Secret Diary, Thursday 26th November

I still don't think I've recovered. Peter Lawwell threw a huge party in Bairds on Tuesday night to celebrate Rangers being stuffed by Stuttgart. Everyone was there: every sports journalist you can think of, the entire editorial teams of Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today, Labour MPs and MSPs, the Lord Provost, the Celtic squad, the Lisbon Lions (Tommy Gemmell was serving drinks and Bertie Auld collecting glasses), the republican bhoys were running the door and yours truly popped in to join in the fun.

It all kicked off right on full time when Lawwell, dressed in a fine Schutzstaffel grey Hugo Boss suit with jackboots and spurs, got up on a table and toasted 'the huns for taking the heat off us' at which everyone cheered and Tony Mowbrey blushed and shuffled into a corner. Everyone then popped champagne corks and celebrated their diversity by singing misty eyed songs about bombing London.

The party was in full swing and I was standing at the bar grinning, watching Lawwell force Peter Maguire to do sit ups for some perceived slight when I was approached by that sneaky little rat, Charlie Gordon. He looked at me funny and asked if I'd seen Tom Devine lately. I told him not for a while and he raised an eyebrow which made him even more repulsive looking. 'He's gone missing you know?' He said, 'Not the first of our people to disappear recently - first we lost Hugh Keevins although we know what happened to him and the impersonator we have working at Radio Clyde has been filling in quite well while we wait for him to recover. Then Dr Reid and the McConnells vanished and now we have Devine and the Strathclyde University lapdogs posted missing. you wouldn't have any idea where any of them are, would you Spiers?' I took a pull at my whisky and stared him out.
'Haven't the faintest idea Charlie - why, you're not hinting that there's a story here I should be looking at, are you?'
'Not at all Spiers, in fact, we want you to stay well clear of this one. We'll find our men and bring them back home again, don't you worry.'
Then we were interrupted by a loud crash at the door - the SFA were arriving and George Peat had put his foot in a bucket of wallpaper paste and Gordon Smith, in trying to free him from it had sent them both crashing over a table, spilling the paste over them and kicking a bucket of confetti in the air which overturned and covered them, sticking to the paste. I could hear Peat saying something about another fine mess when I turned to say something to Charlie Gordon but he was gone.

So did Charlie Gordon suspect I had a play in the disappearance of several of the main players in whatever the big plan was Graeme Souness had hinted at in Strathclyde University and Martin Bain had acknowledged that night on Eaglesham moor? Or was he just being a little sneak like he usually is? After all, I knew all about his previous record from Wendy Alexander at Satis House. I'd never report what I knew so far though, the Lawwell war machine made sure of that.

So we all continued drinking into the night, knowing that Rangers recent disaster would allow Celtic to relax a little in spite of them threatening to drop below Dundee Utd and Hibs in the league and I finally left Bairds around four o'clock the next afternoon with a sore bum from Bill Butler MSP rogering me in the toilets, sneering then spitting etc and I woke up this morning with a terrible hangover, lying on the step of the wife's new flat. A post it note was stuck to my forehead. It was from Aamer Anwar and it said, 'any more of this stalking and I'll accuse you of racism'. I'd better be careful then, I know Strathclyde Police arrest anyone who even looks at Anwar funny. I'm off to my own bed now to try and recover.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 24th November

I couldn't sleep last night. Ever since the wife left me I've not had a good night's sleep. Even although I initially thought her leaving was testament to my unwavering duty to my journalistic integrity, I still miss having her beside me in bed. Still awake at three in the morning, I got up and took a wander round to her flat and stood outside in the rain, wind blowing against my face as I gazed longingly at her flat. Then my mobile phone rang and a strange voice on the other end told me that Satis House was expecting me.

I caught a cab over to the southside where I was shown through the same dusty corridors as last week to an audience with Wendy Alexander who sat in her corner chair, covered in cobwebs, spiders and dust. 'Your task isn't finished young Estella,' she croaked. 'You may have helped destroy Station X but there is a new danger on the horizon, Section 21 is abroad again and if you value the future of your country then it demands your attention. All I can tell you just now is that John Street is not all that it seems, take a trip there after midnight and you will discover all.' And with that she rang a small bell sending mice scurrying from the banquet table and bringing her butler in to usher me from her presence. As I left I could hear her humming a melancholy tune softly to herself.

Since I wasn't sleeping anyway I decided to take a trip to John Street to investigate Alexander's mysterious comments. Strathclyde University looked empty but on the top floor burned a solitary light and the faint cackle of maniacal laughter blew in the wind down George Street. I tried the doors but they were locked so I picked them, a trick I learned from hanging with the republican bhoys. I cautiously climbed the stairs until I reached the top floor and crept down the corridor towards the sound of laughter. I peered around the open door and there in the room was Professor Tom Devine sitting drunkenly in a corner with another tart by his side, both of them quaffing red wine from buckets while Devine dictated to an odd scarecrow looking man who pounded feverishly on a keyboard. 'I can see you Spiers, come in!' Shouted Devine without even looking up.

I sauntered in trying to act nonchalant and the scarecrow man stopped typing and looked up at me. Devine laughed. 'You really do get around, Spiers, eh? Have a seat. Bucket of wine?'
I declined his offer. He nodded towards his tart, 'This is Fatima Uygun, otherwise known as Agent FatimaCeltic67, anti-sectarian campaigner and mad Celtic minded bigot, don't mind her, she's drunk. And this fellow is Gerry Finn another catholic lunatic trusted to write on sectarian issues within Scotland. Of course when you consult these two morons on sectarianism then you're only going to get one side and it ain't the side of that other mob, bwa ha ha ha ha ha!' He burst out laughing and spilled wine down his front while his laughter disturbed Fatima who looked up from her drunken stupor and burped.

'Join us Spiers,' said Devine. 'We're putting the final touches to the new STUC report on sectarianism, I'm sure you could help us. See, we're in the process of icing the cake with a few choice uncorroborated statements on why it's all a one way street. Let's see Gerry just made up some story about catholic firemen not being allowed into a burning protestant household and before she passed out, FatimaCeltic67 here, suggested we mention that old perennial, Donald Findlay. I'm just considering whether or not we should be so bold as to concoct a lie about anti-catholic banter in the workplace leading to murder most foul. What do you think, you got any old stories lying around we could stick in? I'll make it worth your while.'
I thought about this. Obviously it was sinister that these crazy catholic bigots could be left in charge of a report on sectarianism but everyone knows that catholics can't be guilty of bigotry - there's no evidence to support this but it is a fact commonly understood.
'I can't help you Tom.' I found myself saying, giving even myself a fright!
'Sorry Spiers, did I hear you correctly? When did you grow a pair of balls? If you're not part of the solution then you're part of the problem. Are you a bigot Spiers?'
'Yes! Yes I am!' I babbled. 'I'm an anti-protestant bigot and so are you and all you vicious b*stards working in this sectarianism industry! If only you'd all stop for a moment and see that you're all so eager to tar the protestants with the bigot brush that perhaps there's an underlying reason - that you hate the poor bloody fools and that hatred is as much sectarianism as any idiot story you care to make up to get your damned report onto the front page of the Herald!'
Devine glared at me. 'Why this puppy has teeth after all - well done Spiers, didn't know you had it in you. This makes what I do next more easy to live with.' And he motioned to the scarecrow figure of Gerry Finn who rose from his chair, produced a knife and ambled towards me, giggling.
'Listen Spiers,' continued Devine. 'If you're no longer useful to us and our continuing campaign of demonising protestants then you're no good to me alive. Gerry here has dispatched more worthy opponents than you and I'm pleased to say that I've been waiting to see this happen for a long time.'
I looked around for a way out but my route out was blocked by Finn who suddenly pounced, his arm raised ready to bring the knife down on my chest. Suddenly he jerked in mid air and landed in a heap on the floor, a dart sticking out of his neck. Then from the shadows of the corner rose Graeme Souness, dressed all in black, gun in hand. Devine tried to make for the door but in stepped Chris Woods and Ray Wilkins barring his way.
Souness looked at me and smiled a strange smile, raised his gun and shot Devine and Agent FatimaCeltic67.
'You monster!' I cried. 'They didn't deserve that!'
'They were about to kill you Spiers, and you'd let them off?' Sneered Souness. 'Don't panic, they're only darts. They'll wake up with a bigger sore head than usual and wonder where they are for a while.'
'And where will they be?' I asked.
'The same place as the McConnells. Exactly where we want them. There's a bigger story here than you could ever imagine Spiers. A war is being fought between good and evil and no one knows precisely whose side you are on - you seem to come down on the side of the Celtic minded but they're always trying to dispose of you, why do you think that is?' He laughed and left me there in the empty room, Woods and Wilkins having carried the prone bodies of my assailants out of there and towards the unknown. I was left with Gerry Finn's computer still blinking in front of me and there on the screen was their report on sectarianism which contained all the lies and exaggerations those monsters could concoct during a drunken orgy of bigotry. What was I to do with it?

I walked home in the early hours of the morning having emailed the report to the Herald, my old employer who I knew would just love to run it on the front page. Any opportunity to have a pop at the prods, they couldn't ignore it. For all they keep trying to bump me off, I know that they have the good of mankind in their hearts and that the only evil in this society is that of the protestants who are perpetually trying to keep the good catholics down. All these machinations of the Celtic minded are obviously just self defence after hundreds of years of oppression. It wouldn't be like them to become the oppressors. Just as I was thinking this, Neil Lennon pounced on me from a dark alleyway and dragged me in and gave me a right good oppressing before sneering, spitting on me and leaving me lying there in a great big oppressed heap.

