Dear Scotland

“At Least Barnes Could Rap” said the banner in the Rangers end at Ibrox after Tony Mowbray’s last Old Firm game.  I’m not sure I agree with that. John Barnes didn’t seem much of a rapper.

Living in China these past few years has been a cultural education for me.  I’ve given red packets of ‘lai see’ money to my employees at Chinese New Year (always crisp, new notes); I understand why a large apartment block on a hillside was designed with a hole in the middle (it’s so the spirits [...]

(1) We’re going to Poland/Ukraine Big Lee McCulloch has made himself available for selection for Scotland again!  That’s qualification sorted then. (2) The SFA are incompetent You’d think someone, somewhere, would have thought to check up on Andrew Driver’s actual eligibility before having a bloody press conference about it. 

In Greek, the name “Tony” means “thriving” (look it up if you don’t believe me).  Sadly for Celtic fans everywhere, their Tony is anything but.

I’m not sure if Scotland’s Premier footballing league more closely resembles the chaotic fractal patterns of a Mandelbrot diagram, with repeating patterns that are similar yet infinitely different; or the oscillators that occur in a computer-generated cellular automaton, constantly flitting between steady states.

Burnley were in Southern California recently for a friendly with PDL side Ventura Fusion. After the game Regan Jackson spoke with Owen Coyle about scouting in LA, Scottish managers and how it felt to be offered the Celtic job.

[transcript begins] Mint: “This is Sir David Murray.  Sir David, to you.  Murray.  That’s Sir.  David.  Murray.” Watty: “Boss, gonnae gie’s some dough fir some new players?” Mint: “Walter, I telt you already, naw.” Watty: “How naw?” Mint: “Ah’m skint.” Watty: “Are ye f*ck.  Ye’re loaded.  That’s why yer caw’d The Mint.”