Orange is only for loot

AMONG the several joys of living outwith Glasgow, the most treasured is the absence of Old Firm rivalry. Who cares who wins? Rangers and Celtic play each other so often that familiarity has bred apathy. Sure, both teams and fans go through the dreary ritual, psyching themselves up into a lather of loathing but to what end? In terms of winning the Scottish Premier League just one of two teams ever triumphs, after which an early exit from Europe beckons. Only professional wrestling is less predictable.

Yet still the unquestioning faithful turn up, which at least keeps them off the streets for a couple of hours. Afterwards, however, only a masochist would wander down Sauchiehall Street without a mob for company. On occasions such as last Sunday Glasgow is an ugly place, reeking of sectarianism. But despite this, many of those involved with both clubs deny there is a problem. They're in sore need of a lobotomy.

At the head of the queue ought to be the colour-blind Rangers executives who this season introduced an orange "away" shirt and tried to pass it off as "tangerine". As we reported last week, the club has finally acknowledged the colour of the shirt, which is obviously inflammatory, and said it will withdraw it at the end of the season, by which time 300,000 of them will have been sold. With breathtaking insensitivity, the decision was described as "commercial rather than political".

Some, such as MSP Donald Gorrie, and the anti-sectarian pressure group Nil By Mouth, have welcomed the gesture. But I remain to be convinced. Rangers have not apologised for the orange shirt. Their only concern, it seems, is profit and they are willing to tolerate sectarianism as long as the cash keeps rolling in. They may be dropping the orange strip but assuredly not for honourable reasons.

Anarchist is a natural born stirrer

STUART Christie, Scotland's most famous anarchist, reckons he was named - because of his family's ancient Jacobite connections - after Bonnie Prince Charlie, "The only man in history," according to Billy Connolly, "to be called after three separate sheepdogs." Christie has written and published privately the first part of his autobiography, under the heart-rending title My Granny Made Me An Anarchist (available from www.christiebooks.com), which revels in stories of yore, including how he found himself in front of a Spanish kangaroo court charged with "banditry and terrorism" in 1964.

Christie became an anarchist in 1963, he relates, outside the Mitchell Library, inspired, among others, by Ronnie Alexander, a folk singer who was sacked by the chief librarian for wearing "an unconventional corduroy jacket". Alexander was in turn converted to anarchism by Gus Macdonald, now Lord Gus, who led a debate on the motion "Can real socialism work". Not only was Gus rumoured to be a Marxist but it was also said "he had read Das Kapital in its entirety." Glory days.

Guy Fawkes no joke without firefighters

WITH Guy Fawkes Night looming, there is fear and trepidation across the land at the prospect of a firefighters' strike. Currently on a work to rule, firefighters - in pursuit of an annual salary of around (pounds) 30,000 - are this week awaiting the results of a ballot which could lead to action. In Edinburgh, the council is already preparing for the worst and has contacted Lothian and Borders police in order to prevent the city going up in flames. In particular, the police have been asked if they could remove bonfires in hotspots such as Pilton and Wester Hailes, where things have a habit of getting out of hand. The police, reluctant to become involved, not least because they don't want to be accused of nicking kids' fires, asked council officials how they were expected to do this. "Try using stealth," they were told.

Lord Irvine not Hungary for love

OUR Transylvania correspondent was in Hungary recently on a "study tour" in the charming town of Veszprem when he became aware that things were taking an unexpected turn. No fewer than nine police cars with flashing lights drove up, accompanied by a dozen, pistol- packing gorillas. Suddenly, a group of suits appeared and the gorillas began to twitch. As the VIPs came up to where our man was standing, three broke away. Smiles all round and handshakes. One was the British ambassador to Hungary; another the outgoing Hungarian ambassador to the Court of St James, who introduced the third; Lord Irvine of Lairg, the Lord Chancellor. After an exchange of pleasantries the ambassador told Derry who our man was and which paper he represented, upon which Lord Wallpaper turned abruptly and flounced off. What had he, or we, done to offend to the great man? Pray tell, your lordship.