Secret Diary, Monday 23rd November Part 2

Word reaches me that Gordon Smith entertained guests at his daughter's birthday party on Saturday night. Smith junior who has done her own bit for bridging the divide between Celtic and Rangers by being the daughter of a Rangers legend who regularly entertains Celtic fans in Glasgow's many nightclubs, usually with her astonishing dress sense and volume of Bebo 'friends' lurking with cameras, had apparently invited some boy band to play at her private function but they were short of a bass player. Step up daddy who cajoled George Peat into joining him onstage for a rendition of Trail of the Lonesome Pine at the end of which, Smith sang in falsetto only to be hit by Peat over the head with a mallet. They left stage to a rapturous round of applause and promptly tripped, both of them falling face first into the birthday cake. This caused a food fight which descended into a chaos which was broken up only after police arrived and arrested Smith for once having played for Rangers. A spokesman for the Catholic Police Guild of Glasgow said last night, 'that orange b*stard was asking for it.'

After the press re-education camp at the weekend everyone got down to work and concentrated on Bougherra's non-appearance after his world cup duties with Algeria while relegating Celtic's defeat at the hands of Dundee Utd to seven pages in from the back in the hope that dozy Celtic fans won't notice the report and will forget that they lost. Peter Lawwell, dressed immaculately in his U-Boat Captain's uniform had assembled a few chosen journalists late last night and provided evidence of Bougherra's absence by showing them pictures of him tied to a tree just outside Lennoxtown.

At the end of a busy weekend I spent the dying hours of Sunday night standing in the rain in Broomhill, gazing at the window of the wife's new flat, hoping to catch sight of her but unfortunately catching only the occasional glimpse of Aamer Anwar's arse. Which, come to think of it, was quite nice really.

Secret Diary, Monday 23rd November

Quiet weekend on the diary front due to me having been taken along with most other Scottish journalists to a re-education camp run by Peter Lawwell at Lennoxtown. It was quite a set up, there was no heating all weekend with Lawwell there in his Siberian Panzer Commander outfit telling everyone that rather than complain about the cold, they should have worn appropriate clothing like he did. All the time he was telling us this, he had Bryan Young by the hair and was lashing at him with his horse whip. That'll heat him up I thought.

We had no contact with the outside world and before any of us could post copy, Lawwell had to personally check our work. Of course he practically does this anyway but never sitting in a draughty training hall decked out with desks and old fashioned word processors while he walked the aisles like an Edwardian teacher at exam time.

The first lesson was in basic football reporting - nothing bad to be said about Celtic and nothing good to be said about Rangers. Well, we're all on board on that one anyway so it was really only revision. Then it was onto a few hours of distraction techniques - what kind of headlines to use elsewhere in the paper to distract from a Celtic defeat, that kind of thing. After fifteen minutes of lunch - gruel - we got down to general stories supporting the catholic church and here he got Joan McAlpine up to read us her column for that weekend's Sunday Times where she waxed lyrical about how parents are falling over themselves to get their children into the East Renfrewshire school, St. Ninians, how wonderful the school was and how it provides terrific 'pastoral care' while not once mentioning the two non-denominational schools which constantly tan its arse in results and general league tables - Mearns Castle and Williamwood, but then, they don't have the great 'pastoral care' of St. Ninians... This piece was so vomit inducing that even I, a great lover of all things catholic had to leave the room to bring up my gruel. At least I think it was listening to her that made me sick although it could also have been the fact that the last time I saw her, McAlpine was being groped silly by that old satyr, Tom Devine who incidentally turned up on Saturday afternoon to lecture us on history revisionism.

Then on Sunday it was all round the telly to watch the Celtic game. What a marvellous time we had when Robson scored that penalty. The cream of the Scottish media were jumping around that room like maniacs, hugging each other and trying to out do each other in their celebrations while Lawwell, wearing his Berchtesgaden lounge suit cast an approving eye over proceedings. Then disaster. Dundee Utd scored twice to beat Celtic causing Lawwell to force us to do press ups while he stomped around, laying into us with his jackboots. He got a hold of one poor unfortunate and ranted for a whole hour, an inch from his face, about how he wanted some kind of article guaranteed to offend the Celtic minded which would get them up in arms and distract them from the result. The idiot then asked what he should write which caused Lawwell to blow his top even more if that's possible and he had us doing squat thrusts while he ranged around the room shouting examples - 'Broken green traffic lights in Larkhall! Pepperami ban at Ibrox! Sash shaped pitch! The hokey cokey! The famine song! Anything by Donald Findlay!'

Then we all gathered on the outdoor pitch to be hosed down in cold water, given our laptops back and sent home.

Secret Diary, Friday 20th November

Before I got to Radio Clyde yesterday evening, I popped into the SFA to find out what either Gordon Smith or George Peat had to say about the Ireland France business and also to find out how they felt about Scotland dropping to third seeds for Euro 2012. I was walking towards the steps at Hampden when I spied George striding across the carpark, briefcase under arm, bowler hat on, so I shouted his name. He turned to look at me and tripped over a hazard sign and landed face first in wet concrete. Almost immediately, Gordon Smith came running to his aid but slipped on the wet ground and he too fetched up in the wet concrete. The two of them sat there, covered from head to foot, glaring at each other so I thought I'd seize my moment. 'What about this Irish controversy then fellas?'
'Oh come on,' said Smith, wiping concrete from around his eyes and flicking it away. 'It's only a bloody song, get over it will you?'
'No, the Henry handball for the French goal, what's your take?' I corrected him.
'I didn't hear you this keen to right wrongs when it was Scotland going out to a corrupt decision against Italy, Spiers' said Smith, getting up.
'So the SFA don't care for Ireland then?' I asked.
'That's not what I said and you know it' said Smith, helping Peat up.
'And you support French cheating?' I continued to pursue him, the journalistic bit between my teeth.
'You're never this vocal when Celtic are going down like Italians at Tobruk' said Smith as he and Peat walked towards the Hampden steps. Just at this moment, a bakers delivery van drove past without Smith or Peat seeing it coming. The driver swerved to avoid them and hit a wall sending his back doors flying open and a huge bag fell out and burst in front of Smith and Peat covering them in flour.
Story secured for the day: 'SFA in Anti-Irish Celtic Jibes', I was now ready for my stint at Radio Clyde.

Secret Diary, Thursday 19th November

Dear Diary,

After all the excitement of the early hours, I popped into the SFA yesterday to have another friendly chat with Gordon Smith. When I arrived he was sitting behind his desk covered in soot. I asked him what was going on but I needn't have bothered as George Peat came through the door joining their two offices and stood there with a custard pie stuck to his crotch.
'You want something Spiers?' asked Peat.
'No. No, I don't think I'll bother.' I said and turned and left, considering just making it all up again. As I left Smith's office I could hear the sound of a bucket of water being poured over someone's head.

As I headed back home to type up my story I took a detour via Broomhill and purchasing a set of ladders from a local hardware store, proceeded to have a peek at the wife's new flat. I got to her bedroom window and squinted through the steamed up windows. I could see framed photos of Aamer Anwar covering the walls of the bedroom and since the door was open I could also see all the framed photos of Aamer Anwar covering the walls of the hall and the front lounge. There was no sign of either of them though so I toodled off to Byres Road to catch up on the west end news.

I got to Jintys and there propping up the bar were the republican bhoys. They got me a pint in and we got chatting. Apparently the talk of the steamie is that a number of notable and prominent Celtic men had gone missing; Hugh Keevins, John Reid and Jack McConnell among them. I didn't let on that I knew that Hugh Keevins had been savaged by Elaine C Smith in Tom Devine's basement or that Graeme Souness and the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos were holding the McConnells - I couldn't be sure about Reid, I didn't see him escape the fire at Station X after he set the Traynor on Souness so for all I know, he and his ghastly claws perished in the basement of that old mill on Eaglesham moor.

So I continued sharing pints of Guinness and wee drams of Bushmills with the republican bhoys when who should come in to great cheers but Neil Cameron of the Record. He was wearing his usual attire of Celtic tracksuit, white baseball cap and trainers and he gave me an odd look as he was greeted by the bhoys who were slapping his back and ordering him straight poitin. For the next hour Cameron regaled us with stories of how he'd laid into the Rangers and I listened in awe, jealous that here was a boy who hated Rangers because he'd been brought up to hate them unlike me who only began to hate them after SDM turfed me out of his four poster during that orgy in Paris. 'There's no grudge like one borne by an hysterical queen' Traynor had said to me in the days before he went completely over the edge.

The Guinness was going right through me so I took a visit to the loo and was standing there relieving myself when Cameron came in and stood behind me. He touched my neck softly sending shivers down my corduroys and then he pushed my face into the wall and held it there as he had his debauched way with me. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me quivering like a jelly wondering what had taken him so long.

