A plumbing problem provides an idea for raucous parrots, students and

THE good news this week is that the Scotland football team has discovered a brilliant young striker of African descent called Simon Matembo who will score enough goals for us to beat England and take us to Euro 2004 glory. The bad news is that this is only happening in the world of fiction, in a book called Drums Of Hampden.

The book is being given to every pupil in Glasgow as part of a campaign by the Sense Over Sectarianism action group. Matembo comes to Glasgow and ends up playing for Queen's Park and Scotland. The point is that he is horrified by the sectarianism which blights our society.

This thought-provoking tale was published in the same week that Celtic Football Club appealed to the few remaining members of the old brigade to decommission their IRA songs and join the ranks of Parkhead fans who wouldn't know a Provo from a Provvy cheque and are more interested in Real Madrid than Real IRA.

Along with the songs, Celtic fans must ditch the chants, the banners, and the pro-IRA fanzines sold outside the stadium. Even the fun against the Hun may have to go. I would sacrifice all the jokes if it saved one young man in a Celtic or a Rangers top from being murdered on an Old Firm match day.

It would be encouraging if Rangers FC were to formalise into club policy and to extend their existing practice of weeding out the worst of the loudmouth bigots. Both clubs must follow up their appeals for decent behaviour with firm stewarding, ejecting those who spout the sectarian nonsense and taking away their season tickets.

It is for the police to crack down on the odious antics and attitudes to be seen on the Gallowgate and the Copland Road when the neanderthals are congregating for a game. There is a sound argument that sectarian attacks and misdemeanours should be classed as aggravated offences, attracting suitably higher tariffs when sentenced.

The reality is that sectarianism and the accompanying violence will not be eradicated by legislation or prohibition of its manifestations. Like it or not, Scotland is stuck with the legacy of the Orange and the Green. Ironically, the Irish republic has moved on to be a modern society leaving us to cart all the old baggage.

Most members of the non-tangerine persuasion would like to see a ban on Orange walks. I would argue against this, mainly because of the political platform such a ban would offer all those bowler hats in the Grand Lodge but also because I quite like the Walk. Love the music, not too keen on the lyrics.

My reservations about Orange walks are that they disrupt traffic and encourage too much public drinking. The public disorder could be sorted by stricter policing. The traffic problem could be solved by having orange lanes into our thoroughfares (beside the green ones for cyclists) so that the lodges could march to their hearts' content without holding up the buses. I think it would also be nice for the Saint Vincent de Paul people to provide watering stations so the walkers could stop at chapels and be given cool, non-alcoholic drinks.

The way ahead is all about tolerance and respect for other people and their beliefs. Old Firm fans who might be tempted down the sectarian route ought to look at the men who manage their respective teams. Martin O'Neill, a Celtic man from Kilrea in County Derry, and Alex McLeish, a Rangers man from Govan, know the score from their own experience.

Both are passionate about their teams but both illustrate in their approach to life the above-mentioned principles of tolerance and respect for others. We should follow the ways of the Paradise paradigm and the Ibrox exemplar. Personally, I am very confident. I can see an end to bigotry well before this millennium is out. Shame we have to lose the jokes.

You will be pleased to hear of some discomfort suffered by your Borecelona correspondent. It is not the usual complaint of stifling heat and unremitting fiestas, although it is unseasonably warm here and La Merce, Barcelona's big party has just started. Part of La Merce is called Barcelona Accion Musica which affords the opportunity to cavort to loud music in fabulous locations and wear a T-shirt with BAM on it. Very Glaswegian.

But, meanwhile, to my tale of the blocked drain and the stairheid committee. Few things are more problematic over here than plumbing and neighbourhood politics, as I discovered as a result of a terrific thunderstorm on Monday night.

I know it is tempting fate, waste disposal wise, to live in a street called Poo. But I did not expect to be flooded during a torrential rainstorm, especially not down through the roof but up via the WC.

After a night of no sleep and mopping the flat, I had a delightful day of dealing with various squads of plumbers. The flooding had been caused by a blockage in the drainage system of this old building so it was a matter for the comunidad, or stairheid committee.

Thankfully, I have some wonderful neighbours who, realising I had no toilet facilities, made the traditional Spanish offer of "mi casa es su casa". Your house is my house. I was able to reply: "Gracias. Mi caca es su caca."

Some of the neighbours were, however, less than helpful. Imagine trying to cope with a complex plumbing problem without a full grasp of the technical terms. Imagine trying to do so while a noisy session of the stairheid committee is in session at your front door.

The basic issue was that the expensive low-tech plumbers couldn't fix the problem and had called in even more expensive high-tech colleagues with a lorry-load of hoses and other high-pressure kit. This was going to cost 400 (work it out yourself, you sterling- fixated little Britlanders) and the man downstairs was objecting to his 50 share of the cost.

This is the same hombre who last month paid 1500 for a parrot. A parrot who squawks night and day, sometimes drowning out the noise of his barking-mad dog. A 1500 parrot in a barrio where you can see flocks of the birds breeding in the wild, escapees from Barcelona zoo up the road.

I managed to remain calm in the face of his suggestion that the remedial work be delayed until the entire comunidad had discussed the matter. I managed to persuade the other neighbours that the repair had to go ahead. I managed not to tell the bloke where I would like to stick his parrot and the nozzle of the high-pressure hose.

Mira la vida en Borecelona? Mira estres? Thank the lord, a wee restorative brandy is cheap.

You have to feel sorry for the current batch of A-level examination fodder, many of whom have had their dreams of academe shattered by murky marking methods. Andrew Marr, the estimable and colourful BBC political editor, described the debacle as having the same effect on education that foot-and-mouth had on agriculture. This striking analogy could be useful in considering what is to be done with the herds of students who populate our land.

No, I am not thinking laterally of burning pyres of freshers. Not even those who drop their pizza boxes and their Bacardi Breezer bottles in my garden. Nor even those students who have taken to drinking in the dear old Doublet in Glasgow and regularly impede the progress to the bar of older folk.

But we may have to think of other methods of dealing with the issue. A ban on movement of students may be necessary with an introduction of restricted areas. The University of Rannoch Moor sounds good to me.

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