The Lair of the Green Worm

He was a changed man when he came out. Before descending the staircase, bump, bump, bump, he was Alex Thomson, roving reporter for Channel 4 News, afraid of nothing with one eye on a fabulous reputation gained reporting from war zones throughout the world. Well now he was in Glasgow rubbing shoulders with the denizens of Celtic Park so he hadn’t seen anything yet. When he came back out he had a thousand yard stare and was shaking.
‘He’s quite something, isn’t he?’ I ventured. ‘Charming and hospitable, was he helpful?’ Thomson just pushed past me, taking off his helmet and letting it drop to the floor where it rolled into a corner and came to rest in a stagnant dark pool of what seemed like blood.
‘Come on, Alex. What did he say?’
‘He said it was time to destroy Rangers – come on, we have work to do.’
And that’s how easy it was.

The next few weeks were a joy of working together to create a blog and a Channel 4 News exclusive interview with Hugh Adams who spent the whole interview picking imaginary mice off his sleeves and keeping a close eye on Phil McGillivan who sat in the corner quietly, keeping a lascivious eye on Adams who I must admit, did more drooling than he did persuading anyone he was a reliable source of dirt to be dished on Rangers but Thomson went ahead with it anyway, obviously under the glamour of Lawwell, just like most other reporters in Scotland.

When we next went back to Parkhead it was just after Rangers had trampled Celtic into the dirt at Ibrox. Lawwell was in a foul mood as he’d let Brown and Lennon off their chains on the understanding they’d behave themselves but vomiting in the loos at the Drake pub the night before a game against Rangers isn’t what I’d call behaving themselves.

These were strange times. Well, more strange than usual as Lawwell had gathered together some wildly bug-eyed bloggers who he told us, were going to aid Thomson in hammering the nails into the coffin of those bastards across the city. A couple of weeks later, reading Thomson’s blogs I could sense the unmistakeable stench of McGillivan, McGlone, the Tax Case mystery man and yours truly. This of course meant they would have been laughed out of town if the Scottish press pack had any honour but they don’t so they let Thomson get on with it, figuring that he was a pompous old prig who could do with his reputation being dragged through the east sewers.

Then Celtic won the league but nobody noticed.

Not long after, Lawwell’s agents in the SFA and the SPL sensed there might be a Rangers comeback on the cards as interest in rescuing them was appearing from all around the globe. A quick summons to the Parkhead dungeon and Regan and Doncaster soon put a spanner in those works while all over the country, football writers scratched their heads and wondered how they could ignore this latest outrage. One thought of Lawwell’s rack soon showed them the way and it was left to, of all people, Charlie Nicholas to point out the scandal in the actions of the governing bodies of the Scottish game but as many people read the Express as used to read my work in the Times so that too went unnoticed.

Things were becoming quiet, quieter than Alex Thomson when you ask him who was the Scottish journalist who threatened him. I had been pestering my new Best Friend Forever about this for a while but he refused to tell me, instead showing me his scrap book of photographs from his times spent in various war zones around the world. What struck me as damned odd about them was that in every one bar none, he was sitting in the plush bar of some upmarket hotel. He was still always wearing his helmet and webbing though, as he was in Glasgow. I was beginning to wonder if I’d made the right decision to cosy up to this impostor but I figured since I’d been getting away with worse for so many years, perhaps it was best if we stuck together. Plus you never know, I might get to kiss him at the end of all this.

Welcome to Scotland

I spent the next few weeks taking my new Best Friend Forever around my usual haunts: the Brazen Head, Heraghtys, Jintys and introducing him to anyone who had a tale to tell that was damaging to Rangers. In Heraghtys there was Matt McGlone, supping on his Stella as if he’d spent his last pound on it, who told many a wild-eyed tale of how Rangers were the most evil institution on earth. Thomson would ask why then ask for proof but there was never a proper answer and certainly no proof.

Then we visited the Rangers Tax Case man in the Brazen Head. He sat in a dark corner as usual, with his hoody up and a balaclava covering his face. We heard the same old tales of Rangers villainy but again, no proof. I could sense Alex was tiring of hearing nothing but thinly veiled bigotry dressed up as fact and he was absent mindedly twiddling with his webbing when I suggested we go to Ashton Lane where the real action is.

We’d just come off the underground and were heading towards Jintys when the street lights blinked and went off plunging us into darkness. Alex, a fearless veteran of many war zones immediately began looking for a reason, perhaps a story while I was checking out escape routes. Just as I was eyeing up the way back to Byres Road three figures came out of the gloom; a hooded figure holding an enormous sword and two chain leads on the end of which were the shambling figures of Neil Lennon and Scott Brown – it was Lawwell with his pet zombies!

Lawwell held up his sword and pointed it towards Thomson’s face. ‘And who is this and why hasn’t he been brought to see me yet?’
‘Alex Thomson, roving reporter for Channel 4 News, Channel 4 News I say!’ said Thomson, offering his hand in greeting. Lawwell pushed away the hand with his blade and held it up at me this time, the end of it just touching my nose.
‘Channel 4 News, eh? Have him in my office at midnight, Spiers or it’s the worst for you, you hear?’ and with that he turned and pulled at the chains for Brown and Lennon to amble after him. An odd sight, you’ll agree but such is the behaviour of that pair these days that no one in Ashton Lane would notice any difference.

‘Who the hell was that extraordinary fellow?’ asked Thomson, goggle eyed at what he’d just seen. ‘And were those zombies on leads?’
‘That was the CEO of Celtic and yes, those were zombies. The manager and captain of Celtic to be precise. They’ve been drooling sociopaths for most of the season but Celtic keep them around for reasons that escape most of us.’
‘Incredible, just incredible,’ muttered Thomson. ‘Absolutely psychotic! What the fuck is happening in Scottish football and what on earth is that chewing my ankle?’
I looked down and there was Elaine C Smith, gnawing at his leg. She must have slipped her own chains but it wasn’t long before Tom Devine appeared and pulled her off, booting her arse and sending her howling home to her kennel.
‘Well met, Spiers! Eh? I thought we’d lost you for a while there,’ shouted Devine, burping and vomiting a little port onto his tunic. ‘Come, we must repair to an ale house and regale your new companion with tales of Protestant oppression of Catholics, first round’s on your friend, eh? Ha ha ha ha ha!’
And as he laughed, we headed for the Chip as Thomson looked around in bewilderment and worried for his sanity. And his reputation.

As Time Goes By

I was just beginning to enjoy myself again having hooked up with two old friends in the Polo Lounge, Hedy Lamarr and Googie Withers. They were all over me and I’d just said that I could really go for a couple of old fashioned girls like them and they’d giggled coquettishly and asked if I’d ever seen the Crying Game when all of a sudden there was a commotion at the door and a steward approached me.
‘Sorry Graham, there’s a weirdo at the door wanting to come in but we knocked him back and now he’s saying he’s a friend of yours. Do you want to come and see?’

I followed the steward to the entrance and there was Alex Thomson, holding up his ID and shouting, ‘I’m Alex Thomson of Channel 4 News, this ID gets me in anywhere – don’t you know who I am?’
‘It doesn’t get you into Glasgow’s premier gay night spot, mate so turn it down, eh?’ said another doorman, barring Thomson’s entry.
‘Gay night spot?’ asked Thomson.
‘No! No no no no no…’ I cried and strode through the melee of stewards and curious queens, took Thomson by the shoulder and led him away from the club and down Virginia Street.
‘Well it might be,’ I continued. ‘Not that I’ve noticed. I only go in there for the quality of the cock… tails! The quality of the cocktails. Plus I’m investigating the possibility that there might be gay footballers in Glasgow.'
‘And there’s an issue with gay footballers because?’ asked Thomson, frowning.
‘I don’t know, I only do what I’m told and since I was sacked from the Times I’ve had to take a wage where I can get it and Flourish pays good money to people ready to demonise the gay community. My goodness, they really hate the gays, that lot.’
‘What lot? Flourish, isn’t that the newspaper of the Catholic church in Glasgow?’
‘No! Oh dear, I’ve said too much already,’ I cried and waved down a handom cab and jumped in but Thomson followed me.
‘Is this a horse and carriage?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Yes, why?’
‘What have I got myself into? What kind of madness is this?’ he asked himself, clutching his press ID to his chest and looking fearful. ‘I just hope I don’t get dragged into it, I just hope I’m not assimilated into this way of life – it can happen you know, to a roving reporter for Channel 4 News, have I told you I work for Channel 4 News? Oh god, I just hope I don’t piss away my hard earned reputation on this job.’

He looked out of the window of the cab as the sound of horses hooves clattered down cobbled streets while in the distance we could hear the plaintive howling of what he thought was a deranged dog but I knew was the Traynor as it sensed something awful in the air. What could it be? Were Rangers not going to die after all? Would they drag themselves out of all their current woes and come back stronger than ever? Perhaps with the help of this gullible fool Thomson, I could ensure that doesn’t happen and earn myself a place back at Lawwell’s table and by extension, be allowed to work for a Scottish newspaper again in the sports department.