Live and Let Lie

I came to, tied to a chair and facing Dr John Reid, Jack McConnell and an unknown rat faced young man who must have been the one who found me upstairs and knocked me about. Reid approached me, his claws twitching. 'What happened to your hands?' I asked.
'Got too close to Elaine C Smith one night and she had them off before I knew what was happening but that's not important now Spiers' said Reid, turning to the rat faced youth. 'This is a member of my family, known only as Agent John. He's a trained assassin who we had released early and in secret from a Spanish jail. His will be the last face you see Spiers.' The youth giggled and raised a gloved hand which held a pint tumbler. He smashed the tumbler against a desk and held it menacingly in the air.
'You are obviously wondering what we have here so since Agent John is going to slice you up and bury you on Eaglesham moor, I figured I might as well just tell you in the time honoured evil genius exposition section.'
I shivered, my mind racing for a way out of this but I was stuck with no way out.
Reid continued, 'This is Station X, headquarters of our most audacious scheme yet. The idea came from the star chamber of Celtic supporting Labour MPs and we released Jack from his First Ministerial position to carry out our plans. Here he has gathered the finest minds from the street urchins he used to manage in his days as a leader of pickpockets on the streets of Glasgow. In the old days Jack would install them in newspapers to do our bidding but occasionally they developed a mind of their own or in the case of the Traynor, became drooling, unmanageable psychopaths just as dangerous to the organisation as they were convenient to our agenda. So we built a workshop where we could create our own stories in bulk and feed them through our agents onto the front and back pages of every newspaper in Scotland. In time we were so successful that we needed more urchins but we had emptied the streets so Jack looked to Malawi and in exchange for aid packages financed by the Scottish Executive, we received their street children and quickly put them to work.'
I gasped - 'child trafficking? You monster! I knew you had to be involved in some dreadful scheme but this is beyond the pale! I'm not even sure I could write about this, it just goes against the grain to even contemplate the idea.'
'Then you'll understand the desperation of our plan. We need this drip feeding of news to further our ambitions. Half the journalists you've heard of don't even exist' and he turned and pointed a claw at one child, 'That's John McGreechan right there, and that,' he pointed at another, 'That is Mark Wilson, and over there is Roddy Forsyth. All of them, cyphers for getting our message into the public domain.
'And that message Spiers, and you're going to appreciate this since you used to be one of our great success stories before you began to sneak around trying to find out the truth. Our greatest achievement was to convince the Scottish protestant middle classes that they were intrinsically sectarian. To make them feel so guilty without knowing why that they wouldn't dare question any of our more extreme actions through fear of being accused of being bigots. The message was sent out through newspapers the land over and supported by our people in restaurants and at dinner parties who would accuse their friends of sectarianism or anti-catholicism should they dare query the need for separate schools or the predominance of catholic Lords Provost of Glasgow - even wanting Celtic to lose at football became anathema in civilised conversations throughout the country. At first the middle classes just kept silent through fear but then they began to believe it themselves and pretty soon we had a protestant class as docile as cattle on a farm.
'Only one institution stood between us and our masterplan - Rangers. To think that a football club followed in the main by working class men could come between us and domination of Scotland! So the past few years we have been chipping away at it, creating in Rangers a boogey man for the 21st century. By the time we're finished with it, no one will take seriously anyone who is remotely involved with that club and any claims of a Celtic minded take over of the country will be dismissed as the hysterical ravings of a bigoted lunatic. Thank you Spiers for contributing to our works.'
And he began to laugh, a depraved bawling laughter that froze my blood. Then Agent John walked slowly towards me, the broken tumbler heading for my throat.
'Goodbye Spiers and thanks again for all the help' shouted Reid and then Agent John stopped suddenly in his tracks and fell face first onto the floor, a dagger in his back. Reid and McConnell turned around in panic and watched as dozens of black figures dropped from the ceiling on ropes. Reids henchmen came running out of side doors only to be gunned down by these mysterious men. Then one of them landed behind me and began cutting the ropes which bound me to the chair; it was Graeme Souness.
'Don't say a word Spiers' he whispered, calm as you like, then he shouted orders across the room: 'McCoist, Colin West, take out those guards. Falco, Stuart Munro, free the children!'
I couldn't believe it, I was being rescued by the late 80s Rangers squad.
Souness looked up as McConnell and Reid scampered up the metal stairs to the exit and gave chase, pausing only to order Graham Roberts to take out Bridget McConnell who was flailing her whip and keeping Robert Fleck at bay.
I freed myself and stood up only to be grabbed by the arms and bundled out of harms way by Mark Walters and Avi Cohen. Above me Graeme Souness caught up with Jack McConnell, kicking his feet away and knocking him unconscious on the steel slats of the platform. Reid, reaching the end of the platform, turned and faced Souness who slowed down and approached him, gun in hand and saying something to him which I couldn't quite hear. Then Reid laughed and reached out a claw and opened a door and out sprung the Traynor, knocking over Souness and tearing at his gun hand with his teeth. I looked around and the 80s Rangers squad were mopping up the henchmen and hadn't noticed their leader struggling, I had to help somehow so I climbed the stairs and ran at the Traynor, booting him in the ribs. He turned and looked at me, his face lighting up and then he was on me, his hands around my neck, choking the life out of me. I'm doomed, I thought but then, swinging across from the other side of the room came Stephen Purcell, he landed with a crash and threw a net over the Traynor, yelling 'Run Graham, run!'
Souness looked up, 'Erm, which Graham?' he said.
'Both of you, now run!' screamed Purcell.
Souness lifted me to my feet and we sprinted to the exit. Reid was gone and the 80s Rangers squad had cleared the children from the building as fire took a grip and began to spread through the workshop. We splashed down the tunnel and up into the mill and gathered with Souness and his men outside as helicopters took off with the children to safety. I looked into a nearby jeep and there were the McConnells, handcuffed beside Terry Butcher as they were driven off.
Then I was bundled into a car and as I gazed back at the burning mill I couldn't see if Reid, the Traynor or Stephen Purcell had made it out. Then exhausted, I slumped back in my seat. I felt tired and quite in shock at the way the night had turned out but before I could consider everything that had happened, the window between me and the front of the car began to slowly open and there sitting in the front passenger seat was Martin Bain. He looked back at me and said, 'Spiers, we have to talk.'

Secret Diary, Wednesday 18th November Part 2

Dear Diary,

It took two hours of trudging across the moors before I lighted upon the dark mill sitting at the bottom of a valley which, if it was possible, was even darker than the rest of this forsaken place. I scouted around the mill which looked to be uninhabited - no lights shone from within - so I approached with caution and climbed in through a hole by the edge of a boarded up window. Once inside I could hear the faint sound of tapping, lots of tapping, punctuated by the occasional scream. I switched on my torch and crept around, looking for a source of the noise. Suddenly I heard a creak from behind me and I stopped, frozen to the spot and remained there for what seemed like an age, cold sweat running down the side of my neck as I waited to hear if someone else was in here with me. After five minutes there were no other sounds and I moved on, more slowly this time.

I eventually found a hatch in the floor which I opened and climbed into, lowering myself down a ladder into a gloomy tunnel rank with foetid air and the sound of water dripping into the puddle which lined the floor. I made my way carefully along the tunnel, being careful not to make a sound when the floor gave way beneath me and I crashed, howling into a darkened room, my fall being broken by damp cardboard boxes full of files. I kept as still as possible hoping that my racket hadn't alerted anyone to my presence. I could hear the tapping sound more clearly now and still those awful screams. I scrambled for my torch, found it and turned it towards the boxes. They were full of press cuttings, all of them negative stories about Rangers, the Orange Order or the Church of Scotland. There were opinion pieces, press releases, football stories and hysterical gutter press headlines. Then there were shipping ledgers and invoices and finally hordes of CDs of music by James McMillan. I was just beginning to ponder what this could all mean when I was hit across the back of the head and dragged from the room into the light of a great workshop.

My head was spinning from the blow and I struggled to keep my eyes open but I could see below me row upon row of ragged children sitting in front of typewriters, clacking away at the keys with Bridget McConnell standing over them, naked to the waist and wielding a whip to any who slowed down. The children, a mix of black and white, made a low moaning sound while in the background was the pandemonium of one of McMillan's awful pieces which together with the great din of the typewriters, added to the nightmare of noise emanating from this hellish place.
'Spiers, I should have known' came a voice from above me. I looked up, it was Jack McConnell. He ordered me to be taken downstairs and I was manhandled by my unknown assailant behind me and taken into the depths of the workshop and thrown in front of the rows of children where a man in a grey suit and monstrous steel claws for hands stood with his back to me.

John Reid turned and struck me with one of his steel claws and I felt a tooth go and blood well up in my mouth. 'Spiers, what are we to do with you?' said Reid in a steely monotone. 'Lawwell assured me he had you back on the leash and now here you are poking your moronic nose where it doesn't belong.' He struck me again with one of his claws and then I passed out.

