Hearts not for breaking this time Fergie

BARRY ANDERSON

OUT from the tunnel he struts, swaggering like a buckled wheel, chest puffed out further than Johnny Bravo's. He makes for the centre circle, goes through the formalities of handshakes and coin tossing [they still do that, even in this age of technology], before aiding his team in another yawn-inducing destruction of a supposed challenger from Edinburgh.

This is Barry Ferguson, captain of Rangers and Scotland. Except this time he didn't get his way. Cue the launching of toys out the pram.

Egotistical in the extreme, it must have been galling for Ferguson to have his influence at Tynecastle curbed to a level of authority comparable with that currently held by Saddam Hussein. It was down to the paucity of character displayed by him and his team-mates, and the refusal of a bustling Hearts side to be intimidated.

By the 69th minute, Ferguson was at his lowest ebb. Stop the sniggering, please. As he was challenged - alright clipped - by Paul Hartley, the hero of the silly billy boys was forced to theatrically fall to the turf in the hope of winning a foul. "Moan, ref. Assa foul, man. Whit d'ye 'hink? Eh? Mucker?" Kenny Clark was unmoved by the simulation.

Seconds later the Hearts fans were engaging in an altogether different act of simulation. When I say it involved the use of their hands in Ferguson's direction, you should get the idea.

Now it's worth mentioning that this wasn't Barcelona, AC Milan or any other European luminary Rangers were up against, where perhaps the extremes gone to in garnering any slight advantage might have been slightly more permissible. It was Hearts. How the mighty have fallen, eh Baz?

I'm afraid as Ferguson panicked on the pitch so did Alex McLeish in the dugout, a man I wouldn't trust to buy me a carry out given his track record in purchasing decent players. McLeish does seem to have recruited an approved forward in Francis Jeffers though, and he came on after just 20 minutes for Vauxhall Nova. I mean, Nacho Cavalier. Ach, you know the guy.

Jeffers may have ears on him like hospital doors, but no-one can deny his talent. Except maybe Alan Curbishley and Arsene Wenger. But who wants to listen to them when Baz and McLeish are willing to spend so much longer massaging your ego?

In the end, though, nobody could stop Hearts. It's killing them, but our friends in Glasgow are running desperately short on reasons why the Jambos won't/can't/aren't allowed to win the league. Whether Burley and Romanov really do hate each other or Phil Anderton can't stick the two of them, they're no' half daein the business.

Hearts are five points clear at the top and there can be little doubt that the bigot brothers are now in more of a sweat than Michelle McManus on a hot day. Everyone expects the Tynecastle bubble to implode, even some of the club's own supporters whether they want to admit it or not, combined with an expected sufficient resurgence in Rangers or Celtic that will see Hearts demoted from the league's summit.

Well, after the first eight games, it looks like it's going to take a resurgence in line with raising the dead for any of the bigot brothers to attain the consistency Hearts are presently effecting.

Not that we wish to sneer. Alright we do, but with opportunities normally so few for Edinburgh football fans to gloat, this one should be milked till the teat shrivels and collapses like a bone-dry prune.

Murdo MacLeod must be everyone's first target. I found his column in a Glasgow-based red-top tabloid last Monday to be compelling. "Rangers will understand only too well how inadvisable it would be for them to return home to Glasgow on Saturday night in that seriously disadvantaged position [of being 11 points behind Hearts]. And that's one reason why it won't happen."

My ears can't cope with the silence. But they'll have to get used to it before Wednesday night if I'm to tune in to an empty San Siro and watch Inter Milan horse, I mean entertain, Rangers.

I might even keep the volume up this time and listen to the delights of Jim Delahunt and Archie MacPherson. Then again, I got rid of my dog because I was fed up with all the woofing ...

TWO TASTY ENCOUNTERS AWAIT MOURINHO

WHAT a week it is for Jose and the amazing monocoloured trenchcoat.

After giving Aston Villa a goal of a start and still seeing them off at the Bridge on Saturday, Chelsea will now set up camp in the north west as two meetings with Liverpool beckon in four days.

Can't wait to see the daggers. Mourinho coming face to face with Steven Gerrard for the first time since the Liverpool captain kidded on he was giving it the big "ta-ra, chuck" and defecting to London. Then, of course, came his splendidly stage-managed change of mind, leaving Jose feeling like the cat who was allowed only to sniff the cream before having the bowl whipped from in front of his nose.

One notable absentee from the Gerrard saga in the summer seemed to be Rafa Benitez, who is sounding more and more like Ossie Ardiles every time he speaks. Wonder just how keen the Spaniard was at seeing Gerrard remain. Whilst Jose was rubbing his hands with glee at the expected arrival of Gerrard, Benitez was plotting how to spend 35 million goal vouchers. Instead, he ended up with the hilariously-named six foot, seven inch Peter Crouch.

Nevertheless, on Wednesday night Gerrard will line up against Jose in front of 45,000 screaming scousers in the Champions League. Of course, the Liverpool supporters will only be screaming in pain as the biting cold wind lacerates their bare chests, won't they? I always knew they'd rue burning those Gerrard shirts.

Jose will win, because as the advert states his life is about keeping one step ahead with his American Express card. I've got one of them. D'you think it might buy me an amazing monocoloured trenchcoat? I really want one. Not due to the onset of winter, just because I want a futile attempt at that oh-so-cool look when I haven't shaved and my shirt collar is unbuttoned.

Taken from the Scotsman