‘Tell you what Thomson,’ I exclaimed, jovially. ‘Let’s you and I be friends and I’ll give you an insight into what’s really going on in Scottish society and how it’s all Rangers’ fault. Then I’ll introduce you to some of my acquaintances who can provide you with some fascinating material for your reports. You know, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

Verisimilitude

He was wearing combat fatigues and an army helmet when I first met Alex Thomson but then there was nothing odd about that in Bennets on a Saturday night; over there is a butch fairy, there a fireman and standing beside me stroking my cheek was the ex-leader of Glasgow City Council dressed as a Celtic supporter.


He approached me out of the blue and pulled his press ID from the webbing on his chest. ‘Alex Thomson, roving reporter for Channel 4 News,’ was how he introduced himself, his ID held high, a badge of honour. Purcell looked him up and down and purred before leaving to go to the loo for a quick update.

‘Pleased to meet you but why would Channel 4 News follow me in here? I’m here on investigative duty only, I’m not gay, I promise,’ I stuttered but he waved away my entreaties and told me that he had no interest in my private life, ‘No, what matters is that you have the inside dope on Rangers and aren’t afraid to lay into them,’ he said.
‘Who is?’ I asked smugly. ‘With Rangers in administration all the slugs are crawling out from under the leaves to put the boot in with impunity. They wouldn’t have done this if Souness wasn’t in Lawwell’s dungeon, I’ll tell you that.’
‘What’s that about Lawwell’s dungeon? You mean Peter Lawwell, the CEO of Celtic? He has a dungeon?’
‘No! I’ve already said too much,’ and I excused myself and fled my favourite nightclub and ran round the corner to the Polo Lounge.

The Super Gay Adventures of Graham and Alex

‘The devil is in the detail,’ said the devil and he should know. Peter Lawwell had just given us a speech* that everyone else seemed to understand as they nodded sagely and glanced at each other knowingly while I stood and wondered what was going on having zoned out after the first sentence. So what was Lawwell hinting at, that he was the devil? That seemed to be it and yet as he stood there in his subterranean dungeon beneath Parkhead, there was no sign of any horns, no pointed tail and certainly no pitchfork although he was holding a horse whip which he was using to thrash Stewart Regan of the SFA just to remind him who’s boss you see?

Lawwell had finally spotted the cricket on the shoulder of his Wehrmacht dress jacket and had casually picked it off and bitten its head off to taste before popping the rest in and crunching away like it was so much popcorn. Souness and Findlay were obviously hoping the cricket was a harbinger of relief for them, that it heralded the arrival of the mysterious Mr Mojo Risin** – Maurice Johnston returned from exile to seek revenge on those who kept him from his own country for decades. Yes, it was the Celtic fans. Not that you’ll hear that from the media in Scotland as they are now almost completely taken over by journalists with heavy doses of the Celtic Syndrome and if they’re not then they’re too shit scared of Peter Lawwell and his sinister network of thugs to ever say anything detrimental to the image of Celtic and its fellow travellers. So Souness and Findlay were to be disappointed and they were also to be holed up in that dungeon, chained to racks for many weeks while outside, Celtic marched to an expected treble, trampling over a dying Rangers as they did.

Rangers were lying bleeding in the gutter you see; in administration, skint, two tax cases looming and the man who had many of us believe he was their saviour, Craig Whyte was hiding away in the playground of playboys, Monaco. Their football team wasn’t doing much better and during the quiet spell when I wasn’t writing my diary, they were losing to everyone including the Murray Park canteen second eleven.

The Rangers financial woes are none of my bisnae though, they’re for others to stalk and catalogue as there is no end of lunatic volunteers willing to risk their reputations and careers illegally passing around confidential government papers as it turns out the Celtic fans working in HMRC are just as mental as any other and would put their hatred of Rangers before putting food on the tables of their families any day of the week. So leak followed leak and next thing you know, a mysterious chap appears out of nowhere as the Tax Case Blogger and inadvertently saves Rangers’ bacon with a little accidental help from Chris Daly who I’d last seen running screaming through the jungle to get away from a naked Lawwell.*** Talking of Chris Daly, I should thank him the next time I see him although that’ll be a while since he’s now in hiding, fearing for his life after his special report on Craig Whyte didn’t destroy Rangers as he’d hoped it would and he now has a Green Brigade price on his head. That price is three pounds fifty and a bottle of buckfast but you know Celtic fans, they’d queue to do the job at half that price. Oh, and the reason I should thank Chris is that he recommended to someone he knew that he speak to me about reporting any old rubbish as long as it stuck the boot into Rangers and that’s how I met my new Best Friend Forever, Alex Thomson.


* http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/mysterious-stranger.html

** http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/and-close-your-eyes-with-holy-dread.html

*** http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/lord-of-lies.html

Mysterious Stranger

He was naked, all pretence gone now and no need for the adornments of mortals. As he walked towards where we lay, he lifted his hand and dragging his fingernails along the wall he smiled and whispered, ‘I’m a man of wealth and taste,’ and then he burst out laughing which curiously, was the first time I’d witnessed such a thing – usually he was in a rage, flailing out at anyone within reach, usually the Scottish press.

‘So it was all for nothing,’ he continued. ‘Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve achieved, all that effort and what did it gain you? We will lift the league trophy this season and the next and all the rest after that because you’ll be in here and your club will be confined to the history books which we will be writing and years from now people will wonder how such an insidious club could have been allowed to exist for so long and up and down Byres Road, middle class liberals will shake my hand and thank me for my part in it and when they do, little will they know just whose hand they are shaking.’ He smiled and for the first time I noticed fangs. ‘They will quite literally, have sympathy for the devil and isn’t that just the biggest joke of them all? Isn’t that just a peach?’

I looked to my side at Donald Findlay and saw the glistening trace of a single tear that had run down the side of his face, disappearing into his whiskers. I turned and looked towards Souness and his furrowed brow, probably thinking there was still some hope, some way out of this but it was hopeless, Lawwell was right. Rangers had to keep winning year on year to prevent the powers of darkness from achieving their aims and I, Graham Spiers had campaigned to stop them, I had actually strived to keep the forces of good from preventing hell on earth. I thought about this and cursed the day I’d ever shared a flat with Matt McGlone and allowed him to turn me from a semi-talented journalist with potential into a raving Rangers hating lunatic and as I cursed inwardly, Lawwell walked towards the corner of the dungeon where there sat an old gramophone player, dusty and anachronistic as all of the many grotesques I’d met over the last three years. As Lawwell placed the needle on a record and the plaintive airs of the Albinoni Adagio swept through the room, I thought of them all: Cosgrove in his bat suit, the Traynor munching on bones, tragic Purcell, port sodden Tom Devine and his retinue of sluts, King Bastard, proud Richard Gough aboard the Nautilus, poor old Stuart McCall, the Ally McCoist robot army, wily old Walter Smith in his underwater lair, Phil McGillivan and mad Joe O’Rourke hiding in their cannibal cave, Wendy Alexander covered in dust and cobwebs at Satis House, and many more. I thought of them all and wondered how could I have encountered such madness in three short years and as I thought it, Lawwell placed one burning hand on my forehead as if he’d just read my thoughts and he sighed.

‘In a little while,’ he said. ‘You will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever - for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!’

‘Strange that you should not have suspected years ago - centuries, ages, eons, ago! - for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities.’

‘Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane - like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell - mouths mercy and invented hell - mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him…’

‘You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks - in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.’

‘It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!’

The music ended, the record player needle jumping, refusing to leave the vinyl, the static crackling from the speaker. I understood what Lawwell had said and closed my eyes, a smile on my own face now. I opened my eyes one last time and Findlay, Souness and Albertz were turned towards me; a silent Greek chorus of accusing faces. Lawwell stood in front of me and whispered, ‘It was all you, Spiers. It was always all you,’ and as he smiled for the last time I noticed something climb onto his shoulder, something un-noticed by the devil himself; it was a cricket.

The End.

The Nature of My Game

After all I have been through in the last three years, all the blood and madness, mayhem and intrigue, secrets and lies; for it all to end like this, with a whimper is the cruellest joke of them all. And yet here I am, deep beneath Hampden in new dungeons dug out of the earth by Stewart Regan on the orders of his dark master who has long since forsaken the depths of Parkhead for a new power base. Years ago, when it was suggested that an English Premiership team had approached him to be their CEO, Peter Lawwell had refused point blank, stating that he had unfinished business here. Well he’s almost finished now. Rangers are nearly done: docked ten points by a grateful SFA, in administration and closing in on liquidation much to the delight of a Scottish media who have been reporting it with undisguised glee and now, after an ambush during the game against Kilmarnock, I’m manacled to a slab beside Donald Findlay, Graeme Souness and Jorg Albertz. For Lawwell to have us all at his mercy is not only a miracle but spells doom for Rangers as with this little team gone, who will be left to thwart his evil plans? Craig Whyte turned out to be a fool or a demon – we’re not sure which yet but it doesn’t matter because Ibrox is in flames and there’s no money left to put it out.

So why am I included in this band of merry men who have fought so valiantly the past three seasons to ensure that not only did Rangers win the league but that Lawwell’s more insane plots came to nothing? Because I’m the magnet that holds them all together – the weirdness magnet, Cosgrove had called me and it’s true, it all happens around me; I am the centre of this grotesque little universe. Or at least I thought I was until Lawwell walked into the dungeon where we lay and said, ‘Please allow me to introduce myself.’

