I don’t think any of us regarded the possibility of playing a Champions League qualifier in San Marino next month as likely, but after La Fiorita left Belfast with only a single goal deficit, the prospect of playing the next round in an historically dubious territorial entity remains real.
Linfield were right to make provisions for the possibility of facing Celtic in the next round, but smiling executives and comments of making £1m on the tie is asking for it. The lesson for all of us is take care of the next game.
Football in June and July is a random lottery. We’ve learned this lesson often enough, but it’s worth reminding everyone again.
Yesterday we learned that the Supreme Court will publish its verdict on Rangers’ Big Tax Case next week. This one has had so many twists along the way it’s impossible to call. Whatever the outcome, there will be no surprise.
We may discover that Rangers tax affairs were not legal, not open to other clubs, and therefore bestowed an unfair sporting advantage. Or it may be that Income Tax was optional all those years. Place your bets.
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To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Or you could just go all in on your Zombie season ticket money with : Euro Nightmare in the 8:45 at Hamilton tonight and be done with it…
#shakespearewastimcsc.