Arbroath0

Rangers 3

On a joyful night of dinner in celebration of the Bard in Arbroath at the weekend, one particular Red Lichties supporter related a preposterous theory, it must be said to a rum gathering, about the manner in which the evolutionary process, as he understood it, was soon ''tae pit tae an end ony uses for men's willys''.

Some of us couldn't help reflecting on this while we took in Rangers' routine clubbing of Arbroath on Saturday night. When you thought about it, and the eyes had finished watering over at the prospect, evolution surely cannot possibly get as severe as this. Or at least, not without, as the House of Lords does for the Commons, some sort of decent use being found for discarded members.

Evolution, though, and almost as severe a strain of it, was certainly in the air at Gayfield. Football has evolved to a startling extent and here was an eyeful of the evidence right in front of us. The idea, say, 10 years ago, that a Ronald de Boer or a Claudio Caniggia would be doing a shift in dark January up the blustery Angus coast, let alone that the so-called ''Italian stallion'', Lorenzo Amoruso, would be a Rangers centre-back at Gayfield, would have seemed preposterous.

The great Lorenzo, in particular, must surely hope that the Arbroath Burns Club's view of evolution does not come to pass. If the myths surrounding this chap are in any way true, he'd be like an elephant without its trunk.

It was a cold, though very splendid experience at Gayfield: a winter temperature, a little rain gently peppering the face, plus these tall, blazing floodlights which had been imported to illuminate the entire pageant for a live television audience.

Arbroath FC, a club that normally does corporate grub sittings for about 15, had pulled out all the stops, and pulled in the flaking Seafield Hotel along the promenade, to do dinner for 300. Sky's brave commentators and producers, meanwhile, were actually perched on a temporary gantry which was built atop the shoreline terracing roof, with the North Sea swelling and foaming right behind them.

It is in such places and occasions that the Rangers manager, Alex McLeish, comes into his own. The more one sees of McLeish, the more one is impressed by his demeanour and stature.

To boot, as a player McLeish had played in such outposts as Gayfield and had an appreciation of the dutiful hardship even great players have to go through when they pay such visits. Hence, there was no slovenliness about Rangers in this third round of the cup, but instead a skilful, dogged, almost heartfelt completion of the job.

''The key to such matches for me is simplicity,'' said McLeish. ''You let the ball do the work and you don't have players getting involved in things they wouldn't normally do, like dribbling out of defence. Arbroath, we knew, would battle away for themselves, but there was a confidence and sharpness about us which saw us through.''

Almost as evidence of these attitudes, however, there was a price to be paid by Rangers. In an ugly, accidental collision, Amoruso and Fernando Ricksen both received gaping facial wounds, the Italian's in particular being so deep and so close to the bone that he departed the pitch immediately midway through the second half and was whisked off to hospital.

The defender has little chance of being available for Rangers' midweek game against Hibs.

It is always a joy going on the road with Rangers and their supporters. The latter keep up a carnival spirit throughout with some healthy, happy, humourous songs, giving the lie to the old line about diehard football supporters being either zealous, nasty or bigoted. Certainly, any children who were in the vicinity of Gayfield on Saturday night will have had their young minds refreshed with these joyful ditties sung by the visiting Glaswegians.

Among those chants, as the game wore on and even Rangers' fans grew a little bored with Arbroath's suppression, was a most peculiar number. Quite unfathomably, the Rangers supporters embarked on a song which commenced: ''Martin O'Neill, he's taking the piss, he's taking the piss . . .'' Like a mantra this was chanted over and over again.

As someone seated near this reporter asked: ''O'Neill taking the piss out of who exactly? Do they mean out of Celtic or Rangers?'' What is even more confusing is that, over the past two seasons, when O'Neill has won successive championships with Celtic, the Parkhead supporters have proudly boasted precisely the same about their manager. At this rate, collecting from both Rangers and Celtic, O'Neill's urine samples would seem to be mounting by the day.

Arbroath had two great midfield pistons, John McGlashan and Ross Currie, working up and down the park, and there was, briefly, a point when the game threatened to become interesting when the home side, facing the Gayfield breeze, held Rangers with almost half an hour played. In an odd moment, though, in which he seemed to be allowed an expanse of space, Barry Ferguson picked up a short corner worked by Rangers and deftly prodded the ball low into Craig Hinchcliffe's corner from 15 yards. It wasn't long before Craig Moore, with a header, and Shota Arveladze, with a lovely turn and shot, were adding to Rangers' lead.

By this point the frightening willys business of the Arbroath Burns Club had long dissipated. You were so cold, frankly, that you wouldn't know you had hands, let alone anything else. At the final whistle, their team not having been disgraced in the slightest, Arbroath's supporters piled across the road into Tuttie's Neuk to warm their bellies and soon their hearts. A man's a man for a' that . . .