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

I got a call yesterday from the office of Peter Lawwell offering me a job and to get down to Hampden right away. Thankfully, I’d taken leave of my hideaway in Ayrshire and was back in my west end flat so it was a short drive to Lawwell’s office so when I got there I could still hear the same whipping noise I’d heard in the background of the telephone call – it was Lawwell administering a sound thrashing to Stewart Regan and Vincent Lunny, both chained to a wall and stripped to the waist. Lawwell saw me, stopped and approached me, blood dripping from his horsewhip as Regan and Lunny sobbed behind him.
‘I have a job for you, squirt,’ said Lawwell. Immediately I began to imagine what the great power in Scottish football had pulled out of a hat for me; could it be a column in the Scotsman? Going back to the Herald? Shoogly Linklater apologising for sacking me and inviting me back to the Times?
‘You’re going to be a Celtic steward at Tynecastle tonight,’ said Lawwell, interrupting my fantasies.

Well this was disappointing, I was thinking as I put on my hi-vis vest and skip cap and gathered with my new colleagues in front of the Celtic fans as they began to fill the Celtic end at Tynecastle with their impressive tribal chanting and lusty praise of a murdering Irish terrorist organisation. We were here on the insistence of Lawwell who is allowed to do anything he likes these days since Celtic annexed the SFA at the beginning of the season and his attitude seems to be having a trickle down effect with the Celtic fans now thinking they can do what they like without fear of reprisals or punishment. You see, with a hand picked mob of Celtic fans as stewards, no Celtic thug in the crowd was going to be reported or identified especially as Lothians and Borders Police in an astonishing demonstration of moral and actual cowardice, refused to take action after their bloody nose at the hands of the children of the Green Brigade the last time. The scene was set then for the biggest display of sectarian, bigoted and offensive chanting of the season and the Celtic fans didn’t let us down; you’ll never hear of it though since it wasn’t Rangers fans so the media aren’t interested.

They didn’t stop with their songs though and it wasn’t long before the Hearts ball boys and girls were removed from their positions in front of the Celtic fans after a constant barrage of missiles had rained down on their tiny heads. I looked around at my colleagues in their official Celtic stewards uniforms and remarkably, they had joined in, one of them chasing after a retreating ball girl and aiming a kick at her arse. My gaze turned to the police in the distance as they waded into the Hearts fans, knocking heads and making arrests because the Hearts support had the temerity to question why the police weren’t doing anything about the visiting fans. Then I strained to see what was going on in my old stomping ground of the press box but my eyes must have been playing tricks as I’m sure I saw every journalist to a man, sitting up there wearing ear muffs and blinkers. On second thoughts, there was nothing unusual about that when Celtic were playing. What was strange was that there were no BBC Scotland staff there at all – they must all have been back at Pacific Quay playing Rangers Rumours Scrabble where the winner gets to make up random lies about Rangers owner Craig Whyte and stick it in Reporting Scotland as the main headline.

Not that I saw much of it as I seemed to be the only Celtic Steward watching the crowd and not the game, but the match ended four nil to Celtic after Willie Collum remembered that the Green Brigade know the names and schools of his children and disallowed a perfectly good Hearts goal, the reasoning being that new SFA advice passed down by Lawwell is that for a goal against Celtic to stand, it must absolutely burst the net and be so far beyond doubt that even Vincent Lunny with a pistol against his temple couldn’t refuse it. Celtic buoyed by this madness then went on to score four goals as their fans laid waste to the Tynecastle seating before assaulting anyone on their trains home who dared ask them not to sing insulting songs about an Irish Republican gang who enjoyed murdering women and children.

So this is what Scottish football has become without me? It makes me so angry to witness this. So angry to witness this without being allowed to be a part of it – who’s to say that I couldn’t cover up the vile behaviour of Lawwell, Celtic and their fans just as well as the donkeys in the press? Just as effectively as the annexed SFA? I must get back into journalism, I must find myself a newspaper, I must make myself relevant again.

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

The grass crunched under my feet as I sprinted across fields crusted with frost; through pools of fog and sliding on my arse across some ice as I lost my footing and shrieked when for one horrible moment I thought I might go over on an ankle and be left lying in the middle of the moors, bathed in moonlight, at the mercy of Jim Delahunt. 

I had known it was his time of the month to turn as it was nearing a full moon and he’d begun again to let dribbling Celtic Minded lunatics onto Radio Clyde to yabber uninterrupted about Craig Whyte and the Rangers tax case. Of course Keevins was in his element and beamed at Delahunt even although he’d lost a finger to him only last month, and occasionally droned on himself in an adenoidal perpetuation of all the exaggerations, lies and subterfuge surrounding the sworn enemies of the Radio Clyde Super Scoreboard. Then Delahunt sprouted hair from his nose and choked back a growl as his finger nails stretched into talons, his gums drew back to reveal yellowing fangs and his shirt split to reveal a Celtic training top underneath. By this time of course I was out of the studio and heading for Ayrshire in my Mini Cooper. I should thank Radio Clyde for throwing me a bone when I’m alone, miserable, out of work and unemployable but I’ll swim in blood first before I let them fool me into sitting through Jim Delahunt turning into a werewolf again.

I’d become more cautious since the nasty fright I got after a razor mouthed creature had burst out of Joan McAlpine’s belly at Parkhead and I spent a sleepless couple of days in the air ducts under Celtic Park, playing tig with a ginger haired xenomorph while Graeme Souness tried to toast it with a flame thrower before Lawwell could recapture it and use it for his own nefarious purpose. I might talk about it one day and tell how the face hugger had been meant for me but crashed into poor old Joan’s house by accident or how the alien ripped out of McAlpine and grew at a terrible rate into a slevvering monster with two mouths until eventually we couldn't tell it apart from Joan herself but it’ll have to wait because the way things turned out, there was nothing funny about it – the whole episode was too traumatic to recount just yet and if it hadn’t been for Catriona Shearer appearing in an industrial exo-skeleton and telling the acid drooling McAlpine beast to ‘get away from her, bitch’ before kicking her ginger arse out an air duct then I might not have been around to appear on Radio Clyde to lay into the Rangers and further expose myself as a narcissistic fantasist with a wobbly take on reality. At least I have a nice middle class accent which makes proles like Keevins believe I know what I’m talking about when I mince on about something I have no idea about: usually finance, football, social science and sex with women.

Back to the moors though, I shouldn’t have worried about Delahunt coming for me as the moors were full enough with sheep, wee Jim’s favourite snack and I won’t tell you what he liked to do with them before tearing them apart. Well, okay, I will. ‘Fuck them and eat them,’ is what he told me, shame faced after the last full moon had passed and we could all relax again in the studio.

Luck was on my side on the moors with the fog lying low on the ground, the cloudless sky letting the moon burn so bright the frozen grass glistened like silver and allowing the perfect view of Delahunt casting glittering shadows as he stumbled across a bus load of Aberdeen fans that had stopped on its way back from a game to let the boys try and pull some of the local talent. If I had all the luck then the Aberdonians had none as Delahunt shredded them until a police wildlife patrol came along and sedated him and noting his Celtic top, hushed it up and instructed the passing BBC Scotland camera crew not to show the footage and to report the violence as being ‘football supporters’ instead of a black nosed, hairy arsed Celtic fan. The BBC Scotland crew, led by Chris McLaughlin just looked in bewilderment at the cops as if to say, do you really think that’s not what we’d have done anyway? Then they left to find a decent filter as they had to film Chris Daly later on and couldn’t risk any more cracked camera lenses. ‘Lisping prick,’ I heard one of them say as they left. ‘The cunt’s costing us a fortune we could be spending on more arty shots of rain soaked social deprivation with Ibrox Stadium in the background’ and then they took off, leaving me watching from a fog bank and wondering how I was going to get back to Ayrshire from here.

Xenomorphosis Part Five

Souness’s van lay on its side, smoke belching from the engine, one useless wheel still spinning. Lawwell’s men had removed Joan McAlpine from the rear and bundled her into their Range Rover along with the bound and hooded bodies of Colin West and Robert Fleck. Souness was nowhere to be seen and Donald Findlay was picking himself up in the middle of the expressway where he’d been tossed when the van crashed; he looked dazed but quickly composed himself as the Celtic goon approached him with the hood and wrist-ties.
‘Come on auld yin, don’t make this worse for yourself,’ said Lawwell’s man.
‘By jove,’ muttered Findlay, steadying himself on his cane before raising it and pointing it at his would be assailant who laughed at the sight of an old man brandishing a walking stick.
‘Judging from your amusement, you’ve never heard of a Von Herder cane?’ smiled Findlay. ‘Well bully for you,’ and there was a spark from the end of the cane and a small cracking sound as the goon’s knees buckled and he collapsed. I was sitting in my idling Mini wondering what to do and had turned to see what Lawwell’s reaction would be to Findlay shooting his man with a cane and when I turned back towards Findlay, he was gone. Lawwell ignored this development, content to have Joan McAlpine back and, his car loaded now, he drove off and as he did I noticed the dark figure of Graeme Souness clinging to the roof, knife between his teeth, moustache blowing in the wind.

