A Lawwell Christmas Carol Part Three

Part Three

Lawwell had been sleeping for a few hours. It wasn't a restful sleep as the two spectral visits were weighing heavily on his mind. He began to dream and in that dream another ghost appeared to him. It was Tommy Burns and he was standing next to Lawwell in a damp and gloomy house in the east end where Declan Scratchit and his family were living in poverty. 'These are the people who worship Celtic Lawwell, and would do anything just to serve the club and yet you pay them pennies and this is how they are forced to live.'
'But this is a dream, you can't be a ghost, this can't be real - not within a dream!' cried Lawwell.
'We move in mysterious ways Lawwell and this is how I prefer to operate - there's less paperwork this way. Look upon Tiny Tim, see how he breathes heavily? A few shillings more a week and they could feed him.'
'A few less children and they could feed them all!'
'That's as maybe but you'd have to take that up with a higher power than me, I'm only the Ghost of Celtic Present,' and with that, he disappeared and Lawwell watched as Tiny Tim began to cough and cough and cough and then Lawwell woke up. The coughing continued though and there at the door of his bedroom was another recognisable figure, it was Alex Mosson. 'But, but, you're not dead, you can't be a ghost,' stammered Lawwell, sitting up in his bed.
'Of course I'm not a ghost you dolt, I'm just robbing your house now go back to sleep.'

A Lawwell Christmas Carol Part Two

Part Two

The door to Peter Lawwell's office opened and a heavy jackboot connected with Declan's backside with a thud, hurling him through the door and sprawling across the floor where he bumped into his desk, knocking over the single candle which went out with a fizz. Declan sat in the dark and wept. Now he'd have to strain to continue with his job from the faint glow of the street lights coming through the window; Lawwell only paid for one match a day and it was spent this morning lighting the candle the first time. It was eight o'clock at night and Declan still had an hour to go before he'd be allowed to go home to his family. He gazed at the snow falling outside and sighed.

Lawwell came striding out his office, spurs clinking as he put on his Eastern Front great coat. He ignored Declan who sat scouring a newspaper by the window and stomped down the corridor and out towards home. When he got to his house he reached for the lock with his key and suddenly noticed something strange about the door knocker - it had changed from the usual Green Man to something oddly resembling Phil O'Donnell, a spectral face which moved on its own, it looked up at him and spoke, 'Lawwell, you bastard. You exploited my death to avoid meeting Rangers when your team was depleted through injury and suspension, how could you be so cynical?'
Lawwell initially startled, grabbed the knocker and started banging it against the door as hard as he could, and the spectral face cried 'Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!' and then disappeared leaving just the plain old brass door knocker. Lawwell was puzzled and slightly spooked by the occurrence but put it to the back of his mind and entered his house and started to undress out of his uniform when he noticed a ghostly figure sitting on the edge of his bed - it was Phil O'Donnell again. 'You don't get rid of me that easily Lawwell,' he said. 'If ever a man had to change his ways, it's you and to help you towards this goal, you will be visited by three ghosts tonight who will show you the error of your ways. It's time to repent, Lawwell, repent!' and he was gone. 'Now who the hell was that?' wondered Lawwell getting into his nightgown, not knowing what Phil O'Donnell looked like in life or in the afterlife.

'I am the ghost of Celtic Past!' roared the ghost of a large man from the corner of the room.
'Christ, it's like Sauchiehall Street in here,' sighed Lawwell, turning to see who it was now. It was Jock Stein and he grabbed Lawwell and said, 'I'm taking you on a journey to the past - your own and that of Celtic. Come, and see what once was,' and with a wave of his great arms, Jock Stein magically transported them to Lawwell's childhood. They both stood and watched as a five year old Lawwell was waved goodbye by his mother as he went to school for the first time. He was with his friend Johnny from next door and they both giggled and skipped down the street in the sunshine towards their first day at school but then the sky darkened and Johnny had to leave and go to a different school from young Peter and he was left on his own to go to another school along the road a little. Time passed and young Peter left his first day of school and bumped into little Johnny leaving his own. Johnny came toddling over to Peter and said hello but Peter turned his back on him, then turned and called him an 'orange bastard' and ran off. Little Johnny began to cry, what had happened to his friend after one day in a different school? Suddenly everything became hazy and Lawwell and Jock Stein were transported to Celtic Park in the 70s. 'This was my time,' said Big Jock. 'Listen to the terraces - listen to them sing their songs of hatred. Aye, a hatred born of the same apartheid schooling which caused you to turn your back on little Johnny who was your best friend. The same hatred perpetuated by your own Machiavellian scheming to maintain the status quo which will lead to more young Peters and little Johnnies falling out. The system created a monster in you and now that monster is pursuing the furtherance of that system to create more monsters. Shame on you Lawwell, shaaaaaaame!' And Lawwell was back in his bedroom and Jock Stein was gone. 'Bloody hell,' thought Lawwell, 'this is a new one on me,' and he climbed into bed, vowing never to eat three day old chicken from the Parkhead canteen again.