Secret Diary, Wednesday 18th November

Dear Diary,

It was a stormy night last night, perfect for my mission to infiltrate Station X in the middle of the Eaglesham moors. I forsook my usual corduroy for black tweed, hiking boots and balaclava with my laptop in a napsack and emergency notepad and pencil strapped to my ankle. Since I can't drive I had phoned the wife who is now living in Broomhill, to give me a lift. As she dropped me off on the edge of the moors with the wind howling and the rain lashing down, she sighed and looked at me, about to say something when her phone rang. 'Hello,' she answered, 'Yes, I'm just dropping him off, be home soon. No, I don't know who he thinks he is now - the man from milk tray or something. Okay, see you soon, love you.'
'Who was that?' I asked.
'Look, you might as well know, Aamer Anwar has moved in with me.'
I stared at her in disbelief. 'It's only been four days since you moved out, how...' then I stopped, thought about the mission ahead, steadied my resolve and pulled the balaclava down over my face and stepped out onto the moors leaving the wife to drive home to her new boyfriend.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 17th November Part 2

Dear Diary,

This morning I was searching for Frank McAveety and it is well known within journalistic circles that he is not to be found in his constituency, nor Holyrood unless you mean Holyrood Secondary in the south side where it's rumoured he's bumping a cute little English teacher. No, if you want to find McAveety at eleven in the morning then you have to go to the Brazen Head in the Gorbals.
The place was jumping with salt of the earth types singing culturally and historically relevant songs and celebrating their diversity by chanting about blowing up children with bombs. I squeezed past a group of young men dressed from head to toe in green and suddenly recognised them beneath the face paint - it was the republican bhoys! I had a few drinks with them as I scanned the bar for McAveety and it wasn't long before I spotted him as he carried a bucket around asking for donations for 'the struggle' whatever that is.
I introduced myself and he fixed me in the eye and told me there was no need, that he knew exactly who I was. 'I hear you're back in the fold' he said.
'Yes, and that's what I want to talk to you about, I've been directed to you by Tom Devine and Chick Young, I'm to go to Station X.'
'Chick Young, Tom Devine and Station X eh? My, you're coming up in the world. And Chick Young told me you were to come to me?' He looked away towards the republican bhoys and then back at me. 'Okay. The old mill building on Eaglesham moors, that's Station X. You'll want to report to Dr No though, let him know you're coming.'
As he spoke I could feel the excitement rising up inside me, I was getting more than I'd expected just by mentioning the right names. Then McAveety shook his bucket in my face, 'For the cause' he said. I forked out a tenner and then had a few more pints with the republican bhoys in order to consolidate my credentials and then I bumped into Paolo Nutini who to cut a long story short, took me to the toilets, f*cked me, sneered and spat on me leaving me lying on the pish flooded floor.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 17th November

Dear Diary,

After the intrigue of the previous night it was good to be back covering a simple football story and the sacking of George Burley was like a breath of fresh air. I popped round to Hampden to speak to George Peat and Gordon Smith and found them in the corridor leading to their offices where they were trying to change some lightbulbs. Smith was up a ladder changing the bulbs while Peat was holding the ladders and passing up the bulbs.
'Hello George, Gordon.' says I startling them. Smith dropped a lightbulb which landed with a pop on Peat's head. Peat beckoned Smith down off the ladders, took off his bowler hat, placed a bulb in it and then stuck it back on Smith's head before bringing his fist down on the hat, popping the bulb underneath. Smith looked at me in exasperation, reached into Peat's bag and produced another bulb, placing it carefully under Peat's chin before bopping him on the head causing the bulp to pop all over Peat's tie. Peat looked at Smith for a moment then at me, said 'excuse me' and opened a cupboard door, bringing out a tin of paint. He took it over to Smith, pulled his trousers out from his waist and poured the paint into the gap sending it running down Smith's legs. Smith then calmly took the paint from Peat who watched as Smith produced a paint brush, dipped it into the paint pot, took off Peat's bowler hat and proceeded to paint his head white, putting the bowler hat back on once he was finished.
This could go on forever, I thought and interrupted, 'Gentlemen, I'd like to ask you about the Burley situation and who the next Scotland manager will be. First though, can I ask just who precisely is in charge here?'
'Well, we both respect each others positions and duties...' began Smith.
'I am!' interrupted Peat.
'We have a strategy and both of us have different approaches which combined, gives us a better chance of success...' continued Smith.
'I've got the bigger office.' growled Peat, interrupting again.
'I played football and was a respected pundit and expert in the field, what have you ever done?' squawked Smith.
'I've got six lines on my phone, how many do you have?' cried Peat.
I left them to it and wandered off looking to speak to someone else about any names that might be in the pot for the new manager and who did I bump into but Darryl Broadfoot. 'Spiers! What are you doing here?' he shouted down the corridor.
'I was just talking to Smith and Peat.' I replied.
'Oh dear, are they both covered in tar yet?'
'No.'
'Either of them up to their neck in water inside a barrel?'
'No. They're covered in white paint and broken light bulbs.'
'Shit, this is what I have to deal with. It's preventing me from doing my real job which is...'
'Laying into the Rangers?'
'Of course. Now, let's make this short, what do you want to know?'
'The new manager for a start?'
'Well, there's Gordon Strachan' he suggested.
'Just gone to Middlesbrough, you won't get him.'
'Martin O'Neil?'
'Happy at Aston Villa.'
'John Barnes?'
'Ahem!'
'Tommy Burns?'
Errrrrrrrrrrrr.....'
'I know, we could ask Wim Jansen! Liam Brady? Billy McNeil! Jock Stein? Hold on, I've got it - Lou Macari!'
'Forget it Darryl, I'd be better talking to Laurel and Hardy down the corridor, I'll see you around.' And with that I sauntered off to write my article which would need to make do with lies and conjecture. Then again, what's new?

Secret Diary Monday 16th November Part 2

Dear Diary,

I feel I am being manipulated. Last night I heard a knock at the door but when I opened it there was no-one there yet on the floor was a folded up piece of paper upon which was scrawled the message 'who listens to James McMillan?' which struck me as damned odd because it's widely believed nobody listens to James McMillan. Someone obviously wants me to find out who's listening to the dolt though so after a little investigating I uncovered the only sales of his CDs going to a company called Nyasa Imports which are owned by one Bridget McConnell - wife of ex-First Minister Jack! Now this did seem curious so to find out what Bridget McConnell could want with so many of McMillans unlistenable works, I took to the streets where Jack's urchins rule the night.
It was on Clyde Street that I had my first success, meeting the leader of the Little Rascals, Chick Young. He was standing on the Jamaica Street Bridge, looking out at the river and I must have startled him because as I said his name he spun round and had a razor pressing against my throat before I even realised what was happening.
'Spiers!' He growled in that low rumble of his, 'Didn't expect to see you around. What do you want?'
'What does your boss's wife want with so many CDs of James McMillan's awful compositions? I asked.
'How the f*ck should I know mate, we only shift 'em from the pressing plant to the Station X' said this astonishing little creature. I remembered that name though, Devine had warned me off Station X only yesterday.
'Anyway, I should make myself scarce if I were you, there's going to be a fight here shortly' said the little man, spinning his knife on his index finger.
'Who are you fighting?' I asked.
'Not just me, the whole team.' he said and whistled. Before I knew it, the denizens of the night were appearing from under bridges, behind cars and down lanes until there was a formidable gang surrounding him. He looked at me and seemed sad for a moment before saying, 'Sorry Spiers, got to go, the organisation's stepping things up, we're off to war. If you're still around after this week then maybe I'll see you again sometime.' He and his gang all reached into their pockets, pulled out red, white and blue scarves and hats and put them on.
'But you lot aren't Rangers fans.' says I.
'I know.' he said, winking.
'What about Station X, where is it?' I shouted after him.
'If you're supposed to know then Frank McAveety will tell you.' And then he was gone, his gang with him, and I was left alone on the bridge as the rain started to fall and fog horns from the ghosts of great ships echoed down the Clyde.

Secret Diary, Monday 16th November

Dear Diary,

Things have taken a turn for the strange since I visited Wendy Alexander at Satis House on Saturday. Last night I received a visit from one of Tom Devine's Sauchiehall Street Irregulars who passed me a wine stained note to meet him in a seedy city centre bar. My problem was, could I trust him? After all, my last encounter with him ended with me being sold out to Peter Lawwell, attacked by the Traynor and almost being savaged in a dark basement after Elaine C Smith broke free from her cage. I decided to play it smart and got to the bar an hour early, disguised in a false beard and hat and sat in a gloomy corner and waited to see what happened.

Time passed and then I saw Devine turn up at the bar with another one of his tarts and a strange man in a grey suit with hideous steel claws in place of hands. I couldn't see his face and he didn't stay for long. Then a few urchins wandered in off the street and Devine barked orders at them before they disappeared into the fog outside. Then at the allotted time for meeting him, Devine came straight over to me and sat down. 'You look ridiculous Spiers, if you're going to come in disguise then you should at least leave the corduroy suit behind.'
I blushed. 'Sorry, you'll understand why I don't exactly think I can trust you at the moment?'
'Balderdash! You can trust me to always have the interests of the organisation paramount in my heart. You just got on the wrong side of those interests last week but this week you are yet again on our side I hear.'
His tart came over and sat down beside us, handing him a flagon of port which he gulped down in one go.
'This is Anna Smith, columnist for the News of the World.' He burped, motioning towards the ragged slut drinking a pint of Guinness. 'Now, I hear you're on the trail of the biggest story of the decade, eh? Be careful the path you choose Spiers, this is a journey fraught with danger if you listen to the wrong people. Have you heard of Station X? No? Good, make sure you keep it that way and if anyone tries to steer you towards it then remember what almost happened to you last Thursday. The Traynor is still on the look out for you and some in the organisation want to set him on you after your blundering cost us Hugh Keevins. There's a story to be told here, Spiers. Just make sure you choose the right one.'
With that he motioned for me to leave and as I did, I looked over my shoulder and he was paying me no attention but leaning over the table and giving Anna Smith's tits a tweak.