I briefly considered following them but decided against it, choosing instead to drive straight to my flat off Byres Road and type up an exclusive story of how Donald Findlay viciously assaulted a helpless Celtic fan and try to punt it to one of the papers. When I got back to the flat though I found it had been broken into and that Alex Mosson had nicked my laptop. There was nothing for it then but to toodle over to Parkhead and see what Lawwell was going to do with Joan McAlpine. If I’d known then the danger I’d be getting myself into then I’d have just bought a new laptop and left well alone but how was I to know what fresh madness Lawwell had in mind for me?

Xenomorphosis Part Four

Souness and Donald Findlay were already tearing down the road in their vans by the time Lawwell’s men had realised the tyres of their Ranger Rovers had been shot out. I was just glad I was watching from a safe distance as Lawwell took out his anger on one of his own men, lashing into him with his horsewhip while the others worked quickly to change the tyres. This gave me time to hop into my Mini and drive off in pursuit of Souness as there was a story in all of this, I just knew it and who knows, maybe I’d find a particular angle pleasing to some Scottish editor of a newspaper, an anti-Rangers angle say – that always keeps editors happy since the Great Celtic Minded Gramscian Plan came to fruition a number of years ago, and pleased with my attack on Rangers then perhaps that editor would offer me a job? You never know and that’s why I made the mistake of chasing after Souness and Findlay as they carted off Joan McAlpine in the back of one of their vans.

It took a while before Lawwell caught up with us and we were practically back in Glasgow by the time the first Range Rover started trying to edge the nearest van off the road. We were haring down the M77 at Newton Mearns and they were ignoring me at first but then one of the goons noticed it was me driving and suddenly I also became a target – six black Range Rovers nudging and barging us, someone was going to get hurt I was just thinking when I saw a black figure crouched on the bridge just ahead of us. As I passed under the bridge I heard the crump of something landing on my roof and then the dark figure had kicked out my passenger seat window and was sitting beside me, smiling. It was Catriona Shearer. ‘Watch this,’ she said and leaned out the window. Suddenly there was a blinding light as Shearer shot one of the Lawwell cars off the road with a strobe gun.
‘Woo hoo! Did you see that Spiers? Right into the bushes! Bwa ha ha ha ha, oh dear, this is the life – much more exciting that reading the news, eh?’

Another Rangers maniac, I thought but how on earth did she get a job at Pacific Quay? I was contemplating this and trying to steer the car as another Ranger Rover bumped me from behind when Shearer caught my eye and laughed, ‘I know what you’re thinking and I’ll tell you as soon as we’ve taken care of these guys. Now, what should I use this time, I have so many toys in my purse I just don’t know where to continue,’ and she pulled a spear gun out from the satchel she'd stuck in the back of my car.

We were passing Silverburn when the spear gun took care of another Lawwell car and Shearer was enjoying herself.
‘We’ll be passing the BBC shortly, think we should give them a wave?’ she giggled as Souness swerved in front of us, taking a battering in his van from the bigger and more robust Range Rover and that’s when Shearer brought out the grenade launcher, knocked the soft roof off my Mini and took her top off. Once she’d blown the three Celtic vehicles from the road she sat back down, poonts straining inside a black bra which looked suspiciously as if it contained hidden weapons.
‘Take a good look, Spiers. These babies will be back, now just slow down a little here and I’ll be off – I have a news bulletin to read in fifteen minutes,’ so I slowed down as we passed Govan and she fired her grappling hook around the top of a motorway lamp post and was lifted up and out of the car, swinging off road and disappearing into the darkness.

As the last Ranger Rover approached, Lawwell sitting by the open window, a bazooka resting in his arms I thought about what had just happened with Catriona Shearer appearing dressed in black pvc and body armour and armed to the teeth as Graham Souness and Donald Findlay escaped into Glasgow with Joan McAlpine, an alien creature wrapped around her face and I thought: it's true, it’s never dull in the world of Scottish football.

Xenomorphosis Part Three

I brought up the rear as we crawled through rancid water, filthy and stinking; it reminded me of my days as a sports journalist especially when I had to sit through Peter Lawwell’s press briefings. We soon exited the culvert and crept around the field, hidden from Lawwell and his goons by the hedgerows until we reached the road and sprinted towards my house where we could hide up, suggested Findlay, until Lawwell realised what he was looking for wasn’t there and left.
‘But what about your cars? He’ll know you’re here, he’s not a fool you know,’ I bleated as I showed them in. The house was in darkness but we moved around by the light from the fire where McAlpine’s house  used to be which was fairly blazing by now.
‘Yes, I’ve thought about that,’ said Findlay, searching his coat pockets for his pipe and tobacco. ‘And we’ll just have to risk that they don’t look for us here, we’ve no option – it was either hide out here, yomp across the hills or take them on in a fight with inferior fire power and numbers. Do Celtic know you have a home here?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, my windows remained unmolested the one time I dared write something negative about them.’
‘Really?’ harrumphed Findlay. ‘You really believe you’ve written something against Celtic that would merit an attack by the Young Bhoys of the BBC? Ha! You’re more delusional than we thought.’
I was about to argue in my defence but we were interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Lawwell!’ I exclaimed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lawwell doesn’t knock doors, he knocks down doors,’ hissed Findlay, motioning for everyone to take cover.
‘In the attic, it’s along the hall and the ladders are still down,’ I whispered. ‘And if you see a scrapbook and some soiled hankies up there, they’re not mine.’

I waited until I heard the ladder go up behind them and then walked towards the door and was just reaching for the lock when there was a crash as Lawwell’s goons forced it open and on top of me. I was lying there, under the door, my nose pressed against the peep hole when a pair of well polished jackboots soiled from walking through fields walked in and stopped at the top of the door by my head.
‘Hmmmmmm…’ I heard someone pondering then one foot disappeared from my view and it must have stood on top of the door because it became heavier and began to crush my head and chest which was some feat considering the size of the balloons I now had down there after my sex change.
‘Is that you Spiers?’ I heard Lawwell ask.
‘Mmmmph,’ I replied, the door pressing down hard on my face now.
‘Why are you sitting in the dark on your own, hmm?’
‘Mmmph mmmmm…’ I attempted to answer until he lifted his foot and the door was lifted off of me by his men and I was pulled to my feet, nose squint and tits hurting like hell.
‘Listen Lawwell,’ I squeaked. ‘You can't bully me now, I am an irrelevance to Scottish football; I have nothing you could possibly need – no power, no influence, no job, what could I have that you might find helpful?’
He looked at me from under those baleful half closed lids and said, ‘Donald Findlay and Souness hiding Joan McAlpine in your attic, that’s what you have that I might find helpful, you fucking pipsqueak,’ and he slapped me across the face with the back of his hand. I went down sobbing, ‘You hit a woman!’ I cried but he was already signalling for his men to pull down the ladders.

‘So Spiers,’ said Lawwell, regarding my front loaders. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Oh you know, they take a bit of getting used to but they do make for handy buoyancy aids when I’m swimming.
‘Not the breasts you dolt, being out of work.’
‘Oh that, well I still have Twitter to keep me in the loop and there’s always Radio Clyde.’
‘Yes, there’s always Radio Clyde,’ he smirked as his men came running back from the attic.
‘There’s no one up there,’ said one of them. ‘There is though, the most disgusting photo-shopped scrapbook of Martin O’Neil though, covered in gunk and surrounded by tissues.’
No one there, I thought and looked out the window and in the distance, running across the fields having escaped out of the dormer windows were Findlay and his men carrying Joan McAlpine and they were heading for their vehicles. Lawwell followed my gaze and pointed, prompting his men to sprint outside and make chase. Lawwell looked me up and down, smiled and said, ‘I’ll be seeing you, Spiers. Sooner than you think,’ and he strode out the gap in my house where the front door used to be.

Xenomorphosis Part Two

A huge crater filled with fire was all that remained of Joan McAlpine’s holiday home after it had been hit by whatever fell from the sky that night. The heat was intense but I forged on, wondering what angle I would take when submitting this story as a freelancer to some newspaper where I hadn’t already burnt my bridges. I wasn’t the first on the scene though, alarmingly there were already figures walking around the crater and they were scouring the ground with powerful torches. I paused, some sixth sense warning me of danger, and decided to hide behind a hedge and observe before I went blundering into the scene but then I noticed one of the men light up a pipe. He was unmistakeable in his deerstalker hat and now that my eyes had become used to the glare and heat, I could make out the figures to be Donald Findlay, Souness and assorted others, presumably the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos.

I pulled myself up and walked over to them, asking if I could help.
‘By the gods,’ exclaimed Findlay. ‘I keep forgetting you’re a damned woman these days, Spiers. How the hell are you and what brings you here?’
‘I live just over the field behind the hill, what’s going on Donald?’ I asked, blushing having forgotten in all the excitement that I wasn’t wearing a bra – it had been ripped off at Radio Clyde as we struggled to tie Jim Delahunt into his chair after we were surprised by a full moon. At least I only lost my bra, Keevins had lost a finger.

