BIGOT BOOT CAMP: THE INSIDE STORY
What really goes on in Rangers’ rehabilitation class
CENTRED around those fans of all creeds, colours and backgrounds at the top table, Rangers’ recent anti-sectarianism initiative posed a number of interesting questions. Above all: Did Stewart Robertson really say he was gauny send folk tae rehabilitation fur singing party songs?
Well, yes. The managing director did. And with Rangers’ followers about as well-received in Europe right now as Boris Johnson turning up uninvited at one of Jean-Claude Juncker’s legendary lunches, Sportsmail has received a special insight into his plans for the re-education of the 3,000 punters definitely not welcome to the party when the Europa League rolls into town.
In an emotional testimony, one unnamed supporter, who claims to have been put through a prototype version of the Great Ibrox Re-Education Programme, reveals what goes on at Bigot Boot Camp. Here is his account:
THEY tried to make me go to rehab. I said “No… No… No Pope of Rome”.
Well, I didn’t actually. They’d have taken my season ticket in BF1 off me. I might like singing Amy Winehoose, but I preferred giving it laldy in the Big Hoose, know what I mean?
Anyway, I just saw the words ‘St Joseph’s’ up on the scoreboard at the Brox the other week and lost it, man. Got flashbacks. Bad ones. ’Nam stuff.
I didn’t know they were a team of part-timers from Gibraltar. I just got those green blazers from St Joe’s Primary up the hill into my mind from all those years ago, remembered their midget of a left-winger making me look like a muppet and could hear that wee bird I fancied from up there saying she liked me because I looked like Anton Rogan.
I thought I’d buried those memories, but you don’t get over that stuff. It all became a blur. I couldn’t tell you what I was shouting.
I just remember coming round in a dark room underneath the Broomloan with a 7ft skinhead wearing a black bomber jacket with SACRO written on the front.
‘Oh, aye, I remember Stewart Robertson saying he was working with SACRO at the anti-bigotry thing. I said to him: ‘What’s it stand for?’
‘Singin’ And Chanting Rectified Overnight, wee man,’ he replied. ‘Awright?’
He thumped his fist, holding a scrunched-up itinerary, into my chest. ‘Therr’s yer timetable fur the morra,’ he growled. ‘Be at Ibrox 8.30 on the button.’ I was. And the day went like this:
8am: Breakfast in the Ibrox restaurant: Mind we banned the old Eggs Benedict when Papa Ratzi moved into the Vatican? Back on the menu now, all right. Available with Pope’s Eye Steak. One boy even told me they’ve reintroduced the green-and-white straws for the morning smoothies. Didn’t have to pay a penny either. At least I think that’s what they meant when they said it was ‘all-inclusive’.
9am: ‘Why Can’t We All Just Get Along?’ with Fheinbharr O’ Phreadomfhighter: Fheinbharr (real name, he says) used to be a top boy in Celtic’s Green Brigade until there was a leadership split over how best to show solidarity over the rights of transgender goats in Palestine. He’s now giving talks on putting differences aside and finding common ground while he sets up the People’s Revolutionary Front of London Road from a back room of the old Baird’s Bar.
Can’t say I enjoyed it all but we definitely did come together on corruption at the BBC, SFA and UEFA, giving Derek McInnes dog’s abuse and the Stone Island Autumn/Winter Collection. I think he might even hate Neil Lennon more than me.
10am: Communal Singing: Scott Arfield, Christian Dailly and Steven Thompson all turned up with their guitars to try out some numbers from the new, club-approved ‘Wee Blue Book’. ‘Every Other Saturday’ is fine, but making us set up a campfire in the centre circle and hold hands while singing We Are The World did seem a bit much. 10.30am: Whitabootery Workshop: This involved watching DVDs of Tom Boyd’s Celtic TV commentary on a loop — with anyone who jumped up, pointed at the screen and bellowed “Aye, but whitaboot Andrew Dallas giein’ that penalty against Scott McKenna in the Betfred Cu…” being stunned with an electric cattle prod.
Not sold on the benefits of aversion therapy myself, but at least having 50,000 volts fired up you is good preparation for dealing with the foreign polis if we ever get tickets for a European away game again.
11.55am: Video message from chairman Dave King: Got ushered into the Blue Room and the chairman came up on the big screen. ‘Rangers fans,’ he said. ‘Thank you for completing our new Anybody, Everybody education programme.
‘Our core messages on following this great institution have remained unchanged since we took over. We are a club open to all, within tangible reach in our tangerine strips of becoming the dominant domestic force against a Celtic side ready to fold like a pack of cards, byraway, and whose eight titles don’t count because the four they won when we were in the diddy leagues are meaningless.
‘And I’m tellin’ ye, right, anyone who attacks our history or even mentions EBTs will be dealt with in the strongest manner possible.
‘Just look at the brave boys who went on to the park to defend their club’s players and officials at the cup final? Who wouldn’t have done the same? Hibs fans had invaded Hampden. As Stewart Robertson said at the time, that’s far worse than signing The Billy Bo...’
And then the signal went dead. I was pushed out the front door on to Edmiston Drive wearing a sticker that read: ‘Passed for Readmission’.
Still confused, fragile and disorientated, I guess I can say my experience has helped change the matchday atmosphere in some regard.
I’ve told the missus I’m finally ready to spend my Saturday afternoons in IKEA. The elevator music and soft furnishings will let me see if I’m ready for the full-frontal lobotomy.
I mean, the Old Firm just being about the football? How are you meant to get your head around that?