Nah, nix that;
Manchester has given me enough doom and gloom to last an eternity
You might have noticed in the last issue of 2007/08 that FF as a fanzine celebrated (for want of a better word) its 200th edition. To add to the mood, GS who I don't usually equate with nostalgia, went back to the printer of the very first mag to publish said landmark.
That first edition hit the streets on August 9th 1988 for the Davie Cooper Testimonial versus Bourdaeux. And life, especially for my missus, the first and original FF widow, would never be the same again.
As I see it, FF as a fanzine can be quite easily divided into two distinct and separate ten-year chapters and entities without question.
Chapter #1 = 1988 - 1998. This passage contained all the trials and tribulations in building up the sequence of title wins that started, ever building up to NIAR and then of course tossing away the big Ten. And let there be no doubt about here, it was tossed away. There were many political issues raised too, and then as now, they were mainly ignored.
Along the way to NIAR there were some dissenting voices, mainly a couple of eedjits from Govanhill and Cumbernauld who were far from happy at how the club was shaping up, being ran and how our finances were being squandered. Pair of fecking arseholes.
Now I can't say for certain what propelled 'The Major' into action back then. What I can say on my part is, it was never about trying to 'buck the trend' or be obtuse purely for the sake of it. I've always felt that I've tried to chronicle where I'VE felt the club has been at, and the direction we have been taking, at any one time when the next issue came around. No more no less. Just call me Billy Chaucer although I'm sure there are people out there who would happily call me something else altogether.
Chapter #2 = 1998 - 2008, which dealt initially with the highs of Dick Advocaat's forage into Scottish football, the introduction of FollowFollow as an internet attraction and of course sadly, the realisation that the pair of arseholes from Chapter #1 who seemed to be hell bent on spoiling the teddy bears' picnic previously , would be eventually proved correct. Who'da thought it eh? Spending money that we just didn't have would come back and haunt us, and it did; in spectacular fashion too.
If FF Chapter #1 was all about the highs of domestic success and not much to write home about on in Europe, save for the term 1992/93. Then FF Chapter #2 has been mostly about the Wasteland we have travelled across due to David Murray's financial recklessness and moral negligence (UEFA banning TBBs etc) and the almost continual domestic dross that came with it. Of course, these miserable years were interspersed by two momentous last day title triumphs in 2003 and 2005.
Before we embark on FF Chapter #3 it needs to be said however, that the events of May 2008, especially May 14th, should have seen the FF wheel turn full circle, seen a culmination of our previous dreams and aspirations bear fruit, as in the club at long last regaining European respectability.
But in actual fact, what we have witnessed, all too painfully, is that Rangers FC as a club, has been catapulted back into the abyss. And apart from a few angry but belated words in April from the manager and CEO, no one at the club has the gumption to stand up for us.
Football wise, how do you begin to describe the Stadium of Manchester embarrassment? I'd say it was akin to that episode of The Simpsons, when Bart kids Lisa on, that he is a master of Karate, specialising in the 'touch of death' to all opponents.
Next day the school 'neds' take a liberty with Lisa and she says her big brother would soon sort them out. He does 'the touch of death' you know. The scene ends with Bart careering down a hill in a dustbin.
Walter's 'touch of death' versus Zenit was erm, a continuation of the guff tactics that have worried, concerned and disconcerted us all season long. How many times to we need to repeat the mantra? We don't have defenders, other than Carlos, and occasionally Weir, who can defend properly. We don't have midfielders with the energy and tactical nous to play a part in both defending and attacking roles. And above all, we do not possess a Gerd Muller up front to pounce upon the scarce chances their colleagues behind, might, just might make on a half chance.
We don't have a Gerd Muller of course, but in Kris Boyd we have the most instinctive goal poacher at the club since a certain Ally McCoist. And he was brought on with but 5 minutes to go in the final. As I see it, Kris Boyd would have been entitled to tell his manager to fc*k off at that stage in the game.
On the Saturday previous Nacho Novo played one of his greatest ever games for us. Two wonderful goals and a tremendous assist for the third goal that killed off the match. For that smashing performance he was rewarded with a slot on the bench in Manchester. Oh, he did get on with 15 or so minutes to go, but the match was already in the Russians' hip pocket.
What I didn't get on the night, and still am struggling to come to terms with, is why at half time the manager just didn't say 'ach bollocks, let's just go all out for the win.' Twenty minutes, even, to immortality and he didn't have the gumption to change his tactics.
