Along with the Manchester police, two pervasive myths took a bit of a battering during Wednesday night’s Uefa Cup final between Glasgow Rangers and Zenit St Petersburg. The first was the myth of Scottish footballing obduracy and heroism against all the odds, the little team from the small but proud nation digging in and battling, often succumbing, but occasionally bringing forth a magnificent and unlikely triumph against overwhelming adversity.

You’ll be familiar with that myth, epitomised by Archie Gemmill single-handedly routing the hapless Dutch at the 1978 World Cup when, tragically, as ever, it was all too late. The commentators on Wednesday dug deep into the myth box with tales of Rangers’ “extraordinary journey against all the odds” to reach the final; presumably a similarly extraordinary journey, involving similar odds, to the one successfully undertaken by their Russkie opponents. They both reached the final having beaten the same number of mid-market opponents. I don’t know if you could consider Rangers the underdogs on Wednesday, either; it is a club with much greater home support than St Petersburg. Nor did they play with what any rational, sane person could describe as obduracy or heroism; they were witless, guileless and threatless, perhaps the most boring team to have reached a European final since the likes of Juventus and Inter Milan thrust catenaccio upon us all at the end of the 1960s. Except, in Rangers’ case, with rather less competence.

For good sectarian reasons (I don’t like Celtic) I was cheering on Rangers at first, but switched allegiance midway through the first half when it became apparent that they had not the slightest intention of doing anything so recherché as to attack their opponent’s penalty area. “It’s just like watching Millwall,” one of my sons said despairingly and begged to be allowed to go to bed. The Russians were fluid and confident, playing football as it is supposed to be played; they deserved their win. In fairness, this myth of little Scotland the brave is one imposed upon the sweaties, in somewhat patronising tones, from south of the border. But they have become accustomed, over the years, to buying into it wholesale. Was it ever true?

The other myth which came crashing down was that bizarre fictional construct, the cheerful, whole-hearted, peaceable - if on occasion a little inebriated, but only ever in a really nice way - Scottish football supporter. With his kilt and his can of McEwan’s Export and his blue-and-white flag and his beery, welcoming embrace for the supporter of any other nation (except maybe those from England). The Scottish fans never do the stuff England fans do; they are there to cheer on their team and bring nothing but credit to their nation, loved wherever they go. This has always struck me as being utter bilge and scarcely less patronising than all that Scotland The Brave stuff; I can remember goalposts being demolished at Wembley and the whole thing being put down to good-natured exuberance when, if England fans had been involved, it would have meant expulsion from any number of international tournaments and anguished speeches from politicians in the House of Commons. Myths are important; people cleave to them and they exert a certain force. Guinness, for example, sold an awful lot of alcohol in Europe based upon the equally inaccurate stereotype of Irish football supporters; good-natured, all of ’em, love the craic, too-rye-ay, etc. I have heard Scottish politicians smugly compare their country’s fans favourably to those who follow the English oppressor; well, not any more they won’t. Every cloud, etc.

The battle of Piccadilly Gardens was, we are told, the consequence of the actions of a “minority”. Well, maybe, but not a very small minority, to judge from the television pictures and newspaper photographs I’ve seen. The cause of the riot was put down to a giant television screen failing, so that the supporters could not watch the game. With that magnificent moronic intent familiar to anyone who has watched an enraged mob in action, the fans attacked even those engineers who arrived to try to repair the electronics. The police described the fans as acting like a “pack of wolves”, although I’ve never seen wolves behave like that. Wolves are usually possessed of pragmatic purpose, for a start. Fifteen police officers were treated for injuries and meanwhile, inside the stadium, one Russian fan was stabbed. At one point, ambulances could not enter Manchester city centre without a police escort.

Even after all this, excuses and caveats have sprung from the lips of those who should know better. This stuff about a “minority”, for a start, which is always trotted out, as if it somehow excuses the behaviour. And it’s been said that these weren’t Scottish fans, these were Rangers fans - another attempt to keep that old myth alive. You wouldn’t find Celtic supporters behaving in such a manner, we were told, forgetting that Celtic risked being kicked out of Europe when one of its cheerful, too-rye-ay supporters ran onto the pitch and attempted to clump the opposing goalkeeper. The truth is that these days football hooliganism is a truly global brand, with an energetic franchise operating in every European city, Glasgow not excepted. And if you doubt that, wait until the Dutch and Germans get together later this summer.