They might do dignity, but nuanced inference clearly isn’t in their repertoire.
The street theatre at Edmiston Drive last night was a joy to behold.
With all the subtlety of the incineration of Dresden’s innocent civilians the Rangers klan were rallied by the man they call “Bomber”.
I hope that one day those brave souls in Govan will be commemorated with a monument to their steadfastness in the face of adversity.
The mob outside Ibrox last night revealed the reality of what the dead club epitomised.
The assembled throng was unable to remain quiet.
Subsequently, Mr Brown’s eloquent oratory was constantly interrupted by oafs blurting out profanities.
This was a million miles away from their positive self-image of polished brogues and straightened ties.
This was underclass performance art al fresco.
The mob that “listened” to Mr Brown last night had the sound of a lynch mob.
They are angry about the future.
The empire they venerate is as dead as their football club.
Yesterday the phoney war ended with the departure of senior players like Davis and McGregor.
Up until then the followers of the dead club could pretend that everything was kind of ok.
The Scottish spring has meant that the done deal of New Co into the SPL has unravelled.
Now the SFL1 clubs are bridling that they will be expected to roll over and play dead.
Division 3 is the only morally defensible position.
The anger on the pavement at Edmiston Drive was produced by a historical sense of entitlement meeting a new reality.
Their day has gone.
On the same day that the British head of state shook Martin McGuinness by the hand in Belfast it is time to reconfigure one’s historical furniture.
Rangers were a powerful symbol of the old Scotland.
They are dead.
No more back of the bus for Paddy.
All that is left is an impotent rabble who can’t even keep quiet for one of their own.
They should have listened, as what they would have heard were the funeral arrangements for “the Rainjurrzz”.
Or as Bomber might say “Fucking Rangers!”