Imagine inventing an entirely fictitious history for your new football club.
Imagine appropriating a room full of trophies and a disused bicycle as your own while you cling to your only actual commemorative possession – which takes the form of a Petrofac Cup.
Imagine ignoring the way that cheating, debt, and a misplaced superiority complex utterly destroyed your former favourite football club.
Imagine developing bizarre coping strategies in the face of all the indications that both the concept of sport and the norms of tax-paying society will eventually find you out.
Imagine finally realising that you aren’t actually ‘The People’. Whatever that might mean.
Imagine having no choice but to realise that a group of your fellow countrymen and city-dwellers are bona fide heroes, a credit to Scotland and football as a whole, and also thoroughly decent, humble men. Men who won one of the greatest prizes in sport without cynicism and by showing quite how beautiful their chosen endeavour could be.
And imagine if those heroes did all of that while wearing green-and-white hoops.
If faced with all of these things, what would you do?
Well… The Clumpany can’t speculate about the choices that any of its readers might make. But I do know that you would have to be a cold, poisonous fuckwit of the highest order to sing about those heroes dying soon.
And you would probably have to be a disgrace to the very concepts of journalism, sports governance and humanity not to call out the singers of such a song for the waste of oxygen that they clearly are.