Rhyme but little reason to Hootsmon

LAST Thursday was National Poetry Day, the one day in the year when the media pays lip service to poetry. Invariably it makes grim, ill-informed reading, since the last poem most hacks read was Dulce Et Decorum Est, and that not from choice but for an exam. This year NPD coincided with the opening at St Andrews university of the Poetry House - "probably the largest building in Britain devoted to the writing and reading of poetry". The Scotsman, the unofficial organ of the university of which - by spooky coincidence - Andrew Neil is rector, devoted an excruciating leading article to poetry, reminding its handful of readers that the Queen, "a practical woman who cannot be imagined reading Sylvia Plath before breakfast", chose a poem for her mother's funeral. Elsewhere, it pictured four poets with St Andrews connections, in the process managing to confuse Douglas Dunn, Don Paterson and John Burnside. Perhaps they will be consoled by the paper's leader writer: "A few well-turned lines won't change the world. But they can make someone happy or thoughtful, with the thrill that comes when rhythm and feeling unite." McLeishe lives!

Did Blair aim bow that Archer fired?

FAR from being sweet-talked into unity, the Tories have rarely been more divided, for which much thanks. Even while behind bars they seem capable of causing maximum mayhem. Could the prison service's softly, softly approach to Jeffrey Archer, a privileged guest of HRH, be the work of a Machiavellian Tony Blair? Try as one might, it is hard to think of another jailbird who was allowed to publish a book while still doing porridge. And still the fragrant Mary Archer insists he is being unfairly treated. Short of moving him to Gleneagles, what more could be done to make him feel more at home?

Tory black sheep to the slaughter

IF there still is such a thing as justice why not let Archer out now on the proviso that he and Mary must move in with Edwina Currie? It was Mary, you may recall, who remarked that John Major's affair with Edwina was a rare lapse in taste. Stir in Christine and Neil Hamilton, John and Norma, and you have the basis of a promising new telly series: I'm a Tory Black Sheep, Get Me Out of Here!

Meanwhile, Edwina is unrepentant, half-wishing she had "shopped" Major earlier. When she joined the Commons in 1983, she says, there were only 13 female Tory MPs and no gay ones, at least officially. "The blokes," she says, "couldn't cope. They sneered at our talents, openly discussed our physiques and mimicked our high voices during debates."

In a desert of boorishness only Major was an oasis of decency, except, that is, until he became PM when the hypocrite appointed a cabinet bereft of women. Significantly, he was nowhere to be seen when Theresa May trampled all over him in her spikes, referring pointedly to "politicians who have behaved disgracefully", some of whom "have stood on this platform." Thus spake the newly inclusive Tories.

Tory MP puts foot in her mouth

FORGET Milton Friedman and John Maynard Keynes; today's top Tories take their lead from Russell & Bromley. Not being much of shoe fetishist, I cannot begin to guess what message Theresa May was trying to transmit by slipping on a pair of R&B's leopard-skin stilettos for her flailing speech at Bournemouth. Could it have been a not-so-subtle reassurance to the huntin', shootin', fishin' lobby that there is life after foxes? Or was she, as a style-conscious colleague suggested, making a very public plea for help to Trinny and Susannah, the Samaritans of the fashion world?

Be that as it - ahem - may, but Theresa's choice of footwear was not greeted with universal approval at our local Russell & Bromley outfit, where a customer of more tender years said she wouldn't be seen dead in shoes worn by the woman whose task is to sell Iain Duncan Smith to the nation. Moreover, she likened Ms May's taste to that of Bet Lynch, erstwhile hostess of Coronation Street's Rovers Return, which I don't think can be interpreted as a compliment. The sales assistant was distraught. "It's not our fault who buys our shoes," she wailed.

Copyright 2002
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