If ever the relationship a football fan enjoys with their club could be described as a marriage then my relationship with Rangers offers the ideal analogy. I took my vows as a 5-year-old in the Broomloan Rear, infatuated by the skills of Laudrup and Gascoigne. In the beginning it looked like a marriage made in heaven. Rangers swept aside all before them in style. 9 in a row. It seemed too be good true. And it was. What was once a fruitful partnership on my part has more recently become a relationship characterised by a vindictive sense of betrayal that has left me a broken man.

Hardly a marriage made in heaven at the present time.
Hardly a marriage made in heaven at the present time.

It all started months back when it became clear all was not rosy in the Govan garden. Like a suspicious partner scanning their wife’s phone to clear my mind of any doubt about their form away from home I delved deeper in search of the truth. Instead of finding what I hoped for however I stumbled upon the equivalent of some alarming texts and a dodgy looking friends list on Snapchat. Left heartbroken I begun to question whether the relationship was worth continuation or whether it was time to call in the divorce lawyers.

Thankfully some marriage counselling with Football Manager reaffirmed my love for the club. Guiding the club back to the top flight and the European stage brought back memories of the good old days when we couldn’t get enough of each other. The spark was reignited. Such was my devotion I even managed to watch 90 minutes of turgid action against Forfar.

Then out of nowhere vicious rumours started to circle. The wife had been playing away with that sneaky pair Craig Whyte and Charles Green. Again. I refused to believe it. I thought they were long gone. I decided I’d be blissfully ignorant and give this one a miss. But then I caught Green scrambling out the bedroom window after coming for second helpings with the wife and I found Whyte’s clothes scattered over the floor. As if that wasn’t enough I checked the bank account only to find she’d went on a reckless spending spree and splurged £20million on nothing of any particular use behind my back. To my dismay I discovered that a significant portion of that outlay had been hoovered up by the best man Mr McCoist.

With that evidence we were back to square one. I’d had enough. She’s wasn’t worth the hassle. Bags were packed and a one-way ticket to the glamorous English Premier League was purchased. For reasons unbeknown to me or those around me I couldn’t bring myself to leave though. No matter how hard I tried to fight it something intangible stopped me walking out the door. Don’t ask me why but in the end I stopped fighting.

For all her infidelity with shady characters and the excess baggage that this diva carries around she’s worth the hassle, if only for those incredible nights of passion that for now may be non-existent but will surely return on a more consistent basis once our troubles are behind us. The wise words of Cantona resonate soundly: ‘You may change your wife, your politics, your religion – but never, never can you change your football team’.

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