The Little Issue of a Tall Tale

I'm feeling a mite ruffled just now as I've just been for a jaunt down Byres Road where I was abused in the street by some Rangers supporters. No matter I'll use this in my column at the weekend and pretend that the incident happened at Ibrox a few weeks ago and that instead of shouting 'Haw Spiers, ye're a smelly, lying poof and even yer pals hate you!', I'll pretend that they patted me on the back, congratulated me on my latest insights and handed me a scarf to wear to keep me warm (I've had a cold neck ever since I lost my pink scarf in the toilets at Bennets that night. I'll never forget the moment though when his big black hands gripped around my throat as he thrust into me, my head banging against the door, my mouth open in an agony of contradicting emotions. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me panting, wanting more.)

I am now working on my next piece for the Times where I intend to support the Celtic fans' singing of republican songs over a minutes silence at Falkirk as an expression of their roots, culture and religion. What a pretty religion it is too, last week when the Republican Boys took me to chapel on the Saturday morning to pray for a Celtic victory, I was touched by the simple beauty of their holiness. Curse my infernal father for bringing me up a Protestant - oh that I were so lucky to be born a Catholic like my friends, maybe then they wouldn't call me 'stinky' and 'useful idiot' although I am sure these are expressions of fondness on their part.