A Lawwell Christmas Carol

Part One

It was Christmas Eve at Celtic Park and Declan Scratchet was sitting by the light of one candle at his desk outside Peter Lawwell's office. From where he sat he could hear the screams as Lawwell laid into his latest visitors with a knout but he was as used to this as he was to sitting in the cold all winter as he scoured every newspaper for any sign of an anti-Celtic article or column which he'd then take to his master and then the shouting down the phone would begin as Lawwell went to work on the author or mostly, the editor in charge of the offending journalist. Declan shivered, not from the cold this time but from the thought of what he had to ask Lawwell today - he was looking for a pay rise; he had to, his ninth and youngest child, Tiny Tim wasn't faring too well and an increase in wages would help feed and clothe him properly but it was a harrowing task as Declan couldn't be sure if he'd get the extra shilling or a thrashing. Inside Lawwell's office the knouting stopped and he could hear the sobs of a hardened journalist of the old school. Declan shivered again.

Secret Diary, Monday 21st December

Surprisingly the week has started well; although Celtic lost to Hearts on Sunday, there wasn't the usual summoning of every sports writer to the office of Lawwell for thirty strokes as a reminder that the party line should be pursued. No, there was no summons because Lawwell is in South Korea buying the latest new star from the east. He insists this is to open the market over there to Celtic merchandise in spite of the fact everyone keeps telling him the rest of the world isn't like Scotland where Celtic supporters buy up any old tat as long as it's green and white. Still, he wasn't here to administer the usual pre-emptive punishment for not reporting that Celtic were magnificent and that the only reason Hearts won was because of masonic conspiracy. This allowed some writers to report simply on the game although most stuck to the Lawwell line out of fear of his return. The other odd thing about his absence was that Rangers received quite a few positive reports for their win against Motherwell. If Lawwell had been around then that would never have happened; instead it would've been all about the singing - the usual Lawwell distraction from a good Rangers performance.

So things have been pretty merry in the Scottish sports journalism circle, especially now that Craig Levein looks to be joining Peat and Smith over at the SFA. I paid them a visit yesterday for an update and found Smith hopping around his office howling after Levein had knocked over Peat's blunderbuss which had gone off and peppered Smith's arse with buckshot. Peat was chasing Smith around the room trying to throw a bucket of soothing water over Smith's smoking backside while Levein stood there trying to look intelligent with his glasses on but fooling no one except Smith and Peat. This was enough for me, if Levein has taken to their antics so quickly then it's certain he's going to fetch up as the new Scotland manager.

I left Hampden and trudged through the snow to Heraghtys where I had a lovely candlelit lunch with Matt McGlone, him fondling my leg under the table, pulling his hand away anytime one of his rough types came over to say hello but then once they'd gone, the hand would reappear on my knee. He's such a tease.

Afterwards I caught a bus back to the west end where I accidentally bumped into the wife. She was embarrassed to meet me since she was arm in arm with her latest gallant, my fellow Sunday Times journalist Jason Allardyce! I was appalled, this squirt is a bigger queen than me and here she is stepping out with my wife! I was pulling off my corduroy jacket, ready to scratch his eyes out when he whispered in my ear that if I let him alone with the wife then he'd give me a few exclusives from the Archbishop - everyone knows that Allardyce is Conti's arse puppet so this seemed like a good way to further my ambitions within the church so I calmed down, got the corduroy back on and flounced off down Byres Road and headed home in a bad mood to write another column about the RST. In a moment of mischief I added something about my mole in the RST. Of course I don't have a mole there, I just pick my information up from the Rangers website, Followfollow. I'm sure my mention of the RST mole will have them ranting and raving though and that's exactly what I want, I'm such a scamp!

Later on I sat down and thought about Lawwell and the strange events of last Christmas. I'm going to have to write about them eventually but truth be told, I'm scared to...

Secret Diary, Friday 18th December: This Means Nothing to Me

We all stood there trembling in the cold, naked and wet from the hosing we'd just taken. The full time whistle was only an hour old and Peter Lawwell had every Scottish sports journalist standing to attention in a meatpackers warehouse in Hütteldorf while he raved about how we were to report the three each draw we'd all just witnessed and woe betide anyone who didn't mention a glorious and spirited display from Celtic - as far as the gullible masses at home were to be concerned, this was to be the best Scottish result in Europe ever, at least until the next embarrassment.

I got home today and paid a visit to the SFA at Hampden to catch up on how they're getting on with their search for a new Scotland manager. I was in a fine mood because the morning's papers had been a success in sparing Celtic blushes and Lawwell had rewarded us all with an invite to the Glasgow leg of the Celtic staff night out where everyone gets dressed up as leprechauns, drinks too much and stands back to watch people queueing up to hit Aiden McGeady; then the next day we all report it as anti-Irish racism even although the closest McGeady's been to Ireland is that his granny once farted there and the reason people are assaulting him is that he's an irritating little prick who starts fights when he's drunk.

