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.