Gary Keown celebrates another stirring year of Scottish football

As the bells prepare to chime on a year of rammies and friction, how about a wee poem to sum up our Scottish football addiction?

SO here we are, comrades, acquaintances, foes,

Tae reflect on how quickly the fitba’ year goes,

In a land where the game isnae quite as essential,

As the bust-ups, the barneys, the mad and the mental.

Where middle-aged men, nicknamed Lenny and Duff,

Spark a fight on the touchline then take the cream puff,

‘He asked fur a square-go,’ wis the tale Lenny told,

‘Naw, ah didnae,’ clyped Duff. ‘Ah’m no’ 12 years old.’

No such childish barbs fae the boys at St Johnstone,

‘Flyin’ Fists’ Foster and ‘Swedgin’ Dan Swanson,

Goin’ fur each other’s heid and then the haw-maws wi’

An unhinged abandon no’ seen since big Mohsni.

Now, Bilel’s up fur knockin’ out eejits and bozos,

But thon boy who’s fillin’ his shirt now, Cardoso?

Dunt HIM wi’ the elbow, squish his nose like a fly,

An’ he sticks it on Insta, wi’ the puppy-dog eyes.

Still, that’s Rangers these days, aw their mixed messages,

And guys in the dug-oot aw fallin’ like fleas,

Like respectful auld Warbs and his funny wee way,

Of ‘taking care of the football’ and ‘pitch geography’.

He quit Ibrox, ye see. He jist didnae know,

’Til’ a journalist called and informed him so,

His successor wis clear, a matador in Qatar,

A more accomplished purveyor of pure bull, by far.

‘I’m a f ***** g tough guy,’ he announced at a press call,

Alarm bells rang fae the Shankill tae Larkhall,

Vampires, Vegas, how his soul’s where the Devil is,

Aw part of the Teddy Bears’ annus horribilis.

‘McInnes fancies my job,’ wis a line Pedro spun,

But McInnes went: ‘Shove it. You’re amateurs. Do one.’

Aw part o’ the process, the board members said,

Then they gave it tae Murty who can… ehhhhh… stand on his head?

I mean, it’s no’ like McInnes is livin’ the dream,

A guy on his board bet against his ain team,

And the Aberdeen Cooncil seem tae listen tae crackpots, Who say a new ground means an ISIS attack plot.

Greg Stewart signs up an’ jist can’t show his qualities,

’Cos he’s hammered the bevvy on THREE summer holidays,

Then wee GMS, withoot any warnin’,

Ends up blitzed in the Kelvin at three in the mornin’. So why didn’t Del jump? Cowardice, wis the shout, In an anonymous statement Rangers won’t speak about, They took the heat and Del’s rep stayed intact, But his bête noire remains: how tae stop gettin’ whacked… By ra Sellic, where the masses adore Blessed Brendan, It’s a love affair showin’ not one sign of endin’, Winnin’ the title by miles and miles, All beautiful humans, and beautiful smiles. And beautiful nights. Where Paris score seven, When ye won’t park the bus, shipping goals is a given, But this new Belle Epoque fur the aesthetic mind, Makes repetitive pumpings romance redefined.

It’s a new form of worship. All happy and clappy,

Bar fur the guy who swung the boot at Mbappe,

Or the Ultras locked out by their own club’s directors,

The Fans of the Year. So said FIFA’s selectors.

Alas, THEIR gravy train is now thundering on,

Tae a World Cup in Russia that, for us, is long gone,

We’ll be stuck here at hame. Nae borscht and duff voddy,

The reason we failed? The size of oor bodies.

Some laid the blame at Leigh Griffiths no playin’,

Or Lithuania’s team bein’ there fur the flayin’,

Strachan blamed oor genetics. That we’re too wee tae cut it,

The geneticists laughed. But he still wullnae shut it.

He can go watch the Hibs now, his childhood club,

Where, this year, the car park had a wee pop-up pub,

Where Cumdog versus Grado brought tears tae the face,

Like Marv Bartley invadin’ Roarie Deacon’s airspace.

He could take in the Hearts. Now there’s seats in the stand,

Mind the weather got blamed ’til they held up her hands,

Like they did wi’ Ian Cathro and his flakey boasts,

That his team wid match Celtic. If you scrapped the goalposts.

Now, the Bells might be close, but there’s outstanding business,

Giannis Skondras at Accies goin’ rogue before Christmas,

Punchin’ Ross County players ’til he got a red card,

And a low-key affair became the sixth part of ‘Die Hard’

They’ve scheduled a hearin’ at Hampden tae see,

Why this guy ended up like the Hulk on a spree,

But it’s simple. It’s Scotland. The game got in his blood,

An affliction ye cannae just nip in the bud.

It’s the panto, the mayhem, which marks out the year,

The daftness that blots out the failure and tears,

Roll on 2018, when our version of soccer,

Will be back sendin’ all of us right aff our rocker.