It is often said; 'The saddest words of tongue or pen are these, it might have been.' I hope that phrase haunts Walter Smith as much as they haunt the rest of us because I very much doubt he'll ever be so close again to winning such a prize.
You wonder if a higher power is happy at constantly dicking us about? But whatever your convictions, Christian or otherwise; there is a supreme irony in our club's European dreams for a generation ending in Manchester.
It just had to be Manchester, didn't it? Fifty years previously, a club from that town saw their European hopes perished on a runway in Munich. A young side, who may well have eventually matched, and then eclipsed Real Madrid, died, as did their manager's dreams.
But Matt Busby eventually got out of his sick bed and pursued and was consumed by the thought of dipping into that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Although it would take him another ten years, that man lived to see that dream become a reality. It wasn't just about vision, it was about the levels he wanted his club to aspire to.
So, with Manchester in mind, where do you want to see our club perform in the next ten years? Do you want us to shrug our shoulders and look at The Blue Tsunami, 2008, as a 36-year odyssey? Or, on the other hand, do you want to, as Matt Busby did, fulfil that ultimate goal?
Sadly again, in Manchester 08, there was a signpost pointing us to a city called despair. And it already looks like we have booked a one-way ticket.
Who was the UEFA Ambassador, waving the UEFA Cup beforehand? It was of course, Denis Law, a Rangers fan who hailed from Aberdeen and is loved by both of Manchester's football tribes. Has there ever been another British footballer who scored six goals in an FA Cup tie and they didn't count?
Which takes us back again to Matt Busby and his European dream? To reach that football summit as he pieced another side together, post Munich, he needed a special goal scorer to help him along the way. To that end, he went to Italy to bring back to Old Trafford a former City centre in a previous life.
Compare and contrast with what seems today like a sure fire certainty that Walter Smith is going to acquire Kenny Miller this summer. And it does seem like a certainty at this moment in time because of the manager's refusal to quash these horrible rumours.
It needs to be said, Denis Law was already something special as a predator when he signed for Man Utd in the early 60s and the stats tell us he was twice the goal scorer for Scotland that Dogleish was.
Apart from being a dud striker, Kenny Miller's first touch has all the hallmarks of a mentally retarded bull elephant with acute bunion problems into the bargain. We'd be paying far too much for the fud if we got him on a Bosman, far less paying any money for him whatsoever.
Going off on a little tangent here, my parents tried to instil many values into my brother and I. My old man's in particular could be construed as a little eclectic or even eccentric. For example, we were told that;
A - The lowest thing a man can do is lift his hands to a woman.
B - You should never boo a Rangers player on the park.
I'd hate to think I'd ever let my old man down regards hitting a female. But I can assure you of this pater, should you read this, EVERY time that yahoo badge kissing piece of excrement touches a ball in a Rangers jersey in the future I'll be booing him.
Again it's getting back to this supreme being messing around with my Karma. The manager obviously thought we could hive off Alan Hutton in January and that there was a suitable replacement to be found within the playing squad. That on its own, for me, is an indication that Walter Smith is not now in possession of all his footballing faculties.
To compound it still further in the next transfer window by paying any money for a dud striker cum headless chicken smacks of someone who now wants to take an intransigent piss all over the support.
Then of course there was the most disgraceful ever frittering and squandering away of this season's SPL title.
Goodness knows, there are many reasons why we should be angry as this season unravelled all around us. The fixture congestion of course was a sore one for the players, and if ever the phrase was true; then 'They died with their boots on' should be the epitaph for Rangers in 2007/08.
But there is more to it than that. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and one we all excel in. However, the drawn encounter at Tannadice, nearly forty years to the day incidentally from another league encounter up there that put a nail into another Rangers title run in was the big one for me. If we had won that game, I'd have said the finishing post was in sight.
Again, in hindsight, Easter Rd immediately after Florence was always going to be a tough one and so it proved. The way the points were shipped at Fir Park and Pittodrie as the title slithered away over the last week or so tells its own story as did the mealy-mouthed way our management accepted every Liewell orchestrated, SPL shafting in between times. Will we ever learn or take on those who hate us?
The line between success and failure for me has never been so fine. Just last month (April) as momentum grew, I'd have happily acknowledged Walter Smith as being up there with Messrs Wilton and Struth if the 'quadruple' had been achieved.
Sadly, as we come to terms with the wreckage of a season that promised so much and gave us so little, I'm reminded of how I felt in May 1979, when John Greig tossed a title away in similar circumstances. Apparently it is referred to as the rich tapestry of life. They can shove it where the sun don't shine as far as I'm concerned.
The Govanhill Gub.