DON’T get me started! I do not hate football. Okay, once, when I was wee, one of the wee oiks in the Dreghorn Primary playground booted a dirty, working class ball that skelped me straight in the face – which stung worse than one of Alex Salmond’s sleekit remarks.

And without make up you can still see the faint wording MITRE on my left cheek. But that doesn’t mean I have some long-standing dislike of this obviously pointless, puerile game that’s played – and watched – by dafties.

And those who suggest I hate Selltick are very wrong. I once attended a Daniel O’Donnell concert. I also have a pair of green Louboutin six-inch heels and I loved Tom Hanks in The Green Mile. And potatoes are one of my favourite staples.

Ursula von der Leyen: Boris would steal the chocolate out of kinder’s advent calendars

So you’re wondering why I’ve taken to criticising this football club? Well, first of all, please explain to me why a week in the sun rubbing Ambre Solaire into your teammate's back – and I don’t have a problem with the homoerotic connotations of this at all – can improve a player’s performance more than a good run about in Lennoxtown, followed with a Ralgex rub down and a hot cup of green tea?

And, no, this isn’t sour green grapes. OK, I don’t remember the last time Peter rubbed Factor 50 into my back, and so what if the last man to scratch it was Patrick Harvie?

But can you explain to me why I’m having to style my own hair again when Celtic players are braiding each others’? And the only dribbling carried out is over the henna tattoos they’re having done.

Yes, yes, I know Selltick say we gave this Arabian adventure trip the green light back in November. And yes, you are not allowed to travel between Paisley and Partick – but you can go live it up in a swanky desert hotel.


James Forrest in Duabia last year

And now, they say, here I am mumping my gums. But this isn’t hypocrisy. This is about me being seen to be mumping given the massive public reaction to the flip-flopped footballers throwing back the Peronis in the sun.

Sure, I could have challenged the decision at the time. But the world has changed quite a bit since we first kicked the issue of football – and indeed corridor passenger travel – into the long grass.

And now that the draughty air passages of condemnation have blown in freezing winds, I reserve the right to reflect this change and give myself the opportunity to appear both authoritarian and self-righteous.

And let me make this clear; this is about the people of Scotland’s sovereign right to matters of sovereignty. And the sovereign feeling this week is that just because someone can do 300 keepy-uppies while holding a bottle of Italian beer in their mitt doesn’t mean they get to slink about in their Speedos.

And let this be noted

As imagined by Brian Beacom