In the Beginning

Today is the first day of my new diary and what a day it is going to be after my piece in the Sunday Times yesterday. Of course it is only the Scottish edition and it is in the sports section, not the Society section where I think it should be but at least a couple of dozen people might read it.

As usual I got stuck into the Rangers and feel I am perfectly justified in my moral crusade against a club I have detested since moving to Glasgow and making friends with the Republican Boys as I like to call them although they have strange ways of referring to me ie 'stinky' or 'useful idiot'; I like to think that these are terms of endearment as people who are so close always rag on each other like this.

Yes, the Rangers fans made it too easy for me with at least half a dozen of them skirmishing with the stewards at the bottom of the terracing but what helped was that it was caught on camera and shown on Sky. Luckily for me the riot by those loveable rogues, the Celtic fans outside paradise when Hearts had the temerity to beat them and twenty two Celtic fans fetched up in jail for mobbing and rioting, wasn't caught on camera so I don't have to report on that. Not that I would, I dare not upset Mr Lawwell as I wouldn't like to miss his press soiree next year (that lamb was so succulent and who knows, maybe Martin O'Neill might turn up to one of them as a special guest and I can achieve my dream of having an intimate meal with him). Mr Lawwell phoned me up anyway, at the weekend and briefed me on exactly what to write and granted, my Sunday piece was practically verbatim what he said but I still take great delight in having my name beside the copy.

I celebrated the fuss my article caused with a fine bottle of Barollo in the Chip last night and caught the eye of a fair haired young boy in the toilets. The next thing I knew I was in a cubicle with him, trousers around my ankles, being rogered senseless. He sneered and spat on me as he left me lying there, gasping for air. I'll never get the hang of this stuff. I hope my wife doesn't suspect anything. If she sees the dirt on the knees of my corduroys then I'll just tell her I fell or maybe was beaten up by Protestants, that seems to work for Neil Lennon whenever he's had some bum fun in Jintys.

So Monday is here and my first diary entry is nearly over. I'm about to go for a walk down Byres Road and am considering what to write about the Celtic fans disrespecting the minutes silence at Falkirk yesterday. My editor has already been on the phone telling me I needn't report it anyway and I quite agree, after all it wasn't Rangers so no one will be interested.