‘This is none of your bisnay old girl, you’d best be out of here before your friend Lawwell comes sniffing around. This is his doing, we believe,’ said Findlay.
‘Well what is it you’re looking for,’ I pressed. ‘Perhaps I could help? I’m not just a pretty face you know,’ and as I said it I realised I had turned into a big girl in more ways than one.
‘Oh well, since you’re here, you always were a useful idiot to have around in a crisis,’ conceded Findlay. ‘We’re looking for Joan McAlpine, she’s been holed up here since she put her foot in it at Holyrood, accusing anyone not voting SNP of being anti-Scottish – well, makes a change from accusing the whole of Scotland of being anti-Catholic. At first she was just hiding from the press but then she got word that Salmond had sent a hit squad looking for her so she’s not left the place in days. Luckily Tom Devine has loose lips when he’s drunk, which is always, and we have listening devices in his home in Dowanhill so we were able to find her. Too late now though by the look of things,’ and he said this we were interrupted by Colin West who’d found something in the next field and was calling out.

We ran over to where West was waving his torch and below him, down an embankment, sitting upside down in a stream was a car. ‘Blown there by the blast?’ asked West.
‘Or driven by a woman,’ muttered Souness as he climbed down to have a look.
‘She’s not in here but she has been, her handbag’s there, emptied. Here’s her purse, a dildo, another dildo, her phone, I don’t know what that is but it could be another...’
‘Oh my God,’ groaned Robert Fleck further up the hill. ‘She’s here, but what’s that on her face? Oh Christ, it’s disgusting, it’s horrible…’
‘It’s her normal face,’ said Findlay, looking over Fleck’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. Oh, hold on, you’re right Fleck, what is that?’ and he prodded her face with his cane and as he did, something that had attached itself to her face tightened its grip, a tail of some kind wrapped around her neck squeezed and she lay on the grass in the dark, still breathing but assaulted by some creature I certainly hadn’t seen before.

‘This is one for the lab,’ said Findlay and motioned for Fleck and West to carry her down the hill towards their vehicles but as they were picking her up, Souness made a sign with his fist and everyone hit the ground and lay stock still, everyone but me.
‘Get down you fucking moron,’ hissed Souness and grabbed the back of my trousers pulling me into the grass. Below us, coming up the drive of McAlpine’s old house was a fleet of black Range Rovers, windows blacked out, headlights off.
‘It’s Lawwell,’ whispered Findlay. ‘We’ve got to get out of here without them seeing us, he can’t get a hold of McAlpine in this condition, not at this stage,’ and as we crept down the embankment, West and Fleck dragging poor old Joan, and into a culvert which took us under the drive and past Lawwell and his goons, I wondered from what Findlay had said: did he know more about this thing on Joan McAlpine’s face than he was letting on to me?

Xenomorphosis

It all began one night when I was standing on my own in my garden over the festive holidays contemplating unemployment, my new vagina and the stars. I spend a lot of time gazing at the stars, I also spend a lot of time gazing at my new fanny but that doesn’t lead to quite as much contemplation. I have very little else to do these days having been binned by Magnus Linklater who not only sacked me but also had me shot although to be fair, I was pointing a gun of my own at him at the time. So there I was, loafing around outside my Ayrshire barn with no light pollution and a wonderful view of the night sky, wishing I were still in residence in my west end flat and writing for a newspaper so I could lay into Rangers and have plaudits heaped on me by deranged Celtic fans who have voted me Most Useful Idiot four years in a row. I was just considering how sane my life had become since I’d extricated myself from Peter Lawwell and his sinister machinations when I noticed something strange in the sky – my favourite winter constellation, Orion had an extra star in its belt; just between Alnitak and Alnilam something else was twinkling.

This was a very curious state of affairs so I called the Times news desk to ask if they knew anything about it but I got short shrift with the girl on the other end saying, ‘Fuck off Stinkerbell, you don’t work here anymore, we don’t have to pretend to be nice to you now,’ and then she hung up on me. I checked the internet, pausing only to update my Twitter page with some nonsense, but there was nothing there either so I went back outside and by golly, the fourth star was bigger now.

I put it to the back of my mind and set off for Radio Clyde where I still earn a few shillings for pandering to their audience with Celtic Minded platitudes and spent the evening with Hugh Keevins cutting off any Rangers fans who sneaked through the public callers vetting process, allowing the usual Celtic supporters’ flights of fancy to get full airing and worrying about Jim Delahunt as it was almost a full moon outside and he was beginning to look a little seedy with hair sprouting from his knuckles and ears.

It was while contemplating this full moon on the drive back to the wilds of Ayrshire that I remembered the star in Orion’s belt and trying to crane my neck out of the window to see, I nearly crashed the new soft top Mini I’d bought with my severance pay, a severance pay I’d greatly exaggerated on Twitter to salve some of my embarrassment at being bumped from my job by a cretin like Linklater. I’m glad I did look for the star at this point because it was much bigger by now and it definitely wasn’t a star because whatever it was, it was in our atmosphere, burning up and heading straight for us. All sorts of thoughts went through my mind as I raced to get home so that if it was a meteor come to kill us all, I might die in the warm embrace of my Martin O’Neil scrapbook.

The stones in the driveway scattered as I skidded up to my barn and I ran from the Mini, fumbling for my house keys, dropping them in my haste and just as I bent down I heard a noise so awful it sounded like the sky was cracking open. This is it, I thought and the night lit up and the sky turned blue in the glare of something falling to earth. It shot overhead and in the time it took me to think of a prayer, it landed with a crash into the holiday home of Joan McAlpine which was just a few fields over from me. The explosion sent a hot wave of air rushing over me and then the debris started falling all around and I breathed a sigh of relief that I was still alive and that whatever hit us hadn’t been as big since it had only obliterated Joan’s house. Joan, I wondered, was she home? I set off through the fields to find out, not through any concern for McAlpine of course but with the journalistic juices once again coursing through my body because who knows, maybe I could blame this on Rangers?

Xenomorphosis: Prologue

The creature locked in the back of his armoured truck, Souness blazed a trail ahead of us, cutting corners so fine that he seemed like he’d go up on two wheels and roll over. I was driving the Mini Cooper soft top, trying desperately not to lose sight of Souness while avoiding Lawwell’s goons as they attempted to ram me off the road in their Range Rovers. It all seemed hopeless until my passenger reached into the back of the Mini, grabbed a grenade launcher and used the butt to knock the soft roof off the top of our car; then she ripped off her blouse and stood up in her bra and in the moments it took for the Celtic thugs to ogle her bouncers, she blew the wheels off the front of the first car, knocked the engine out the second and completely obliterated the last with the best shot of the lot before sitting back down in the passenger seat, laughing and shouting at me, ‘How about that then, eh Spiers? It’s great to be a woman!’

Well I wasn’t enjoying it as much as Catriona Shearer seemed to be but I’m getting ahead of myself.

What Keeps Lawwell Alive?

Wearing a wig and cocktail dress, I was in disguise at Peter Lawwell’s Hogmanay party, as staff. I was serving drinks and it gave me a terrific view of all the great and good of the Celtic Minded as they went about their business. Which is exactly what Donald Findlay wanted and why he had me infiltrate the function. It wasn’t hard, I wore a low cut top and wobbled my jugs so no one looked at my face except Steven Purcell who looked me straight in the eye briefly before turning, puzzled to find a loo. Alex Mosson leered over me for a bit but then I noticed he was only distracting my attention and had his hand in the till. Alan Thompson was brought in on a lead and a barrel organ struck up somewhere and he did a cute little dance before being rewarded with bananas and stuck in a cage. I also noticed Neil Lennon and Scott Brown staggering around, moaning and drooling; of course they’re zombies these days but no one noticed. Johan Mjallby was there, dressed badly and feeling out of his depth much like he does every Saturday; he didn’t last long though, after spotting the black drummer from the house band and following him down the corridor racially abusing him – he must’ve thought he was back in the Ibrox tunnel chasing Kyle Bartley and El Hadji Diouf. John Reid was back for the night and was over at the cocktail bar slurring on the shoulders of some young Parkhead secretary, ‘Come on, you know you want it…’ he slithered before collapsing into an ice bucket. I caught a glimpse of Kenny McAskill in a corner looking shifty until he was joined by Barking Phil Tartaglia who stood glowering at him until McAskill handed over a document of some kind – it all looked very odd indeed.

The problem was, I was seeing nothing that I hadn’t seen a hundred times before so Findlay was going to be very disappointed when I reported the same old rubbish, a bit like my old editor at the Times must have felt every time I handed in my weekly column. Ah, those were the days: working for the Times, mixing with the cream of Scottish football, a member of Lawwell’s inner sanctum, coffee at Hampden, tea at Parkhead and trebles all round with the BBC Scotland bhoys down at the Chip where we’d drink all evening until it was time to be ravished in the toilet by some coked up little squirt. Now all I have are memories; memories and a cracking set of tits. I served Joe Ledley with them in full view and he sniggered and pointed at them, ‘Look, a woman’s breasts, hee hee hee…’ and he sloped off.

