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.