I mooched down the road feeling even more confused and on passing an alleyway, heard a whisper from the shadows. 'Spiers, come in here.'
I peered into the darkness trying to see who had spoken when a face slowly became clear. It was Darryl Broadfoot. He beckoned me into the lane. 'Listen Spiers,' he said. 'I'm only going to tell you this once. I'm moving up and out of the journalism business.'
I grinned, 'Were you ever really a journalist Darryl? I mean, I knew you when you were still picking pockets for Jack McConnell.'
'Watch your mouth Spiers, the organisation has moved me up - I'm now Head of Communications for the SFA, ostensibly to keep an eye on Gordon Smith but it doesn't mean I won't have the power to put you in your place.'
I gasped, I knew someone was pulling strings at the SFA but to put Darryl Broadfoot within its corridors was a real coup as no one hates the Rangers quite like Darryl. McConnell had worked wonders with him after taking him out the poor house and putting him to work on the streets before getting him a cushy job under Hugh MacDonald at the Herald.
'What about Shorthouse, what became of him?' I asked.
'The organisation found a very convenient task for him - he'll be running our propaganda unit within Strathclyde Police. Pretty soon Martin Bain won't have a place to hide. It's all coming together Spiers, you just watch yourself and make sure you don't go upsetting the apple cart like you did last week.'
I thought about this but before I could reply he motioned me closer to him. I leaned forward and he head butted me on the nose. I screamed as he turned me round and dropped my trousers before rattling me right there in the alley. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me panting in the gutter. To tell you the truth, I thought I was losing my touch.

Secret Diary, Sunday 15th November

Last night I began a new investigation into sectarianism. I'd been lurking around Byres Road, building up the courage to go to the UB Chip when I bumped into the republican bhoys on their way to Jintys. They told me that word on the street was that Lawwell would be willing to call off the dogs only if I came up with something spectacular so in the interests of being allowed back into the fold I've decided that I am going to write the definitive expose on sectarianism in Scotland.

It wasn't long after I'd made this decision that I was sitting at home putting together my column for the Sunday Times (Scottish edition, circulation: quite a few actually but high in spite of the unwanted Scottish supplements) when my phone rang. I answered but no one spoke for a while although I could hear breathing on the other end and just as I was about to run out of patience and hang up, someone rasped, 'If you're interested in the big sectarianism story, start at Satis House'.

Later that night I found myself at the gates of some magnificent gothic house on the south side. It was dark and cold, mist swirling around my feet as I trod carefully towards the door. The house, overgrown with ivy and touched by the foreboding hanging branches of barren trees, seemed lifeless and it took an age from my ringing of the bell to the door slowly opening before a face illuminated by candlelight peered out from the darkness. The servant beckoned for me to follow him through endless musty corridors until at last I was shown into a room which looked as if time itself had stopped. Cobwebs hung from the gloom and a layer of dust inches thick lay on every surface. A great banquet sat mouldering on a table where mice scampered unheeded around the plates and dishes. In the corner sat a ghastly vision of a woman dressed in a faded wedding dress staring at a clock on the wall which was stopped at half past nine on 28th June, 2008. The skeletal face turned and looked at me with half shut eyes and I realised I was gazing at Wendy Alexander.

'Look at me,' she ordered. 'Look at what the Scottish Labour party does to someone like me. I loved it you know, loved it beyond all measure to the extent that I lost many years of my youth piling bodies into a mincer for George Galloway as he gayly cut throats in his constituency office above, and from the mincer I produced the most wonderful pies which I sold at great profit to Rugby Park. It wasn't long before I was noticed and spent four years searching the abandoned underground stations and sewers with Donald Dewar as he sought to discover the secret tunnel connecting Labour party headquarters to Celtic Park; we never did find it. Then with devolution I became a minister and served with Jack McConnell and aided him in burning all record of his education and eradicating anyone who could identify him as being the schoolboy who had supported Rangers as a youth. Yes, I had blood on my hands but it was worth it as McConnell outlived his useful idiot sellby date and the daggers came out in the boardroom at Parkhead. Too many people complained that the catholic bias within Scottish Labour was becoming too difficult to ignore so I was volunteered to rescue the party and in 2007 I was elected leader.
'I wasn't to know though that I too had a shelf life and that my refusal to conduct business from the main stand at Celtic Park was to see my reign cut short. The party I loved from the day I met it, callously betrayed me. I should've known better than to trust Charlie Gordon the moment I noticed his predilection for emerald green shirts at work but trust him I did. Not long after taking him into my confidence he'd set me up for an illegal donation guaranteed to make my position untenable. While he and the Parkhead star chamber toasted their success in fooling the public into believing that with a daughter of the manse at the top, Labour couldn't be institutionally sectarian, I was cast aside to Satis House where I remain to this day, mourning my lost love and plotting revenge on the men who betrayed me. I want you, Spiers, to be my Estella and help me find justice, bitter justice.'

The woman was clearly mad, I didn't believe a bit of what she claimed. For a start, sectarianism is just another word for anti-catholicism, I've learned enough over the years to know this. Everything she'd just told me flew in the face of all my teachings - she must be raving! But something about her tone, her face, the crazy old wedding dress covered in spiders, told me that I had to trust this woman and perhaps with her help I could discover the true secret of the bristling underbelly of sectarianism in Scotland.

Secret Diary, Saturday 14th November

Dear Diary,

Busy day today, I'm in hiding in the west end. There are two reasons for this: 1) I've heard that Tom Devine is on the look out for me after what happened on Thursday and thinks it's 'a damned cheek that the whelp Spiers thinks he can parade around Labour parties after what he did'; and 2) my editor refuses to send me to Wales to cover the Scotland match but I'm going to write about it anyway from the television and pretend I was there so I don't want anyone to see me in Glasgow and spoil the illusion.

Somebody sent me this link this morning but I can't make out what it's supposed to be for:

http://megaswf.com/view/dbbe3aaf7d09

Is that meant to be funny?

Secret Diary, Friday 13th November Evening

Dear Diary,

It's been an interesting evening so far. I'd been invited to two parties tonight; one by the Labour party and one by the SNP. The Labour party gig is at the Royston Knights of Saint Columba club and is to celebrate the Labour victory at the Glasgow North East by-election. All the big Labour nobs are there, there's a band playing - Charlie and the Bhoys, there's a special guest appearance by the Lisbon Lions and the whole thing is quite wonderful to behold as everyone celebrates their diversity by singing Irish republican songs.

I'd popped into the SNP party earlier just to be polite. It was held in the hall of the St. Josephs RC church and it was just as loud but not quite as busy. The SNP had booked the hall in anticipation of victory and decided not to cancel it once the results had come in because they'd already paid the deposit. David Kerr was there, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here and looked uncomfortable as he constantly scratched at his thigh where his celice was obviously bothering him. Alex Salmond was sitting in a corner, nursing a half pint and looking about as welcome as a Turk at a christening, while on stage was Nicola Sturgeon dressed head to toe in leather and according to Kerr, hogging the karaoke. That the karaoke machine was pre-programmed before the results came in, with only celebratory songs lent an even greater air of bathos to the proceedings. The place was so depressing even the barman had packed up and gone home leaving a note for the three of them to help themselves.

At the Labour shindig however, I was attracting a lot of attention due to the fireworks in Jordanhill the night before. Charlie Gordon approached me and told me he was surprised I had shown my face considering what had he'd been hearing. Apparently Peter Lawwell had the entire press pack in his office all day doing sit ups and they were still at it now except Ronnie Culley who'd swooned after two and had to be carted off by Tony Mowbray.

I had a civilised glass of wine and was just about ready to leave when I spied Michael Martin picking a fight with his successor Willie Bain who he'd mistaken for Martin Bain. After a bit of pushing and shoving Martin was calmed down by two burley stewards who then stuck him in his car to be taken home but his driver got confused and drove him to Parkhead as that's usually where he takes his boss when he's drunk and surly.

So a rather uneventful day after the excitement of the past week. I'm going to finish my column for tomorrow's Times (Scottish edition, circulation: two fish suppers) and then have an early night.

Oh, and the wife has left me.

The Masterplan

Peter Lawwell stood before me, barring my way out of Devine's dining room. He was wearing his Waffen SS uniform which he only wears when there's serious trouble afoot. I heard growling and looked over his shoulder and there was Hugh Keevins struggling to hold a chain on the end of which was the Traynor, scratching and tearing at the floor to get at me. I was doomed. As Devine and McAlpine screamed with laughter, nuzzling each others necks, spilling wine and feeding each other mouth to mouth, Lawwell slowly walked towards me leaving Keevins to close the door behind him while keeping a tight grip on the Traynor. Eventually Lawwell was face to face with me and I stared into those dead eyes, lids half shut as his gaze drilled straight into my soul. Suddenly he brought up his hand and thrashed me across the cheek with his horse whip sending me sprawling to the floor. 'Don't kill me!' I screamed as he kicked me in the ribs with one of his jackboots. The Traynor roared and struggled with his leash trying to get at me.
'I won't kill you Spiers,' said Lawwell in a voice so low, so cold that I could feel my corduroy freeze. 'No, I'm not going to kill you because I want you to suffer for what you've done. Years I've been planning this, years!' He booted me again. 'Do you know the amount of organisation it takes to have the Scottish newspapers completely and utterly capitulate to me? It's not cheap to have every Scottish politician in my pocket and it takes time have my agents infiltrate BBC Scotland and STV, rise to the most powerful positions and then sit awaiting my commands. For months now I've had Rangers in my hands, their future under my control, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy with UEFA about to hand them a European ban that would eventually send them under and all you had to do, the most tiny, infinitesimal task you had was to give the panel your arse and you couldn't even do that. Four men, in a Glasgow hotel room waiting for you and you didn't turn up. Do you understand now how much you've cost me? Un-sated, they caught the first flight out of Glasgow and promptly handed Rangers a measly eighteen grand fine when they were about to ban them forever if only you'd turned up with that pretty backside of yours which I know isn't averse to a good pummelling. This is why you were so important to our plans which now lie in tatters, just like you're going to lie in tatters once Keevins lets loose the Traynor.'

