The SPFL have listened to logic and turned away from the cliff edge... but it is almost impossible to explain how bad, how stupidly incompetent, this whole situation makes them look

THERE are times when Scottish football resembles a particularly inspired piece of absurdist performance art. And then there are the really nutty days…

The ongoing farce over a pair of Betfred Cup semi-finals? Even before yesterday’s predictable denouement, it was already beginning to feel like one overly long set-up for an inevitably flat punchline.

Without discounting the possibility of another zany plot twist from the jokers leading this process, it at least looks as if common sense will score a rare victory in the coming days.

Those cheers resounding across the nation, however, are most definitely sardonic in nature.

Think of the noise you hear when a goalkeeper guilty of three howlers in one game makes a simple save.

Now imagine five million souls joining in with mocking applause. That’ll get you somewhere close to the public mood this morning.

It is almost impossible to explain how bad, how stupidly incompetent, this whole situation makes the SPFL look. But it might be cathartic to give it a try.

First, let’s accept that they may eventually reach the right decision.

With a little help from the whole country screaming at them to please, for once, listen to logic and turn away from that cliff edge…

Any credit they may gain by doing the obvious thing, taking one of the matches to Murrayfield, is far outweighed by their handling of the situation to date.

And, although there are roughly a thousand inevitable questions about who knew what and when, we could boil it all down to one simple query: Did anyone involved in the running of Scottish football actually talk to the grown-ups before pressing ahead with their latest bold initiative? Because, you know, we just

assume that Neil Doncaster — SPFL chief executive/human shield — made all the right calls before settling on a decision to play two major showpiece matches on the same day, at the same venue.

Indeed, just last week, the SPFL put out a statement including the line: ‘We arrived at this decision only after lengthy and exhaustive discussions with all stakeholders, including Police Scotland.’

OK, let’s go through those ‘stakeholders’ — possibly the worst word in the English language.

For starters, Hearts chair Ann Budge’s description of the meeting involving all four clubs sounded a little off. As if someone was just going through the motions before presenting a fait accompli.

There also appeared to be some confusion over the role played in this by the SFA, now the official owners of Hampden.

Naturally, you would expect that the SPFL tried their utmost to get permission to break whatever ‘obligation’ they have to keep both semis at the national stadium.

Surely no one would suggest that the SFA were just playing politics, denying co-operation until the league bods were in a very deep, very embarrassing pit of their own digging. No, that couldn’t be true.

You might certainly have imagined that the SPFL would have made contact with someone at Scot Rail before making the big decision.

Just checking basic train services on the weekend in question, maybe even suggesting a football special or two — guaranteed revenue streams at a pretty quiet time.

Clearly, judging by the response of the rail operator, that did not happen.

As for the police, well, that’s the strangest one of all. Because they obviously had to give Doncaster some kind of thumbs-up for games to be played at 12 noon and then 7.45pm.

Yet, after the coppers’ own union came out so strongly against the ‘idiotic’ proposal, the die was cast.

Yesterday’s news that Police Scotland were to conduct a ‘full public safety assessment’, apart from raising one very obvious question, was a stick-on.

Of course they were going to have a rethink. No senior officer could ignore so much noise — from above and below — without losing face.

When politicians start warning of disaster, when rank-and-file cops complain about being ‘run ragged’ and when virtually every football supporter in the land can see the plan for the nonsense it is, our boys in blue snap right into action.

Then came the SPFL statement, an exercise in backside covering without a hint of an apology. They made it all sound terribly exciting, too.

As thrilled as the league bigwigs were about the ‘best and most practicable solution’ at the time of their initial call, they’re now equally thrilled about the alternative options.

Do they think that being relentlessly chipper is the answer in every circumstance, regardless of how badly they’ve messed up?

Look, Scottish football is never short of crises. You only have to go back a few days to find evidence of that.

It’s genuinely worrying that we seem to have created a football environment where criminals feel so emboldened, so protected by the omerta of mob rule, that they can carry out an assault in broad daylight.

What happened at Livingston on Sunday perhaps sharpened the senses of police, increasing awareness over the risk of something going very, very badly wrong.

The sight of blood, in this instance pouring from the head wound on an assistant referee struck by a missile, does tend to push opinion-makers towards caution.

It shouldn’t have taken that. Nor should it have been left up to Hearts, absolutely determined not to let this insanity pass, to keep the pressure on.

But they did. And, for that, Budge and Craig Levein both deserve a great deal of credit.

They stood up for their supporters. They made themselves impossible to ignore. Scotland thanks them.

They’ve saved us from enduring another three weeks of slapstick manoeuvring and man-stands-onrake plot twists courtesy of the fun-loving lads on the sixth floor at Hampden.

Honestly? At one point last week, it felt as if Doncaster had uncovered a long-lost Mel Brooks screenplay and decided to act it out.

After removing all traces of wit, obviously.

Ladies and gentlemen, from the writer of Blazing Saddles,

Spaceballs and The Producers, we bring you Super Sunday — his bleakest and blackest comedy yet.

Absurd. Absolutely absurd. And not in a good way.