Enter the Traynor

I think I might be losing it. I penned an article last night for the Times (Scottish Edition, distribution: 86 including free copies given to schools) and can't even remember writing it. I woke up this morning with fuzzy memories of last night when I'd been partying with the Radio Clyde Bhoys, singing rebel songs over in Heraghtys, and checked Times Online to see what's been going on when I noticed that I'd written about the new Scotland player, Danny Fox. And I had this to say about him: '“I’m delighted to be here,” Fox said, looking just a tad abashed in his Scottish FA tie and suitably Presbyterian attire." Now I don't remember writing that but the good news is this, I have now reached the stage where I bring religion into everything (even without knowing I'm doing it) which can only mean I am inching even more towards becoming what I've always dreamed of, a Celtic Minded Obsessive! I immediately got dressed (brown corduroy jacket and matching action slacks, emerald green shirt) and scampered off down Byres Road to inform the Republican Bhoys of my good news.

As I was running past Oddbins I tripped and fell into a puddle when an odd thing happened, I had a flashback to the night before. As I lay there in the muddy water, it all came back to me: Heraghtys, Hugh Keevins, Peter Maguire, that last glass of Bushmills, the toilet. Oh dear.

I staggered to my feet and remembered doing the same thing last night. I felt sick at the recollection of feeling sick. I felt an odd tingling sensation in my bottom as I recalled what happened next. Hugh Keevins behind me, my face in the sink, my forehead bashing off the taps as Keevins took me roughly, holding my head with one hand while punching my neck with the other, as all the while he had his wicked way with me. Then he sneered, spat on me and left me in a pile of my own vomit.

How could I have forgotten such an incident? I brushed myself down and carried on along Byres Road, crossing to proceed down Ashton Lane with a jaunty skip now that I'd remembered the marvellous time I'd had the night before. The Republican Bhoys were going to love what I had to tell them about my somnambulistic journalism but I couldn't find them in Jintys or the Chip. Not feeling too downhearted, I made for Stravaigin - perhaps I could tell Gillian Bowditch about this - but on the way was heckled by a couple of likely looking lads who waved a Spectator in my face and shouted something about Rod Liddle having 'bigger baws than you have a fanny', what could that mean? I scurried out of their way and dipped into the Left Bank (which the Republican Bhoys like to call the West Bank, they are such scamps) and who was sitting in the corner, barking into his mobile but the Traynor! Some foolish girl shrieked and I realised it was me, the Traynor heard it and looked up, fixed me in the eye and beckoned for me to go over to his table. My bowels dissolving, I approached him...