social units". And between these two evils stood Rangers, standing for the true values of Christianity and decency. I have read a lot about Spain and its recent history and have retraced my steps three times. It was slightly scary to learn that the same route we ploughed that May day was in the footsteps of George Orwell and the International Brigade. Orwell and co may have come to Spain with different objectives and most probably had no interest in football. However, had George and his fellow democrats been present that balmy May night, you can be sure that he would have been cheering on the lads in blue and white. After all, the victory in Barcelona was more than just a game of football. Rangers has always been a lot more than football, the nation’s conscience and its heart and soul. The good guys had triumphed.

The quintessential differences between Rangers and Celtic supporters should never be underestimated. Take for example something as trivial as our eating habits. Today is Friday so if I feel in dietary mode I may well have pasta with a salad if not, in the midst of winter depression, I may go for pizza or even bridie and chips. Celtic supporters do not have that simple choice, they have been ordered by their church to consume food of an aquatic nature as meat and fowl are banned. These differences extend also to speech patterns between the indigenous native-born Scots and the intrusive immigrants from across the water. The best way to illustrate this phenomenon is the radio football phone-ins where the great Scottish public is given licence to vent its spleen. Compare and contrast the high-pitched, shrill, camp, squeal of Declan, Dermot and Danny with the calm, deep, virile tones of Fraser, Forbes and Finlay. Clothes and footwear? Look no further than the respective managers of Rangers and Celtic. Neil Lennon has all the sartorial elegance of an Irish navvy after a night on the piss on Kilburn High street. Attired in a soiled, ill-fitting tracksuit this is the image that he projects to the world. Unshaven, unwashed and uncared for, he is the official face of Celtic F.C. Alistair Murdoch McCoist is everything that Lennon could never aspire to be. Resplendent in blazer, tie and flannels he is a throwback to a time when manners madeth the man. True to the tradition of Struth, Waddell and Symon he embodies the glorious, pristine Rangers tradition. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Whereas Lennon wears cheap trainers, McCoist is always impeccably shod. The closest a Celtic supporter will ever get to a brogue is when he opens his mouth. Then the difference between Ibrox and Celtic Park. I may well have an edifice complex, but the home of Rangers football club is miles better. The façade of the main building evokes the glorious nautical history of Govan when once upon a time the district was awash with welders, fitters and seamen. A time when Glasgow was the Empire’s second city, when Victoria reigned and Brittania really did rule the waves. A time too during war when the loyal workers of Govan provided a lifeline to the country by building ships at a fantastic rate. If Ibrox is the Elizabeth Hurely of football stadia, then Celtic Park is the Jordan. A cheap, plastic model where bits are regularly added or drop off at an alarming rate. When you get right down to it, it’s in the blood.

You could not smoke in the wards!! FFS, are you really suggesting that when husbands visited their expectant wifes they could smoke??? Yes, you could smoke in the corridors but not in the wards, check my post. WTF, what is bluenose.co.uk?I can honestly say I have never even heard of it, never mind contributed to it.

James Traynor along with Hugh Keevins have been implacable enemies of The Rangers and its fans down the years. So bearing that in mind, it is with great pleasure that I learn that Traynor is at this very moment discussing his redundancy terms with management at the Daily Rebel. Some will try and dress this up as being 're-organization', 'natural wastage' or whatever other euphemism they want to use. The truth is that Traynor has been sacked and that this virulent foe of Rangers has been put to the sword (metaphysically speaking) is a moment we should savour. I would like to think that Mr Whyte is behind this latest coup, aided and abetted by Jack Irvine the master of the dark arts. Coupled with Rangers move to link up with STV to enhance mutual commercial interests, suddenly Timmy has been caught in a deadly pincer movement. This will not go down well with Dermot Desmond as he has had one of his place men removed from a position of real power at the heart of the Rebel with its deep anti-Rangers bias. I'll bet right now he is getting his jet ready, his own personal tarrier carrier, to fly over from Dublin to read the riot act to Lawwell. For far too long we have had to take crap thrown at us by taigloid journalists. Organs like Rangers Media and Followfollow are the future, Traynor and typewriters are the past. We are independent and don't need to appease a vocal minority, we write the truth. The couldn't spell the word.

They cannot sack Traynor and not sack Keevins. If that is the case, Traynor could take the Rebel to court for unfair dismissal.

