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.