One of the most dependable aspects of life in Scotland is that in the week preceding any Old Firm clash that there will be a story in the newspaper that insults the intelligence of the entire country more significantly than the thousands of braying 90 minute cretins that will no doubt pack the pubs all over Scotland and Ireland on the 27th.
It is also inevitable that these chancers will turn up at some point offering juicy cliche-riddled anecdotes of a time when men were men and an Old Firm would result in nine men on the pitch and everyone questioned by the polis after.
The stinking farts of publicity going both ways.
Plague. Houses. Etc.