I couldn't believe it, Lawwell had sold my arse to the UEFA disciplinary committee in exchange for a European ban for Rangers! In not turning up I'd not only sealed the fate of his dastardly master plan but also sealed my own fate at the slavering maw of the Traynor. I looked to Keevins, 'Hugh, you can't let them do this, you and I are friends! I've sat side by side with you for years, piling into Rangers and not giving their fans any airtime to defend themselves, you can't do this to me now.'
But Keevins avoided my eyes and muttered, 'You were never one of us Spiers, I'm sorry. You were a useful idiot for a while but I can't help you here.'
'Tom, Tom! You must come to my aid, surely? Think about all the help I gave you in having the Billy Boys banned.' But Devine just laughed and stuck his hands between McAlpines legs as she squealed in delight, vomiting a little onto her petticoats.

Lawwell looked down at me and whispered, 'It's over Spiers.' Keevins let go of the chain holding the Traynor who launched at me, his teeth bared, claws extended. Then a great crashing sound and from nowhere, Stephen Purcell came flying through the window on a rope and wrestled the Traynor to the ground. 'Run Graham, run - as fast as you can!'
I got to my feet and shoving Lawwell and Keevins out of the way, bowled out of the door and into the hall but my exit was barred by the butler who tackled me and we both went tumbling down some stairs into a basement, crashing against a cage with such force that its door creaked slowly open. The butler looked at me in horror and spoke softly, 'Don't say a word or make a sound' as I heard snuffling coming from the darkness within the cage. Then who came blundering down the stairs but Hugh Keevins, singing 'Come out come out wherever you are Queersy' only for Elaine C Smith to spring out of the cage and start mauling him.
I bound up the stairs three at a time, throwing the butler to the side to get away from the awful screams of Elaine C Smith going down on Hugh Keevins. As I reached the top the Traynor and Stephen Purcell came rolling out of the dining room, covered in blood and howling at each other as they both tried to gain the upper hand. I made for the door and was out of there and down the street without looking back.

When I got home the windows had been boarded up and the wife was sitting watching Strictly Come Dancing. She ignored me as I said hello so I went to bed with my laptop and sat there wondering what on earth I was to do now. Was I to write the usual scathing attack on Rangers? Or has there been a lesson to be learned from tonight's experience? I pondered this for a while and then figured why change the habit of a lifetime? Surely if I were to attack Rangers yet again then Peter Lawwell might forgive me? Over time maybe? Oh well, I'll think of some way to get him back, after all tomorrow is another day...

What Lies Beneath

So here was the situation: in a meeting of the press at Peter Lawwell's office I'd been too busy fretting about the Traynor to hear my special instructions and now everyone was after me for not carrying out my part of some master plan of Lawwells. The Traynor was still after me - always after me, Darrell King was now after me for booting him down a flight of stairs, some mysterious tramp had warned me not to go near Ashton Lane and now Darryl Broadfoot had told me that Lawwell was out to get me for letting him down. Worried, I headed for home but when I got there I found all my windows smashed and a crowd of police and press photographers gathered around some writing on the pavement. It was a warning from Lawwell, this had his modus operandi written all over it. I pulled up the collar of my corduroy jacket and shuffled casually to the back of the crowd to read the spray painted letters outside my red stone flat; it said, 'the juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing'. Oh god, it was definitely Lawwell, only he would have his agents smash my windows and then write graffiti on a pavement implicating the Masons. I had to get out of here but where? Then a ragamuffin paper boy came up to me and whispered, 'Seek Devine inspiration.' I looked down at him, 'What? What did you just say?' but he walked away shouting, 'Times, Evening Times!' This was odd but it was obvious what he meant, this was one of Tom Devine's Sauchiehall Street Irregulars - and so must the tramp have been - and they were keeping me safe and telling me to go to Tom Devine.

It didn't take long to sneak through the west end to Devine's mansion in Jordanhill, I pulled the bell and was shown into his home by a butler dressed in a white apron and black stockings. Professor Tom Devine stood in the hall holding a pint of red wine in one hand and a bucket of slops in the other. 'Ah Spiers, I was expecting you but you're early, I'm just about to feed Elaine C Smith.'
'Elaine C Smith?' I stammered.
'Yes. I keep her in a cage in the basement. Frightful creature but I wheel her out occasionally when I need to get one of our more blunt messages out to the readers of the Sunday Mail.' He handed the bucket to the butler and told him to take it from there and then he led me through to a huge dining hall where another of his strumpets was sitting drunk at the end of a long teak table, her petticoats pulled up to show her grubby white stocking tops. 'This is Joan McAlpine, award winning columnist for the Sunday Times' said Devine and sat down, wincing as McAlpine leaned over and grabbed his arse. Before I knew what I was doing I was letting it all spill out, I told him everything that had happened to me that day, finally admitting to not even knowing what my part in the mission was supposed be. He coughed up some wine, letting it spill onto his shirt. 'Listen young pup, you have a lot to learn about this game. Look at me tonight, featured on the BBC discussing the Glasgow North East by-election. Glasgow North East for heaven's sake, it's an infernal Irish theme park at times, bog trotters running around all over the place, greatest concentration of our people Scotland has ever seen and they're scared. They're scared of the influx of darkies sent their way by their own kind at GCC for a few shillings and a seat at Parkhead. So these scared people have turned to the BNP, I can see that - I'm not blind - but how to relinquish our own people of responsibility, eh? Did you not see my masterstroke? I blamed the rise of the BNP on their activities at football grounds, especially one - and my implication was clear here - Rangers. Genius, dear boy, don't ye think?'
I stared at him, appalled, 'Bog trotters? Darkies?' He pushed Joan McAlpine's hand away from his crotch and took another gulp of wine, tore the flesh from a chicken leg with his yellow teeth and wiped his mouth on the corner of his sleeve. 'Aye, you heard me. We're allowed to have private opinions of our own, Spiers. We're just not supposed to air them in public and we can think what we like as long as we always lay the blame for society's ills at the door of the Protestants, ye hear?'
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, I thought this man was morally beyond reproach and here he was using the most foul slurs for which I berate Rangers fans on a daily basis. Could it be possible that I've been blind all these years? That I've been led a merry dance by the forces of evil who used me for the machinations of their own vile schemes? No, it wasn't possible yet I had to leave here at once - I couldn't take advice from such a monster. Devine looked at me and seemed to have read my thoughts and started to laugh, a hideous, grasping laugh; then his trollop joined in, bearing her black teeth at me and waggling her poonts in Devine's face which made him laugh even more. And then the door behind me opened and there stood Peter Lawwell.

The Great Escape

After two violent encounters within an hour yesterday, I decided to seek solace in the company of the republican bhoys and set off for Ashton Lane. I was just coming out of Hillhead station though when some bearded tramp propped against the wall selling the Big Issue whispered to me, 'Don't go near Jintys or the Chip if you value your safety.' I stared at him, 'What? What did you say?'
'Big Issue pal? Get yer Big Issue here.' I got no more sense out of him but suddenly felt a tingle of danger and decided to high tail it to Oran Mhor where I took a seat with its back to the wall and sat with my head in a paper (my own paper, the Times (Scottish Edition, circulation: three frogs and a belt)). Before I'd even had time to turn to my own piece to revel in the self satisfaction and anti-Rangers bias, I felt the presence of someone standing over me so I looked up over the newsprint and there was Darryl Broadfoot. 'Have you heard the terrible news?' he asked. I shook my head. 'Rangers got a piddling twenty thousand euros fine from UEFA, a slap on the wrist and I'll tell you something else, Peter Lawwell is not happy at you. What the f*ck happened? Where did you get to when everyone was relying on you?'
'But I didn't know...' I yammered but he interrupted, 'Listen you limp wristed moron, I need to go to Radio Clyde and carry out some damage limitation for Lawwell with Hugh Keevins and lay into the huns for a few hours, something I wouldn't have had to do if you'd just carried out your instructions. I hear Lawwell's let loose the dogs of war and they've got your scent Spiers, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for all the corduroy in Slaters.' And with that he turned and flounced out, leaving me quaking.

The Smell of Port and Cigars

'I hear Darrell King is looking for you, young Spiers' said Tom Devine, breathing port and cigar fumes over me. He was sitting in a booth at the Rogano, his arm around his latest raggedy slut. 'This is Eilish Angiolini, the current Lord Advocate' he slurred as he fondled one of her tits. She giggled and slapped his face, screaching, 'Eeeaaoow, don't be so ruddy cheeky Mister!'
'The Sauchiehall Street Irregulars told me this afternoon that you blind sided him in Babbitys. They also told me you had a narrow escape from the Traynor. Be careful there, young Spiers because the Traynor has been the death of many an ambitious journalist's career.' I trembled at the thought of how close I'd come earlier today. He gulped down another glass of port and called for two more.
'Now,' he continued, cupping another tit. 'This task of yours for Lawwell, you realise it is of supreme importance that it is carried out to the letter? One mistake here could mean the whole damn thing could come crumbling down around our ears.' This was getting serious, I still didn't have the slightest clue what on earth I was supposed to be doing! I hesitated, considering asking him what my bloody task was but decided against it, you don't want to seem a fool in front of the great Professor Tom Devine so I packed up my laptop and took off into the night.