The whole thing was becoming quite dull and I was considering leaving when the band struck up and everyone stood back expectantly as the lights went out and a spotlight hit the stage at the end of the hall. Peter Lawwell walked on, kicking his feet, wearing a white fur coat and hat and singing:

‘Now, let me see: those gentlemen who think they have a mission - to rid us of the seven deadly sins - should first sort out the basic food conditions.
Then start their preaching, there it all begins.
You mean this lot who make the wars and give us hell?
Should learn for once the way the world is run. However much they twist, whatever lies they tell - first they should feed us, then can have their fun.
For even honest men may act like sinners, unless they've had their customary dinners.
What keeps a man alive?’

This was astonishing, Lawwell was giving us a song and dance, the band oompah-ed away and he continued as the entire room stood, grins fixed, hoping not to attract his attention.

‘What keeps a man alive - the fact that people are being tortured, beaten, punished, killed, oppressed.
Man lives on other's pain, could be his brothers; for his own greed he will just keep us all repressed.
Remember if you wish to stay alive: just once, give something back and you'll survive,’
and as he sang this last line I saw him winking at the SFA referees in the corner.

Then to great cheers from the crowd, some dancing girls came on, dressed in traditional can-can dresses, kicking their height and exposing their bloomers – it was Jeanette Findlay, Joan McAlpine, Gillian Bowditch, Roseanna Cunningham and Stephen McGowan. They high kicked onto the stage and joined in:

‘You tell us girls our daily work is sinful.
You leave your wives and then to us you run.
You make us sweat and want us to be grateful.
First fill our stomachs, then come have your fun.
All hypocrites who talk of high morality - those institutions that create the law.
They take their pleasure putting us to shame - they'd better feed us, we are not to blame.
For even honest wives can act like sinners - unless they've had their customary dinners.
What keeps a man alive?’

And then Lawwell joined in again and urged everyone in the audience to join him and before I knew what was going on, the whole place was singing and dancing, the band skipping around the room, tubas blowing, harmonium whirling, Joan McAlpine pulling Lorraine Davidson onto the stage where the pair of them did a striptease, then the Young Bhoys of the BBC came running, sniffing out of the toilets and joined them naked in a dance and that's when the room descended into orgy and I decided it was time to leave. As I was tip-toeing out I heard a door open and from inside the room a voice rang out above the merriment.
‘I know it’s you, you know,’ it was Steven Purcell. ‘Happy new year Spiers! Happy new year every one of us!’

The Threepenny Bits Opera

Perhaps Souness was right when he suggested in the middle of a bloody melee that this is where I belong? Last season, or was it two seasons ago, somebody called me a weirdness magnet and insinuated that I was useful to all and sundry because I seem to attract all the freaks and monstrosities in the land and you know, it’s very hard to dispute this when I’ve just witnessed the waterfront slaughter of a battalion of the Green Brigade by that science pirate, Richard Gough and his cut throat Sikhs and have just sailed around Scotland in a great iron beast, the Nautilus while Gough waits for things to quieten down a bit.

I had been given my own quarters and was only there an hour before Donald Findlay knocked on my door; he was in a jovial mood and was whistling Mack the Knife which I found unusual since he’d only recently witnessed the murder of his housekeeper, Mrs Hudson and should have been in no mood for jollity.

‘What-ho, Spiers. I hear you had quite the blood lust last night, what? Blood lust? That’s a new one for you but then again, so is losing your dick and gaining a whopping great set of thrupenny bits, eh? Ho ho ho!’
‘I’m pleased you find my predicament amusing,’ I sneered. ‘But these blasted things have been the ruin of me – who takes seriously a woman sports journalist?’
‘Who took you seriously when you had a penis?’ chortled Findlay.
‘Laugh all you like Findlay but I’m done being used and abused by all and sundry. Last night was just the beginning. I had the power to save those wretches in the Brazen Head – Gough gave me the choice; me, Graham Spiers! I had their lives in my hands and I told him to spare not one of ‘em!’ I was quite ranting by now but Findlay interrupted.
‘Actually, you had nothing in your hands. I was the one who gave Gough the order to raze the waterfront. They dared break into my house and murder my housekeeper? They dared attack me and my guests? How dare they? Well now they’re reaping the whirlwind because last night I sent in the navy. Today we rest, consolidate and ensure Ibrox and Murray Park are secure but tomorrow? Tomorrow I let slip the dogs of war, tomorrow the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos are coming out of retirement.’

He wasn’t jovial anymore, that was for sure. His eyes darkened and he stood by a porthole gazing out into the murky blackness of the North Sea.
‘For too long we’ve sat back and allowed ourselves to be attacked. First it was the small things: I was in purgatory for singing a song at a private party while practically the whole Celtic team was caught on film singing their own offensive songs with nary a whimper from the press – where was their banishment, eh? Where were their years in the wilderness? Then individuals weren’t enough, they came after the fans en-masse and next thing you know the Billy Boys is gone as they disingenuously changed the meaning of one word, claiming it offended them. Well if it offended them so much, why do they still use it to refer to themselves? If all this wasn’t enough, they then discovered there was capital to be gained by complaining to anyone they could think of about Rangers fans and look where that’s got us, freedom of speech gone, thought crime on the statute books and halfway towards Dystopia. Yes, some thought the new legislation would even things up but what do they say now that we’ve witnessed fifty thousand Celtic fans singing about the IRA and then calling us all huns only for the Assistant Chief Constable to praise them for their good behaviour? Imagine that shoe was on the other foot, Spiers? I can almost hear the squeals from the cabal of Celtic Minded academics as they rush to condemn the whole of Scotland of bigotry. The same type of bigotry they’d see in themselves if only they weren’t so pompous and standing on a moral high ground built of sand.

‘You know, I used to think that the whole sectarian charade was a convenient smoke screen for Lawwell to hide the deficiencies of his team but now I’m not so sure. Now I think there may be an even greater end game although what exactly it is, I couldn’t say. Once Souness and his commandos have shaken things up a bit then maybe we’ll know a bit more. I can just imagine him now: dressed in black, knife between the teeth, swimming towards Parkhead. Or Hampden. Our enemies are everywhere now, Spiers. Even in here, in this room.’
‘Me?’ I squirmed.
‘Have you forgotten the last ten years? You think that just because you now have a marvellous pair of tits that we’re going to forget all about your behaviour? Your constant attacks on the club and support? You were their main cheerleader. No more though. What are you now but a big unemployed lassie? You’ve been overtaken by the young turks, Spiers and if you know what’s good for you then you’ll do as we say and maybe, just maybe, you’ll end up alright.’

He ended that sentence with a tip of his top hat and left me alone to think about what he’d said. I could hear him whistling down the corridor and then he stopped whistling and started singing quietly and I remember the words because they were in German which seemed odd.

Denn die einen sin dim Dunkeln
Und die andern sind im Licht
Und man siehet die im Lichte
Die im Dunkeln sieht man nicht.

Pirate Jenny

As seedy waterfront bars go, the Brazen Head used to be my favourite. Before, when I was a man, I used to frequent here to hear ribald tales of a perverse religion centred around football and violence. Oh there were characters in those days; city councillors and MPs mixing with dollymops and doxies, cracksmen and fawney droppers. Sit long enough and you’d meet every kind of rogue and villain, all joined in the one cause: Celtic, a football club. I drank there as a respectable journalist and campaigner for the rights of these curiously tribal people in order to further my Celtic Minded credentials – more’s the better in order to advance in the media in Scotland these days. Then, while not exactly accepting me as one of their own, at least they humoured me.

Now, having been fired from the Times and turned into a woman by Peter Lawwell for some nefarious purpose, I can’t get work anywhere and tired of moping around my Ayrshire hideaway, I came into the city and got a job in the Brazen Head as a cleaner. Nobody recognised me as the previously dashing, corduroy clad champion of the downtrodden. They watch me as I’m scrubbing the floors and they never know who I am. They growl and snarl at me if I get in their way and they never know to whom they’re talking. The night of the Celtic win over Rangers I was there, on my hands and knees as usual, scrubbing vomit and urine from under the tables when I heard a contingent of the Green Brigade wondering aloud how they would have reacted had it been a Celtic goal not given in the manner Rangers had a perfectly good goal ignored. Such an innocuous query and yet it led to such scenes of violence as the very thought of it happening brought out the beasts in them and they began fighting amongst each other; blows were traded, chairs were smashed, one chap called Macheath even pulled a knife and I got caught up in it all, pushed from one groping ruffian to another until my shirt was half off and my bra ripped. The sight of one of my poonts popping out quieted them for a moment and then a lascivious look came over them as one and I was backed into a corner as the crowd advanced on my, their thoughts being most ungentlemanly. Not even the zombie Neil Lennon smashing his way into the Sky broadcasting room at Parkhead live on television could distract them and I feared that I was about to be gang raped until everyone stopped and looked up as reports were heard from the direction of the Clyde and a whistling sound heralded something coming towards us. I grinned. ‘What’s she got to grin for?’ asked one green and grey clad flimp. Then there was a scream from outside and I gazed out the window. ‘Who’s that kicking up a row?’ asked a doxy.
‘What’s she got to stare at now?’ cried a glocky.
‘I’ll tell ya,’ I said. ‘There’s a ship, the black freighter, turning in the harbour,’ and as they all rushed to the windows to look, a great crashing explosion tore the room apart. Down in the Clyde, Richard Gough’s Nautilus was firing mortars from its gun ports and his Sikhs were streaming onto the wharf and pouring up the street towards the Brazen Head. All their thoughts of raping me were now gone as everyone dived for cover or fled in the face of impending massacre but it was too late, the Sikhs were upon them and every man jack of the Green Brigade and all the assorted villains rounded up and held among the burning timber, the flames the only illumination in that horrid place. What was left of the door was kicked open and in marched Gough.
‘This is for Donald Findlay’s housekeeper, from now on you don’t attack us with impunity. Spiers, I can see you cowering there, come out.’
I pulled my torn shirt over my breasts and walked towards him, eyeing the chained men who moments before were about to molest me.
‘Kill ‘em now or later?’ was all Gough asked me.
A fog horn sounded miles away and in the quiet of death I said, ‘Right now.’
The bodies piled up and I said, ‘That’ll learn you,’ and as Gough and his Sikhs returned to the Nautilus I walked with them and as the ship disappeared out to sea, on it was me.

