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Charles Green is Ewan McGregor


An Etims Screenplay



Legs run along the pavement. They are Chuck Green’s.

Just ahead of him is Sally. They are both rambling on.

As they travel, various objects (Contracts, Tupes, Mortgages, Club ties, History Books, etc.) either fall or are discarded from inside their jackets. They are pursued by two hard-looking SFL Officials in identical waistcoats. The men are wide, but CHUCK and Sally maintain their lead. 

Choose life. Choose a Prospectus. Choose a Share-Option.
Choose a Rangers family, Choose a fucking big Dividend,
Choose stadium rename deals, John Broon Dustpile threats,
Ian Black Fitness DVDs, and Wattys silence.

Suddenly, as Chuck crosses an Investor, a share issue skids to a halt, inches from success.

In a moment of detachment he stops and looks at the shocked investor, then at Sally, who has continued rambling, then at the Two Officials, who are now closing in on him.

He smiles.


In a bare, dingy room, Chuck lies on the floor, alone, motionless and clearly out his face on Werthers Originals.

Choose Casinos, decrepit Ibrox Refurbishment promises.
Choose fixed-interest buyout repayments.
Choose a new luxury Hotel IN Govan.
Choose Jabba


On a barely torch lit SFL pitch, Chuck and his friends are taking on another team at football.

The opposition all wear a sense of dignity (Elgin), whereas Chuck and his friends wear an odd assortment of
history claims around their badges.

Three fans associations — Dafty, Lardy, and Wannabee — stand  by the side, fighting.

The boys are outclassed by the team with the dignity but play much dirtier.

As each performs a characteristic ugly bit of play, the play freezes and their name is visible.

In Elbows’s case, his name appears as a tattoo on his bent arm.

Dick Boy commits a sneaky foul and indignantly denies it.

Elbows commits an obvious foul and make no effort to deny it.

Sally, in dugout, lets a pie fall between his legs.

Durranty tries to kick the green grass as hard as he can. He misses.

Chuck’s litany continues over the action:

Choose world records and free Army & Navy tickets.
Choose a variety of invester sharedeals on hire purchase
in a range of fucking markups.
Choose Rangers TV and wondering where the fuck you are
on a Sunday morning near Annan.
Choose sitting on that coach heading to mind-numbing
spirit-crushing games in Stirling, watching Sally stuffing
fucking junk food into his mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of the football world, pishing
your last in a miserable Ibrox home, nothing more than
an embarrassment alongside the selfish, fucked-up brats you
so easily duped to enplace yourself.
Choose your empty future.
Choose Rangers.
Fuck life.

Chuck is hit straight in the face by a subpoena.

He lies back on a bed of copper coins.

Voice-over continues.

But why would I want to do a thing like that?


Chuck lies on the floor.

Sally, Durranty and Kenny, Dick Boy and Elbows are marching up and doon or preparing to march up.

Dick Boy is talking to Elbows as he draws a 5 star tattoo on his arm with an inky

I chose not to choose life: I chose
something else. And the reasons?
There are no reasons. Who need
reasons when you’ve got Rangers?

Spongebobs’s better than Rastamouse.
Both of them are a lot better than
Koala Brothers, a judgement
reflected in its relative poor
showing on the team bus, in which
field, of course, Mike the Knight was
a notable success.

People think Rangers is all about misery and desperation and death
and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget –
Elbows isnae just battering folk up for the pleasure of it.
Otherwise we wouldn’t do it. After all, we’re not fucking stupid,
we’re getting well paid tae. At least, we’re not that fucking stupid.

Take the best cashcow you ever had, multiply it by 17 million and
you’re still nowhere near it.
When you’re on a money March you have only one worry: bating.
When you’re off it you are suddenly obliged to worry about all
sorts of other shite.

Got no money: You can’t get enough pished Huns spending cash.
Got money: You cant get enough daft Huns drinking too much in Ibrox.
Can’t get a bird: No chance of a ride from a Hun? Thank fuck!
Got a bird: too much hassle, Im trying to fleece Huns here.
You have to worry about investor demands, about hospitality food,
No about some football team that never fucking wins friends,
its no about real human relationships and all the things that
really don’t matter when you’ve got a sincere and truthful Hun habit.

I would say, in his day, Neil Morrissey was a titular puppet actor,
in every sense, with all the presence of someone like a Terry Scott
or David Jason, but combined with a sly wit to make him a formidable
romantic lead, closer in that respect to Glen Michael.

The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback, is that you
have to endure all manner of cunts telling you that we are the people!



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