Can anyone confirm this fantastic news? He and a few other 'big' names have been axed from the Rebel!!

Speirs is not normal is and no friend of Rangers. He will soon be out of a job. How sad !!!!!!

Rubbish? Supporting Ally and the team when others on here were slagging them rotten! These are indeed taxing times but we will prevail. For your information, I can trace my Scottish antecedents back to the seventeenth century. You'll find no Timmy traces in my DNA. As for university, I was capped and gowned. McEwan Hall, Edinburgh University (Alumnus 1977). I was touched on the head by John Knox's bonnet (check out the significance of John Knox's bonnet on Wikipedia if you think I am at the wind up). My story is the truth though to be fair I did embellish it with humorous language. "Gerard' was not his real name, but the scene I described was factual. Yes, I was sacked (in those days, you were shown the door). More importantly I still have a great British Monarch not under my skin, but on my skin. And yes, he is still smiling. Lighten up brother!!

Sometimes it really is difficult to gauge the real hatred that Celtic supporters have for us, especially when in the public arena, we Rangers supporters are depicted as the bigots and aggressors. It never ceases to amaze me the depths to which they will descend in their attempts to blacken our name. My first experience with their poison came at a tender age. I had just finished sixth year and before matriculating for University, like countless young students in the seventies, I took the opportunity to earn some extra cash working during the summer holidays. Being an idealist and somewhat altruistic, I decided to try and get a job in the NHS. Back in the seventies that was seen as a noble thing to do. Having no medical training and an aversion to blood and guts, I got a job as a hospital porter. The lowest of the low, so to speak. I didn’t mind the job if I am honest. I had frequent opportunities to nip out for a fag, and some of the young nurses were gorgeous. I worked with the older males and my job consisted of pushing them around the hospital in a wheelchair and when the weather was clement taking them outside for a wee birl on those few occasions when the sun shone. I got attached to one old geezer in particular as he reminded me of my granddad. He was a fly old bugger and was always trying to slip me lines for the bookies. He also smoked like a chimney and always reeked of tobacco. His lungs were fecked and he was clearly on the way out so I felt for him. Back in those days, smoking was the norm. Obviously you couldn’t smoke in the wards, but you could in many public places and in public transportation. As I say, we got on really well until one day I had to lift him out of bed and put him in his wheelchair. Innocently, I rolled up my sleeves revealing a proud Dutch monarch astride a white steed. He saw the tattoo and went into an apoplectic rage. “Get your f*****ing hands off me, you dirty Orange B***ard!” His once gentle features were now twisted and contorted with hatred, a portent of the horrible death mask that would shroud him shortly afterwards. A pulsating vein seemed to take control of his forehead, his eyes narrow and hooded like those of a cobra poised to strike It was at that point that I realized he was a Catholic, though to be honest his religion was not a matter of any importance to me. I was simply there to serve the sick and infirm. “Aye Ready’ being my motto, deeds not just words. I tried to calm him, but he was having none of it. Demonic forces seemed to have entered his whole body and he could no longer speak, such was the anger of this geriatric Gerard. Later that day I was asked to report to my supervisor’s office. It had been brought to his attention that I had caused great distress to an elderly patient by displaying an emblem of a religious nature. He asked me to show him the tattoo, I refused. I was sacked on the spot. As I made my way through the hospital doors and down the long driveway, I rolled up my sleeve to take a long admiring look at dear old King Billy. Maybe it was the declining sun or perhaps a tear in my eye, but I could have sworn that he winked at me. Suddenly a smile returned to my face and tomorrow was just another day.

Sorry, the moment Rangers go down the road of signing animals like that we are fucked. He is a scumbag who goes out every week to injure fellow professionals. Remember what he done at Tynecastle to Jelovic? I haven't and never will. He would be sent off every second week and would be more trouble than he is worth. I don't mind having hard players like Souness, Hurlock, Roberts, Ferguson ; etc. That cunt however is not a man, he always hacks from behind.

"Was" being the operative word.

Couldn't help but notice that two out of three chairmen of Scotland's biggest banks are Earl Haigs and are BOTH season ticket holders at the Brendanbeu. Granting Rangers a credit facility as opposed to servicing a loan/debt are two separate things. There is something not right here.

No, but they will get us 18 plus whatever the rest scored. Lafferty, Davis, etc.