Secret Diary, Thursday 19th November

Dear Diary,

After all the excitement of the early hours, I popped into the SFA yesterday to have another friendly chat with Gordon Smith. When I arrived he was sitting behind his desk covered in soot. I asked him what was going on but I needn't have bothered as George Peat came through the door joining their two offices and stood there with a custard pie stuck to his crotch.
'You want something Spiers?' asked Peat.
'No. No, I don't think I'll bother.' I said and turned and left, considering just making it all up again. As I left Smith's office I could hear the sound of a bucket of water being poured over someone's head.

As I headed back home to type up my story I took a detour via Broomhill and purchasing a set of ladders from a local hardware store, proceeded to have a peek at the wife's new flat. I got to her bedroom window and squinted through the steamed up windows. I could see framed photos of Aamer Anwar covering the walls of the bedroom and since the door was open I could also see all the framed photos of Aamer Anwar covering the walls of the hall and the front lounge. There was no sign of either of them though so I toodled off to Byres Road to catch up on the west end news.

I got to Jintys and there propping up the bar were the republican bhoys. They got me a pint in and we got chatting. Apparently the talk of the steamie is that a number of notable and prominent Celtic men had gone missing; Hugh Keevins, John Reid and Jack McConnell among them. I didn't let on that I knew that Hugh Keevins had been savaged by Elaine C Smith in Tom Devine's basement or that Graeme Souness and the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos were holding the McConnells - I couldn't be sure about Reid, I didn't see him escape the fire at Station X after he set the Traynor on Souness so for all I know, he and his ghastly claws perished in the basement of that old mill on Eaglesham moor.

So I continued sharing pints of Guinness and wee drams of Bushmills with the republican bhoys when who should come in to great cheers but Neil Cameron of the Record. He was wearing his usual attire of Celtic tracksuit, white baseball cap and trainers and he gave me an odd look as he was greeted by the bhoys who were slapping his back and ordering him straight poitin. For the next hour Cameron regaled us with stories of how he'd laid into the Rangers and I listened in awe, jealous that here was a boy who hated Rangers because he'd been brought up to hate them unlike me who only began to hate them after SDM turfed me out of his four poster during that orgy in Paris. 'There's no grudge like one borne by an hysterical queen' Traynor had said to me in the days before he went completely over the edge.

The Guinness was going right through me so I took a visit to the loo and was standing there relieving myself when Cameron came in and stood behind me. He touched my neck softly sending shivers down my corduroys and then he pushed my face into the wall and held it there as he had his debauched way with me. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me quivering like a jelly wondering what had taken him so long.