Magic, Mayhem and Melancholy

Blackbirds sing outside. I can’t see them but I have grown to know their sound from my enforced solitude in an Ayrshire barn conversion. I’m lying on the floor gazing up through the dormer windows at the grey sky, the only movement the steady stream of rain water as it trickles down the window. I have one hand clutching my phone and the other absent mindedly caressing one of my breasts. Yes, this is why I am living in self-enforced exile, I’m now a woman.

Of course the gathered ranks of the Scottish football media used to call me a big wuman all the time anyway but now I find myself sans-penis and although exciting at first, I now don’t know quite what to do with myself. I’ve also been fired from the Times which makes it worse. I thought I was so untouchable, me – Spiers, the curse of Rangers and champion of downtrodden Celtic fans everywhere, but then I pulled a gun on Magnus Linklater only to discover later that he had one of Lawwell’s agents hiding behind me with an even bigger gun, one that fires darts and can knock out Elaine C Smith at full charge from fifty yards. Then I woke up, post-op in one of Lawwell’s underground chambers with Graeme Souness eyeing me most maliciously and before I knew it I was in 221b with Donald Findlay laughing at me so hard he coughed on his pipe and had to hold onto the fireplace while his housekeeper fetched him sherry.

‘Oh, oh, oh, Spiers! What are we going to do with you?’ he roared. ‘I mean, I’m not complaining – that’s a magnificent set of bouncers you have on you but in the name of the wee man, what possible good was this going to do Lawwell? I simply don’t understand and that worries me.’
‘Honey trap, it has to be,’ muttered Souness darkly, his moustache bristling.
‘Sex magic,’ suggested Jorg Albertz Demon Hunter without expanding which was a shame as this sounded quite interesting.
Findlay recovered slightly and straightened his back, ready to expound some theory of his own but then he looked at me and burst into shrieks of laughter again and had to be helped into a chair.

Once Findlay had calmed down they sat around a table by the huge bay windows and pondered how best to approach the current stalemate with the SFA.
‘Lunny’s working to nothing but the BBC’s own pro-Celtic agenda,’ growled Souness. ‘He doesn’t quite realise how he’s being manipulated in that he doesn’t know or doesn’t believe that the Pacific Quay CSC are working for Lawwell, suppressing anything damaging to Celtic while highlighting ad nauseum all minor incidents involving Rangers. He told me this under torture so I believe him. Regan knows fine well what’s going on but he’s been nothing but a Lawwell puppet since Celtic annexed the SFA before the season even started. Our problem lies not only in the disproportionate punishment of Rangers by Lunny but also the knock on effect it is having on referees who are now too scared to award anything our way for fear of being dragged through the media mud once the Young Bhoys of the BBC have edited the footage to suit Lawwell. This is extremely concerning to us as we have a game against Celtic in a few days. My suggestion is that you allow me to take out Lawwell once and for all – I’ve never understood your desire to give him a free hand to do as he likes, not when you’ve got me, and indeed Jorg Albertz at your disposal, not to mention Richard Gough and his navy or the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos. With all this in our armoury we should be taking the fight to Lawwell, not letting him ride roughshod over Scottish football while his confederates, Devine, Kearney, McBride and all the others do the same to Scottish society. The country is teetering on the edge of something awful and for what, a game of football?’
‘Now now Graeme,’ puffed Findlay, composed at last and sucking on his pipe. ‘You’ve trusted me for three seasons and haven’t I always delivered? I think you should have more faith in my reasoning and calm that itchy trigger finger of yours. A time for cool heads, I’ve always said, don’t you think Spiers? Eh? Cool heads? Now,’ and he regarded me with a smirk. ‘Now, I think I have a use for you after all,’ but before he could continue his sitting room door burst open and there was Findlay’s housekeeper standing with eyes and mouth wide open, the business end of a huge sword sticking out of her belly – she’d been run through from behind.
‘Mrs Hudson!’ screamed Findlay and in a twinkling had opened a vial of orange liquid he’d produced from his pocket and was gulping it down just as Souness had produced a pistol from his dinner jacket and Albertz began trying to find an unlocked window.

It was the Green Brigade. We knew instantly as they were but teenagers although very dangerous teenagers since they’d been brainwashed by the old rapey looking guy who was leading them and who’d run through Mrs Hudson. They screamed in delight as they saw us trapped in there and pushed the housekeeper aside and made for Souness first, cutlasses held aloft. Souness downed the first eight with his Walther PPK so that the next wave had to jump the bodies of their comrades to reach him by which time he’d picked up a fallen sword and was busy pinking anyone who came near. Their numbers soon told though and Souness was forced into a corner and had to resort to the Maltese Cross manoeuvre to keep them back. I was pressed against the window which Albertz had failed to open and was now rushing with a chair. ‘Don’t break my bloody window!’ shrieked Findlay before convulsing and writhing on the floor, his body growing and tearing open his lounge suit and smoking jacket, revealing muscle upon muscle out of which coarse black hair was sprouting – I’ll say it again, one touch of the hard stuff and that Findlay is an animal! He stood up and his head nearly touched the ceiling. The Green Brigade who almost filled the room now, all stopped and stared at him, perhaps remembering tales of how the beast Findlay had ripped the heads off the first incarnation of their little organisation.

There was a crash and I turned to see Albertz had thrown the chair through the window; an absolute shame as it had been the original Georgian glass. This was the final straw for the Findlay beast and he reached down, picked up three of the Green Brigade and took off their heads with one bite. The room was now a chaos of struggle and screams and gore. I heard another crash and Souness had fallen backwards through the middle bay window from the weight of the Green Brigade who were hurling themselves on him.
‘Sorry guvnor, time for me to go,’ winked Albertz before taking off through his hole in the window. Looking up one last time before following him, I saw Findlay holding the rapey looking leader of the Green Brigade by the neck with his teeth, he was shaking him like a dog would a doll until old rapey stopped thrashing and his body fell limp into the fire, his cheap nylon shell suit catching light and just as I plunged out the window, tits first, I could tell that the room was going up in flames then I was rolling across the lawn and I came to at the feet of what looked like a giant Sikh sailor. I looked up at him and it was Richard Gough!
‘By the gods, Spiers! You’re a woman!’ exclaimed Gough before throwing himself into the fray, his Jack Tars in turbans right behind him waving their tulwars.

The scaling ladders went up and as Gough and his sailors poured into the room to aid Findlay, I felt for broken bones as usual and realised for the first time that I was no longer checking my manhood first to make sure it was still there.
‘Yes, you’ve still got a fanny,’ muttered Souness who kneeled beside me reloading his Walther and when he finished he got up and looked down at me, almost in pity.
‘This is where I belong, Spiers; amongst the madness and bloodshed. You do too, only you don’t know it. I’m going back in there, you can do what you like,’ and he started to leave but I called out to him, ‘But it’s crazy! It’s beyond lunacy,’ but before I could finish he winked at me and said, ‘You think this is mental, wait till you see the game against Celtic on Wednesday.’

I ran as fast as my jiggling boobs would let me and as I left the grounds of 221b, an explosion rocked the neighbourhood and sent me sprawling. I got up and kept running and didn’t look back.

That was Christmas Eve and there was nothing merry about it. Now here I lie, in my secluded barn watching the grey sky turn into night; the blackbirds the only sound I can hear. My phone sits quietly in my hand. No one’s asked me to work at the Rangers Celtic game yet. I’m becoming desperate.

A World Well Lost

So I’m a woman. I sat regarding my tits and struggled to remember anything after Magnus Linklater had me shot at the Times. I thought I was dead. Well, I didn’t think anything but it certainly felt like I was dead, all that nothingness, the cut to black but here I am, lying on an operating table in Lawwell’s dungeons and in possession of a remarkable set of diddies. I gave ‘em a little jiggle to see how it felt but this only brought a sigh from Souness who was eyeing me with suspicion from the other side of the room.
‘What are we going to do with it?’ he asked. Jorg Albertz was with him and he thought for a while.
‘Well we can’t leave it here, who knows why Lawwell had this done but I don’t trust for a moment what he’s going to do with it. Nothing good, that’s for sure.’
‘We’ll take it to Donald Findlay, he’ll know what to do with it,’ suggested Souness. ‘He’s a politician. Well, he’s a QC but you know what I mean. He should have some idea just what new monstrous outrage Lawwell is planning to carry out with a female Graham Spiers.’
There was no denying it, I’d pulled the sheets back and my cock was gone.