Kicking Darrell King up the Arse

Earlier on, I was still in Babbity Bowsters and not feeling too great. Firstly there was the question of my very important task for Peter Lawwell which I have no idea what it is and then there was the news I'd just received. I'd been sitting nearing the end of my cappuccino when Darrell King came in, noticed me and sat down beside me. 'Did you hear about the huge fight at the Gallowgate?' he asked, 'Two great beasts knocking lumps out of each other, buildings collapsing around them, devastation everywhere. Of course such is the Gallowgate no-one's noticed' I kept my counsel, knowing fine well this was the Traynor and Stephen Purcell fighting over yours truly. 'That's some task you've been handed by Herr Lawwell, eh?' he muttered, looking towards the exit towards the toilets. 'Want to discuss it?' He nodded towards the door.
'Sure,' I said, so we got up and walked towards the loos then just as we got to the top of the steps I booted him in the back and sent him sprawling down the stairs where he landed at the entrance to the lavatory. 'Not from you King, I'll take it off anyone but not from you, you pussy.' I shouted and walked calmly away.

By the time I reached the bar my legs had turned to jelly and I could hardly stand but I had to make one big effort to get out of there before Darrell King recovered and came looking for me.

I still don't know what Peter Lawwell wants of me though.

Tightening the Purcell Strings

My second summons to Celtic Park in one day, it seems like Peter Lawwell is really busy today. I popped back earlier and found that I wasn't the only one in his office, there was a whole press pack there and Lawwell had changed into his Afrika Korps uniform for this one so I knew there was bound to be trouble. He frothed at the mouth for a bit, screaming at the poor journalists unfortunate enough to be standing at the front but I didn't have a clue what he was going on about. You see, as soon as I entered the room I noticed Jim Traynor there and he noticed me - he looked me straight in the face, his eyes narrowed and he mouthed, I'm going to get you Spiers. I was horrified and couldn't concentrate on what was going on. At one point Lawwell even picked me out and said, 'You got that Spiers? You are hand picked to do this for me!' I daren't let on I wasn't listening so I nodded in agreement. Oh boy, I though, this is so going to come back and bite me on the arse. I wished then that I was friendly with at least one other journalist in that room so I could ask what task it was that  Lawwell had given me but such is the life of a lone gunman journalist with a mission to bring down Rangers. Anyway, I had other worries: the meeting had broken up and I needed to get out before Traynor. Fortunately he got caught in the crush to get out Lawwell's office while I managed to slip out the door first and get a head start and was off through the car park in a twinkling. There were no buses around so I just ran in the general direction of the city centre and had got to the Gallowgate where I ducked into the nearest republican flea pit - surely Traynor wouldn't follow me in here?

I was wrong of course, the door burst open sending rat faced neds scurrying for the darkness and there he stood in the doorway, eyes darting around looking for me. I'd cleverly stuck on a Celtic baseball cap I'd found lying on the floor and hoped my disguise would fool him. 'There you are, corduroy boy, come to the Traynor!' he growled. I'm doomed, I thought as he inched his hefty frame towards me, his hands reaching for my throat. Then from out of nowhere Stephen Purcell sprung on his back, scratching at his eyes, yelling 'Run Graham! Run for your life!' And I did, I shot out the door and down towards the Trongate without looking back.

And now I sit here in Babbity Bowsters, supping cappuccino and wondering what on earth Peter Lawwell wanted me to do.

Ash and Sweety Papers

Busy morning, first I had a meeting with the editor of the Times (Scottish edition, distribution: eleven journalists and an egg) and then I had to go to Celtic Park where I'd been summoned by Peter Lawwell. So, to the Times I skipped, full of anticipation of the swingeing punishment which is sure to come the way of Rangers this afternoon. Rivulets of saliva were dropping from my chops at the thought of this. Indeed, I haven't been this chirpy since the success of the Great Silence of the Lambs when a Celtic supporter threw a bottle through the window of the press bus and we all kept quiet about it lest the great reputation of the Celtic fans suffer.

I got to work and a great hush fell over the place as I walked down to the editor's office, obviously the staff and fellow journalists are so in awe of me that they can't even speak in my presence. I then noted that as soon as I'd entered the boss's office, a flurry of coughing and gasping broke out behind me - why, I'm so awesome they can't even breath in my presence! As I shut the door behind me, allowing the minions to breath, I noted that the editor wasn't looking as bright as he usually does in the morning. 'Sit down Graham,' he said, motioning towards the floor. I got down and crossed my legs. 'Look, you know I am your greatest supporter when it comes to laying into those Orange bastards but this time you've gone too far. White underclass? What made you think you could get away with that?' he asked me, his face turning puce.
'I'm sorry but you were giving it the thumbs up just the other day, telling me it was my best yet' I countered, but he threw a book at me which bounced off my head and then proceeded to bawl me out for fifteen whole minutes. Apparently he's fed up with the amount of complaints about the article. 'Were any of them from Rangers?' I asked but no, Rangers still hadn't risen to the bait, damn! One of these days they will actually take notice of what I'm saying and take action, perhaps even ban me from Ibrox - what a day that would be, I can just see myself being carried down the streets of the Gallowgate on the shoulders of the Republican Bhoys, green and white streamers in the air and the sound of ancient Irish airs playing in the wind. One of these days...

I left the editor's office to the sound of laughter behind me, someone must have cracked a really good joke, probably about Rangers, you know what they're like in there with their Celtic season tickets and summer vacations to Lourdes. So I made my way to Parkhead to meet with Peter Lawwell but on my way there my phone went off, it was the wife. I answered but couldn't hear anything but the faint sound of moaning in the background. If I wasn't so sure that she was at home doing the laundry then I'd say it sounded like sex. Maybe she'd pocket phoned me and that was the sound of the washing machine groaning?

I got to Celtic Park and sat outside Peter Lawwell's office waiting to be called in. I sat for an hour and then the moment came and I cautiously entered the great man's room. He was in his usual position, sitting atop Bertie Auld, flicking cigar ash into Tommy Gemmell's mouth. 'Aaaaaaah, Spiers, don't sit down.' He stood up and I could see he was yet again resplendent in his antique Wehrmacht uniform which he always wore within the corridors of power at Parkhead. He was carrying a horse whip and I was beginning to worry if he'd take it to me as he did the first and last time I wrote an article criticising Celtic but I needn't have worried, he put his hand on my shoulder and paced me around the room, telling me my next mission. Celtic were taking some heat from England which was worrying him since he's pushing for a move to the Premiership and can't control the English press as he can the Scottish, so he needs one more big push from me to highlight the deplorable Rangers and now is the time with the forthcoming decision from the UEFA disciplinary panel. Whatever the decision, he told me, I had to really go to town on Rangers and their fans - this would take the heat off Celtic at such an important juncture in his negotiations. Of course I agreed. Then he lifted his horse whip and I flinched, thinking he was going to strike me but he turned instead to Tommy Gemmell and gave him a few strokes across the buttocks causing him to cough up ash and sweety papers.

I left Peter Lawwell's office in a good mood having avoided a lashing and on my way to the car park I encountered Peter Grant. He asked me if I'd like an exclusive interview and not wanting to miss such an ideal opportunity I agreed. He motioned me towards the changing rooms for some privacy and as I walked in behind him he turned and punched me right on the nose. I fell to my knees but Peter Grant grabbed me by the hair and lifted me to the wall, pulled down my trousers and had me right there in the showers. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me gibbering, holding my nose.

So all in all, quite a good day so far.

Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty

Last night I filed my piece for this mornings Scottish Times (distribution: seven people and a potato) then went to bed early to bask in the warm feeling which engulfs me whenever I write disparagingly about the Rangers. As I stood there in my brown corduroy pyjamas and kissed my wife goodnight, she looked at me with an odd look on her face and told me I need help. She just doesn't get the machinations of my one man crusade against this repugnant football institution; I don't need help at all although occasionally young whippersnappers attempt to join me on my mission, I always bat them off with a witty quip and continue to sit on my own, tippy tap typing away at my laptop, my lips moving in time to the magnificence that appears on the page.

Tomorrow I will know if all those letters and emails I sent to UEFA have made any difference to the disciplinary panels' decision. Eighty three emails, thirty six letters and one large envelope containing a pair of my wife's knickers which I sent to Delaney (I know he likes this kind of extra thought) should do the trick.

While lying in bed listening to Elton's I'm Still Standing, it reminded me of my fellow travellers during the Ban the Billy Boys campaign and I decided to phone them in spite of the late hour to discuss our current mission. Professor Tom Devine answered his phone breathing heavily and I asked him if he was okay. 'Fine, fine, young man. I'm just taking a rod to one of the servants, what can I do for you?' I told him I couldn't sleep. 'It's only half past six in the evening, ye bloody nancy boy, what are you doing in bed at this time? Hold on, I see. Want to meet me to discuss the Rangers UEFA hearing, eh? Meet me in Cottiers in half an hour.'
Excited that I could again do some additional damage to Rangers, I got up out of bed, got out of my corduroy pyjamas and into my corduroy slacks and matching jacket and tried to creep down the hall without my wife hearing me. 'I can hear you, you know', she called from the lounge.

