COLLECTING the middle child from school has been interesting. One experience this week felt like it had been sent by the refereeing gods as a sign, a burning bush, a great flood, to my antediluvian eyes. I have a certain appreciation for Don Robertson and his disciples in the VAR control room at Clydesdale House following Sunday’s first Old Firm clash of the sparkly new Premiership season.
Only yesterday afternoon, with the sunscreen dripping down my sweaty brow into the stinging embrace of my eyes, I could still make out her faint figure at the top of the hill we were supposed to be halfway down, glasses gleaming, hands primed on handlebars, foot on scooter, other foot raised off the ground, coming down, quickly, connecting with the pavement and then hurtling forwards like Cyriel Dessers at the sight of a Swedish centre-back taking his 15th touch to control the ball completely...
So what happened next put my head in a spin which followed the trajectory of that infinity sign on the statue guard’s calamity calendar.
For a moment, I thought she was going to dial 999, such was the fervour of her gaze as I hopped over pools of blood and snot on the concrete. Then, convinced as I am that my little angel could do no harm to anyone, I wondered what PC Plod would say if they turned up to this ghastly scene.
But here’s the problem with this administration of VAR. Who was at fault? Sure, it seems obvious – just as my daughter was the one breaking the 20’s plenty oath within the village – Dessers catches Lagerbielke, but what was he doing when this collision erupted? He appeared to have entered some kind of vortex, taking touch after touch after touch, turning this way and that completely unchallenged like he was making that infinity figure-of-eight on the pitch.