Walk a mile in their shoes...and get a verucca at best.

[SKII]

A warts and all look at our adversaries this weekend...

There is a famous saying that goes along the lines that you ought not to judge someone unless you've "walked a mile in their shoes" - you may then appreciate why they appear, behave or appear to behave in a manner you cannot on the surface understand.

It is a thoughtful quote with much grounding in compassion and understanding. And it in many ways was the basis for Aidan Smith's most recent offering, Heartfelt - relaying his year as an Undercover Jambo in print. Though how the hell he could do that, Sauzee only knows.

You see, I have read the book and have got the emotional scars to prove it ...no matter which way round I considered his mission, I just could not comprehend how he managed it. Could stomach it. And not without good reason...

Don't get me wrong, I am not casting the first stone without sin. Oh no. I write as the bam pot without fear or reason who has stood in the Rangers end at Ibrox just to see a crucial match I dare not miss. But I was in there as an undercover agent of the opposing team. And needs must. However, it was a one-off, a necessity. It was not a lifestyle choice. Book or no book, it was hardly likely to be financial incentive enough to be JK Rowling territory. Even then, you'd wonder at selling your soul.

How could he stomach walking in their shoes for a whole blummin season? It sounds a mission needing a full frontal labotomy before commencement - and then how would you write it up sensibly after that?

It got me thinking though, this week. If there is "something about Mixu" as we chuntered on about in last Friday's piece - what was there about them? Could I do a virtual reality walk in their shoes and see what it was all about? Would I slip into suspect Aidanesque sympathies or would I simply (in the words of the bard) just not get it?

Let's take a look see...

The dash of the emerald green and white in the sunshine is enough to stir the least emotional heart (as in the pump that serves yer body, okay?). There is something quite beautiful about the Hibs strip. Even (strangely) in it's oddest, purplest incarnations. The classic green and white home combo, however, is without peer in terms of aesthetics -it truly IS beautiful.

The depression that is maroon and white, however, is nothing short of a Picasso interpretation of liver-based projectile vomit. It is minging. Don't tell me it's not. Ironic that the club with the blood coloured outfits are currently haemorrhaging on a daily basis and will blend into the background nicely when we pick through the leftovers of their alien autopsy. Even the silver grey one was awful - it simply looked like Aggie the Laundry wummin had forgotten the outcome of the Daz Doorstep Challenge. Although, in true "The wrong strips" style it must be conceded they have a small place in my heart - in 1986 particularly. Oh ma Albert Kidds.

Then we come to the households. And their sad attempts at "Keeping up with the Joneses".

Big Pink Bus Shelter or Easter Road? There can be absolutely no comparison. For the life of me I cannot comprehend how they are falling (once again) hook, line and Lithuanian for the old "Planning Permission" ruse. Aye, aye. Youse cannae afford tae switch on the undersoil heatin ya bams. Dinnae gie us this hotel, shops and 10,000 seater main stand malarky. We wouldnae BELIEVE. Yet you lemmings are voting for financial cliffs to jump off. Don't forget the parachute. You'll need a soft landing when you wake up to find yer club in the annals (I said annals) of history.

Our independent thinking is one thing that makes us fundamentally different from you...that and our aversion to pink painted metal frameworks. We wouldn't even put up with a stand that has no sides to the concourses...what's that all about, eh?

And then there's the personnel issues (we've not even started on the personal issues). Read this v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y.

Stamp. Kidd. Sandison. Black. McPherson. Eskilson. Clark. McDonald.

Compare and contrast.

Sauzee. Latapy. Zemmama. Riordan. McAllister. Collins. Archibald.

Industrial football versus guile and entertainment.

Or similarly, if the first one was too complicated...

Diver-lunius, Janskauskas, Colqhoun, Lawrence, Cousteau

Compare and contrast.

Rae, Smith, Hunter, Stanton, Murphy, Wright.

Inner ear afflicted individuals with balance issues versus honest, decent professionals.

And if you dare raise me a Terrible Trio, I'll come right back at you with a Famous Five. It's a no-contest. A no-brainer.

Wee Fat Robbo? Don't make me laugh. Even our "fat striker" was bigger and better than yours (eh boss?)
To view links or images in this forum your post count must be 5 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.


I could "walk in your shoes" for all of a nano second - and I don't even need THAT eternity - and the answer would be glaringly clear. I know I could not stomach a mile, in any case.

In the words of the Bounce Bard "I just don't get it".

©SKII