I didn’t argue with Souness or Alberz as they bundled me up and out of Parkhead, I wanted to get to the bottom (not for the first time) of this. Why in the midst of fighting off a concentrated attack by his own people in the media had Peter Lawwell taken the time to give me a sex change? If I’d known the trouble it’d get me into and the danger and being scared half to death, I’d have let it lie and just got on with life as a man with a woman’s body – it’s worked for Janette Findlay for long enough – but I just had to know and as we sped through the streets of the east end, the rattle of defensive machine guns sounding behind us as Lawwell fought off everyone with any media interest except BBC Scotland who remained sandbagged within Pacific Quay broadcasting the Boys of the Old Brigade, I thought to myself that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship with my new body if only I had the slightest idea what to do with a vagina.

Souness: Revenge of the Ranger Part Five

Peter Lawwell’s Celtic is a wounded beast, limping through the undergrowth trying in vain to hide the painful and open wounds inflicted by the UEFA fine and unprecedented media attention on its fans’ sectarian singing. I’m Souness and I saw those open wounds and decided what they needed was a dose of vinegar.

My first thought was to arm up and take the Mini Cooper through the front doors but a phone call from Jorg Albertz warned me that there was an easier way.
‘How did you know what I was planning?’ I asked.
‘Because I know what you’re thinking.’ He replied.
‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’ I asked.
‘Because I’m Jorg Albertz Demon Hunter,’ he replied.
Satisfied, I met him at George Square and wore the cheap suit and emerald green tie he’d requested. When Albertz turned up he was wearing the same. The disguises got us into the City Chambers without anyone batting an eye and there he showed me the tunnel that led from the headquarters of Glasgow City Council to Celtic Park.

A half hour yomp later and we came out inside Parkhead from a broom cupboard. The first thing that happened was that we met a Celtic security guard. I was reaching for my Walther but Albertz held up a pack of cigarettes and said to the man, ‘This is an ID card. It says I’m an employee and so is this man. You’re going to let us go on our way.’
It worked and the man left us be.
‘Oh, and you’re going to leave here and go take a shit in Alan Thompson’s office,’ he shouted after him. I’d seen this before, auto-suggestion, hypnosis, call it what you like. Albertz calls it magic, I call it dealing with morons.

We made our way to Lawwell’s dungeons, Albertz remembering the four digit code to get into the subterranean base: 1967. They hadn’t changed it since he was last here with Richard Gough. They never change it. So caught up are they in their own self-mythologising, they make it easy for us to access every code they have. We crept past the torture pits, past the skin flats and the inquisition chamber until we got to the operating room. This was where I intended to plant the first high explosive, not to bring down Parkhead – no, that wasn’t my plan at all. The football club was safe with me, my intention was to strike at the bristling underbelly of the institution and where better to start than Lawwell’s underground empire?

I was reaching into my bag of tricks when Albertz nudged me and motioned for me to follow him into the operating room. It was empty save for one table in the centre. Barely lit, the only illumination came from this table where a body lay covered in a single sheet. It was a woman, we could tell from the protruding breasts. Intrigued as to what Lawwell was doing with a woman inside his dungeon retreat we walked cautiously towards the table and Albertz leaned over and pulled back the sheet. What fresh madness was this? It was Spiers!

Souness: Revenge of the Ranger Part Four

I hooked the pulley over the zip slide, jumped from the roof of the hotel opposite Pacific Quay and in seconds I was careering towards the headquarters of the greatest enemy of Rangers outside of Celtic, BBC Scotland. The BBC in Glasgow is just an extension of Celtic these days, much like the SFA. My job tonight was to do something about that. Celtic had been found guilty by UEFA of sectarian singing by their fans but the media in Scotland, under orders from Lawwell were playing it down. The BBC more than most. Word had reached me that they intended to give it ten seconds, buried at the back of the programme in the sport section. The memory of the headlines attacking Rangers when they were in a similar position a few years back made it more clear than ever that the Pacific Quay CSC had an agenda, I couldn’t contain my rage and set off for a little revenge, Souness style. Findlay didn’t know of my work tonight and wouldn’t have sanctioned it had he known. Something about this made my zip slide across the Clyde more invigorating. I was back in the shadows, working for no one but myself.

I hit the roof and rolled and coming to, spotted a dark figure approaching me. Recognising it immediately as Stuart Cosgrove dressed as a bat, I fired three shots into his chest anyway and he staggered backwards and fell off the side of the building. A stupid way to die. The grappling hook appeared as expected and Cosgrove was back on the roof.
‘Souness, you maniac – you knew it was me, lucky my Kevlar breast plate saved me but then you knew I was wearing it, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, put me in my place?’
I grinned and said nothing. Didn’t have to. He had me sussed.

I asked him what he was doing on the roof. ‘I work here, where else am I going to begin my nightly patrols?’ he complained.
Nightly patrols. I have so much in common with this man and yet so little. I’ve never understood him and for that I detest him. I put this to the back of my mind and smiled as I remembered his expression when I shot him over the edge of the roof.
‘Are you here to gather information on the BBC’s burying of Celtic’s UEFA fine?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m here to shoot the people responsible for it,’ I replied. No point in gathering information. We know the BBC is culturally and institutionally biased against Rangers. Nothing will change that. Shooting a few of them will make me feel better though and that’s all that matters just now.'
‘Well I wouldn’t hang around here too long if I were you,’ said Cosgrove. ‘It’s dark, and they mostly come at night. Mostly,’ and then he shot his grappling hook skywards and took off towards the Science Centre.

I wondered what he meant but before I had time to ponder his words too much, I heard a noise from behind me and there was Chris McLaughlin crouched by a door, hissing at me. My Walther was out of its holster in a second and I fired two silenced shots into his chest. He kept coming. I put another two through him but he only halted briefly before coming on again. One right in the forehead snapped his head back but he straightened it and snarled at me, fangs glinting in the moonlight. One each to the knees and I was off back across the Clyde on the zip slide.

Back in my car, burning rubber as I tore through the streets I thought about Neil Lennon and Scott Brown, spewing filth across Scottish football. I thought about Chris McLaughlin sucking the life out of it. Zombies and vampires. This is a new world and I don’t like it. I don’t like anything that won’t stay dead when I shoot it.

Souness: Revenge of the Ranger Part Three

I move in the shadows; silent, deadly, moustache bristling.  I was at Parkhead and had infiltrated Lawwell's inner sanctum - the underground dungeons where he skulks and plots.  And tortures.   He had Vincent Lunny on the rack and Lunny was squealing like a stuck pig, promising anything Lawwell liked if only he'd make the pain stop.  I let him continue longer than I should have, enjoying Lunny's discomfort and because I waited, I left myself open to two of Lawwell's goons stumbling upon me in the corridor.  They reached for their weapons, their first mistake; I didn't allow them another.  Two shots from a silenced Walther PPK and one fell forward, his left ventricle in tatters while the other buckled at the knees and collapsed, his right ventricle exploding in his chest .  I wonder if they appreciated the symmetry?  Lunny screamed and I decided it was time.

A casual observer might think that the silencer was resting on Lawwell's temple but it wasn't, it was touching it and every inch of the pistol was under my control.  Lawwell knew this, Lawwell knew me and silently unstrapped Lunny who dragged himself from the rack and sobbing, gathered his clothes.

'Thank you, oh thank you whoever you are.   This man's a maniac, a sadist!' cried Lunny as my pistol stayed aimed at Lawwell's head as the beast himself regarded me through evil eyes.  That's why I'm here; to battle a monster you must use a monster.  Lawwell thinks he's a sociopath?  Wait till he gets a load of me.  'See you later you lazy eyed psycho,' I grinned and winked at him.

Getting out was easier than getting in, I just held onto Lunny and ran through the corridors shooting anything that moved.  As I passed the players' changing rooms I came upon Neil Lennon staggering towards me, his arms outstretched.  I put two through his lungs but it made no difference and he kept coming at me and that was when I remembered Spiers's wild claims of Lennon being a zombie.  I was aiming for the head when I was disturbed by Scott Brown coming at me from a side door.  He had a bite mark on his neck and looked as brain dead as Lennon, thick black tar drooling from his mouth, skin pale, eyes vacant, moaning.  Instinctively I put one in his heart but he too kept coming.  Zombies, both of 'em.  My boot crashed open a fire exit and I was out of there with Lunny bleating behind me about how thankful he was to be rescued.   My car roared and as we left Celtic Park I could see Lennon and Brown stumbling out of the open fire exit and heading off into the night, towards Ashton Lane no doubt.  No one would notice they were any different.

'Listen, I don't know who you are, I'm not really that knowledgeable about football but thank you anyway,' gibbered Lunny.  'Thank you, thank you, thank you!'

'You're welcome,' I said.  'But one thing intrigues me.  Lawwell's one of your own and he's doing that to you.  What I'm about to do is because I'm your enemy but one of your own?  Why was he doing that to you?  Think about it.'

I let him think about it until I got him to my warehouse.  I let him think about it as I tied him to a chair.  He was still thinking about it when I attached the crocodile clips and and turned on the power.