Rangers FC: Scotland's Ither Happy Family

Written by CanadianGer

(With apologies to The Broons)

It’s nearly dinner time. Maw’s in the kitchen with her wee blonde favourite, the bairn, showing her how to make dumplings. Out in the backyard, the twins are running around yelling, but the insulation Paw has put in over the last 10 years means you can barely hear them.

Upstairs, Horace sits staring at the computer screen. Its not immediately clear what he’s up to, but its obvious that its not the accounts and the letters to the paper that Horace says he is so good at.

The door crashes open and Paw appears. He looks a bit shaken. The paper is under his arm showing the headline, “Bank of Scotland to be sold to Lloyds.” He’s collected the post from the table by the door—all bills. He opens the first envelope and pauses. Then he yells. “Mither!”

Maw dries her hands and hurries into the living room. Paw points accusingly at the letter. “See, I telt ye,” he says, “three strikers you bought and you with five perfectly good ones sitting in the closet a’ready. No, but that wisnae good enough for you. No, we had to have fancy foreign ones so the Lithuanians would be impressed when they come over.

“Fat lot of good that did. Eight strikers for them to look at but nothing for them to have to chew ower. I telt you to get a wee bit of middle but would you listen? No even a bit of flank. Had to dip into our holiday money to fix that afterwards so we could have something for sandwiches for the rest of the week. There’ll be no trip to Turkey this year, we’ll no’ even get down tae England.”

Maw takes a minute to gather her thoughts and then counters. “A’ me is it? It wisnae me that kept increasing the housekeeping. You were a’ways on about how we shouldnae be here in Govan forever. Talking fancy about Milan and Chelsea. You and that JJ fae the pub wi’ your big ideas, flogging shirts oot the back o’ his van. He was always trouble, him. The number of times I’ve stuck up fae you, Paw, and now you start treating me like this.”

She pulls herself up to her full height. “I’ve a guid mind to leave.” Paw’s face blanches—how will he break that to the kids.

Paw looks round the room for a minute and the colour returns to his cheeks. “Maw,” he says, “get the kids in here. I think we need to hae a chat wi’ them.”

When the kids troop in, the wally dug that Uncle Eck left to Maw in his will is sitting on the table. Everyone looks a wee bit surprised to see it there—normally it’s sitting in the middle of the room. Maw may not like the wee thing that much, but everyone agrees on one thing; in a bleak room, it’s a nice splash of cheer.

Paw looks at the family accusingly. “Right, here’s the story. You’ll mind we had that wee bit bother with the holiday money back in August. Well, I’ve got the bills in and it’s a’ red ink. Yon bank manager shouting about how it’ll be auld claes and porridge unless we make some changes. So, your Maw and me were talking and I’ve decided to sell Uncle Eck’s wally dug.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the family. Even Maw is taken aback. Joe and one of the twins immediately start shouting. “Haud on, Paw, that’s nae fair. We love that wee dug and we’ve nothing else to look at in the hoose. And nae holidays to look forward to. You and Maw have nae right to sell it, it belongs to us tae. Its you and Maw that’s to blame!”

Hen scowls at his brothers. “A fine time you pair pick to speak up. Paw’s no even finished talking and you are having a go. At least gi’e the man a chance.” Joe, Hen, and the twins begin arguing among themselves.

Maw sits wearily in the chair and puts her head in her hands. “Nae gratitude. After all the work I’ve done. You werenae blaming me when I got us all on that bus trip to Manchester last year. Aye, ye were a’ gieing it, ‘thanks Ma, this is great’ then.” The bairn pulls up a chair next to her and holds her hand. Daphne and Maggie hurry to make her a cup of tea, arguing about the dug as they go.

Paw takes his chance to survey the room. “Whit’s that by the door? “ he mumbles to himself, “Oh, aye, the French backdrop that Maw bought for our European trip. We’ll no be needing that the noo…And I’ve still got that old centre table with the shoogly leg outside. There must be someone would gi’e me a few bob for that.”

He moves over to his favourite chair and looks for his baccy pouch. “Ach, its no that bad after all. Must be a’ kinds of wee knickknacks we could sell around the place. Maybe I’ll sell the allotment. Its no’ like I’ve been growing anything up there lately anyway.”

He sits back and lets the family argue amongst themselves for a while. He lights his pipe, puts on his baffies and reads the paper contentedly. “At least they’re no’ shouting at me.”