Cottiers was quiet but there were enough people for me to mingle at the bar and then sit discretely in a corner to await the good Professor. He didn't take long to appear, slamming open the door and striding purposefully into the bar with his arm around a common looking tart. 'This is Janette Findlay of the Celtic Supporters Trust' he said, slapping her on the arse and sitting down beside me, ordering a Guinness and three large Bushmills with a wave of his hand. 'Now then, Spiers, what can I do for you, eh? Come on, speak up man!' Janette Findlay giggled and adjusted her suspender straps. I told him I wanted to liaise with him on the issue of the Rangers hearing and to make sure we'd done enough to ensure a good result for the forces of catholicism. 'Why you're not even Celtic Minded, you purblind idiot' he sighed. 'Oh well, you are a useful idiot though. Look Spiers,' he fondled Janette Findlays legs and his hand moved between her thighs as she gulped down the three large Bushmills one after the other. 'Don't you worry your pretty little head about UEFA, alright? Leave them to the big boys. Just you go home and treat that lovely wife of yours' and he threw a bunch of tenners at me and emptied his Guinness in one go. 'Although..., why don't you come with us for a moment?' he asked and he and Janette Findlay got up from the table and made their way to the toilet with me following. The three of us squeezed into the disabled toilet and I was just about to ask what fenien brotherhood secrets he had to tell me in here when Janette Findlay grabbed me by the arms and held them behind my back. 'You're for it now, boy' growled Devine and wrenched down my trousers. Then he spun me around and Janette Findlay held me in a head lock while Devine pleasured himself into me from behind. He finished with a roar, sneered, Janette Findlay spat on me and they left me lying among the loo roll, gasping and wondering what had happened.

I crept home after that and shuffled slowly into bed. I could hear the wife in the lounge watching Coronation Street and I thought I could hear sobs. Tomorrow my destiny awaits, Rangers are in trouble and I am to be king of all I survey - MY NAME IS GRAHAM SPIERS, LOOK UPON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY AND WEEP!

Clash of the Titans

I was spellbound by the beckoning finger of the Traynor. I couldn't help myself, he's always had some sort of hold over me and I found myself mesmerised, walking limply towards him when all of a sudden the doors burst open and in jumped Stephen Purcell!
'Quick Graham, run!' he shouted and blocked the Traynor as he tried to rise from his seat. I leaped towards the open door just as the Traynor dodged to the side of Purcell, slamming a beauty into his kidneys. Purcell winced but countered with his handbag as the Traynor flailed to avoid the sharp edges of the buckles, all the while I was looking back in fear that the mighty Traynor would squash Purcell and reach me before I could jump onto the 44 bus. I shouldn't have looked back as I slipped on a rain sodden copy of the Celtic View (oh the irony!) and collapsed onto my chin, biting my tongue. From behind I heard a crash and panicked as I saw in the distance, Purcell lying in a heap, his Farrahs around his belly in an obscene wedgy and there in front of me was the Traynor.
'You've had this coming for ages, you mincing little squirt' he rasped. I closed my eyes and heard nothing. I opened them again and Traynor was at the bar.  Purcell in a last throw of the dice had ordered doubles all round and the Traynor couldn't resist, giving us time to limp away to the safety of Stravaigin.

Once there, Purcell and I examined our wounds. 'Come into the toilet and we'll clean up our grazes' he whispered to me. I tentatively walked into the loo behind him, grabbed him by the hair, spun him round, dropped my corduroys and stuck one right up him as he squealed like a goose. Then I sneered, spat on him and left him in shock, shaking on the floor.

Enter the Traynor

I think I might be losing it. I penned an article last night for the Times (Scottish Edition, distribution: 86 including free copies given to schools) and can't even remember writing it. I woke up this morning with fuzzy memories of last night when I'd been partying with the Radio Clyde Bhoys, singing rebel songs over in Heraghtys, and checked Times Online to see what's been going on when I noticed that I'd written about the new Scotland player, Danny Fox. And I had this to say about him: '“I’m delighted to be here,” Fox said, looking just a tad abashed in his Scottish FA tie and suitably Presbyterian attire." Now I don't remember writing that but the good news is this, I have now reached the stage where I bring religion into everything (even without knowing I'm doing it) which can only mean I am inching even more towards becoming what I've always dreamed of, a Celtic Minded Obsessive! I immediately got dressed (brown corduroy jacket and matching action slacks, emerald green shirt) and scampered off down Byres Road to inform the Republican Bhoys of my good news.

As I was running past Oddbins I tripped and fell into a puddle when an odd thing happened, I had a flashback to the night before. As I lay there in the muddy water, it all came back to me: Heraghtys, Hugh Keevins, Peter Maguire, that last glass of Bushmills, the toilet. Oh dear.

I staggered to my feet and remembered doing the same thing last night. I felt sick at the recollection of feeling sick. I felt an odd tingling sensation in my bottom as I recalled what happened next. Hugh Keevins behind me, my face in the sink, my forehead bashing off the taps as Keevins took me roughly, holding my head with one hand while punching my neck with the other, as all the while he had his wicked way with me. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me in a pile of my own vomit.

How could I have forgotten such an incident? I brushed myself down and carried on along Byres Road, crossing to proceed down Ashton Lane with a jaunty skip now that I'd remembered the marvellous time I'd had the night before. The Republican Bhoys were going to love what I had to tell them about my somnambulistic journalism but I couldn't find them in Jintys or the Chip. Not feeling too downhearted, I made for Stravaigin - perhaps I could tell Gillian Bowditch about this - but on the way was heckled by a couple of likely looking lads who waved a Spectator in my face and shouted something about Rod Liddle having 'bigger baws than you have a fanny', what could that mean? I scurried out of their way and dipped into the Left Bank (which the Republican Bhoys like to call the West Bank, they are such scamps) and who was sitting in the corner, barking into his mobile but the Traynor! Some foolish girl shrieked and I realised it was me, the Traynor heard it and looked up, fixed me in the eye and beckoned for me to go over to his table. My bowels dissolving, I approached him...

Up the Govan Rear

Well my plan worked, in spite of what the Republican Boys say, I can still wind up the Rangers fans especially on Followfollow where I sat for a few hours yesterday evening reading the fall out from my piece in the Times. I must admit that I became a little turned on while I read it and couldn't help but stick on Elton's greatest hits and knock one off. Unfortunately the wife walked in on me and on seeing my situation, stayed remarkably calm, walked to the pc and looked at the screen. As she walked away I heard her say, 'I'm just surprised it's not Martin O'Neill naked on there.' Whatever could she mean?

Later last night I took a call from the editor of the Scottish edition of the Times and had to go into his office. Had I gone too far this time? I needn't have worried, he greeted me with a big smile and told me I was doing a great job and to keep sticking it to those proddy bastards. Then he introduced me to someone on the other side of the phone he had been talking to on speaker phone. The guy was from BBC Scotland and it turns out was one of the chaps from the Chip the other night. They told me about the racist murderer who was due to be featured on the news that night but they had a problem: the only picture they had, the brute was wearing a Celtic strip, what would I recommend? Of course I told them a little photoshopping wouldn't go amiss and they seemed to ponder this. If I keep this up then perhaps I could end up with my own current affairs programme where every week I fearlessly lay into Rangers?

Walking home I bumped into Gerry Duffy of the Sun and we went for a pint. I suggested Jintys because we might meet the Republican Boys in there and Gerry agreed, saying he knew quite a few of them from his supporters bus. They weren't there although Gerry did seem a bit distracted and kept saying to someone that he'd see them over there in a few minutes - what could he have meant by that? He downed his Guinness really quickly and told me he'd have to go but first he had something really important to tell me about his next piece on how terrible Rangers are and he'd need to tell me in secret in the toilets. I went in with him and he beckoned me into the cubicle and as he leaned forward to whisper his secret into my ear, he grabbed me by the ears and spun me around, yanking down my trousers and pierced me, pushing my face into the mirror and bloodying my nose as he thrust and screamed that I take it like a little bitch before finishing all over my corduroys. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me dazed in a puddle.

I got home to dirty looks from the wife and went to bed to ponder the days events.

Sticking One to the Man

I've spent the early afternoon reading the responses to this mornings article on the Times website. There are at least a hundred which goes to show that more people read my column on the internet than buy the Scottish edition of the paper, I feel so proud.

I divided the comments into two sections: the rabid white trash Rangers supporters pointing out the inaccuracies and lies in my piece and the lovely Celtic supporters congratulating me for sticking one to the man. Of course I only authorised the Celtic fans' comments for inclusion beneath my work of art, why would I want to spoil my magnum opus by allowing freedom of reply?

To clear my head, I went for a walk in Kelvingrove Park where I bumped into Gillian Bowditch and quizzed her on how she always manages to insert three mentions of a persons religion or football team in every interview she does but only if they're Catholic and support Celtic. Oh how we laughed at this! We went for a coffee and she cracked a joke along the lines of, how do you know a Gillian Bowditch interviewee is a Protestant? Because she doesn't mention three times that he's a Catholic! We laughed and supped our coffee in Stravaigin and then set off together through Kelvingrove Park when suddenly Gillian Bowditch threw me into the bushes and tore off my trousers, pressed my face into the dirt in a frenzy and pierced my backside with her throbbing member. She rattled me for nigh on half an hour, me squeaking in protest and then she sneered, spat on me and left me sobbing in confused delight.

On my way home I thought I saw the Republican Bhoys in Ashton Lane but they ducked quickly into Jintys and although I could hear giggling when I looked in, I couldn't see them so decided just to go home and listen to Song for Guy again.