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So the Premiership kicks off tomorrow. And tonight in pubs and clubs all over the country the excitement will be intense. For what most fans, if not every one should realise this Friday, is, as good as the season gets.

At this stage the signings have been made, the manager and players saying all the right things, and even the chairman has probably drifted out his gin-induced fog to mumble some words of optimism. And tomorrow it begins..

Your new signing is found out to be a, money grabbing no-use hoor.
Your most influential player does his cruciate and is out for the season.
Your goalkeeper forgets the reason he is wearing gloves is that he is allowed to catch the ball. 
And worst of all, the annoying little trumpet who sits three seats away from you has renewed his season ticket.


All that said we love it. The structure of the universe is restored. Watching Soccer AM through the hangover. Pouring over the first goal-scorer lists thinking your full back, who hasn’t scored since he was 14, is in fact a great value bet at 100/1. 

I reckon that is the real reason bookies don’t count own goals. Nothing surer than the shot shy dumpling would rocket a 30 yarder past his own keeper if he thought he was a 100/1 to score.

I wouldn’t put it past someone to do that. A Glasgow bookie who is a friend of my family (I know, you don’t need to say a word) regularly, got phone calls from a London contact of his telling him to beware of certain bets on certain games. To be fair it was very rarely a Premiership game and was usually towards the end of a season.

This brings me on to a mini-rant. Football players and money. 

No name dropping, but I know have known and met many professional players, many of whom earn in a week what most of us earn in a year. And with very few exceptions they are as tight as a Novice Nun at a convent. 

Even as recently as last night there was a pub conversation which resulted in me slamming down my pint and going off on a Ferguson-esque rant. Someone suggested it was, and I quote, “A shame Kevin Phillips had to uproot his family to move down south”

 
 

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Now it may just be me, but, my definition of shame is not..

Pick up signing on fee and pay off of £2 million pounds.
Move to Southampton with all expenses paid including hotels, legal fees and other sundries.
Struggle to make ends meet on the trifling wage of around £20,000 a week.

That is in no way a pop at Phillips. For what it is worth I reckon Strachan has signed himself a 24 carat bargain.

Well that is me, calm again. To everyone who is off to a match tomorrow I wish you all the best. To those watching on the TV I hope the beer is as cold and as gorgeous as it can be. To those who couldn’t care less, I hope you enjoy your weekend in your wife’s clothes and dancing round your bedroom to Gloria Gaynor

Bon Chance

Jim Burke 

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