So whistling gayly along the corridors of power I eventually came across Gordon Smith and George Peat who had just finished interviewing Craig Levein for the job; all three of them were covered in paint and looking upset; Levein was carrying a bowler hat which was full to the brim with the same paint which covered these three astonishing fellows. 'Hollo Spiers,' says Peat. 'We're just finished our little interview with Craig here, aren't we Craig?' Levein sighed and nodded and put his hat on, the paint running down his head and over his body. He resignedly wiped the paint from his eyes, let out an even bigger sigh, turned and left.
'That's a new one,' I said leaving, a story full of lies, conjecture and several malicious references to Rangers already forming in my head.

On the way home I popped into Ashton Lane and had a drink with the republican ghirls - all of them wearing Celtic tops and enormous crucifixes as is their wont the day after Celtic haven't performed too well, something to do with letting the world know that although their team lost, they're still unrepentant fenien bastards. I blushed at the mention of the f-word since after all, I campaigned long and hard to have it banned but they just laughed at me, squeezing my arse and pinching my cheek, saying, 'aw, it's a shame for poor wee Queersy, no one told him we don't mind the word'. I ignored them of course, the word's shameful and I will continue to crusade against anyone using it playfully in a football song.

I left the ghirls in Jintys and nipped into the Chip where as expected I found the combined forces of the Scotland Today and Reporting Scotland gangs - they'd found a common enemy in Raman Bhardwaj and since seeing him off have been great friends, hanging around together, snorting lines and trying to outdo each other to see who can garner the most complaints about their blatant pro-diocese bias. Reporting Scotland have been runaway winners but now that Raman's in jail for being 'a dirty orange bastard and no' tellin' us' - Strathclyde Police, Scotland Today have been catching up. So we toasted the Hoops, ordered trebles all round and I left to the sound of the Scottish television media celebrating its diversity by singing Irish rebel songs.

I am now at home and completing my diary entries for this week. I'm very excited about next week though because next week I aim to tell the exclusive story of...

A Lawwell Christmas Carol.

The Magisterium Club

What a frabjous day it has been! It's like a great weight has been lifted from me since Sunday when I foolishly and briefly supported Martin Bain and Rangers but once I got back on the pro-diocese bandwagon, my life has changed for the better! Not only did I have a terrific early afternoon getting drunk with the republican ghirls and then getting high with the Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today bhoys (getting a few digs into Raman Bhardwaj in the process, I've been dying to get back at him since he called me a turncoat bastard in the toilets of Firebird ten years ago), but I'm just back from a private party in my honour at the Magisterium Club at a secret location in the southside. This was by invite only and was to heap plaudits on me for my return to the fold. The spider was there, sitting on his own in a corner keeping a malevolent eye on everything and Lawwell even came up to me, looking splendid in his Luftwaffe Lounge Suit and shook my hand telling me it was good to be able to rely on me once again.
I spied Tony Mowbray sitting at a table on his own looking mortified and loafed over to join him. He didn't look too pleased to be here and I told him that. 'Yeah, well, it's not really my scene,' he said. 'Plus I'm still smarting from the bollocking I've been taking for the Wilo Flood thing - it wasn't even my fault! It wasn't even Gordon Strachan's fault, he told the board that being Irish and looking like a potato was no criteria on which to buy football players but they over-ruled him and bought the dolt anyway. Now I'm offloading him and you didn't hear this from me, I've been accused of anti-Irish racism! You know me Spiers, I don't buy into any of this west of Scotland rubbish and here I am, booting out a guy who can cross himself better than he can cross a ball and I'm being accused of being a racist and a bigot!'
'By whom?' I asked, astonished at what I was being told but before he could reply, Lawwell was over and having Mowbray manhandled out of the club by a couple of burly bouncers. Lawwell smiled at me, 'He's had too much to drink, Spiers. Just ignore what he was saying. We'll make sure he gets home okay.'

Apart from that, the afternoon was a great success; I was made a Papal Knight in Secret for Perpetuity, was congratulated by all the movers and shakers of Scottish public life and then driven home in a GCC chauffeur driven car. On the way home I got the chauffeur to stop at Broomhill and I tried to get the wife's attention by chapping on her window but a neighbour came to the door and told me she had moved out and the flat was being let to someone else now. Oh well, can't have everything I suppose.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 15th December

At last the fog has cleared and sunshine is back to the trendy west end! I celebrated the success of my latest assault on the Rangers yesterday (after my blip on Sunday but that's all been taken care of now) by going for a jaunt down Byres Road to pop into all the old watering holes I've been unable to frequent of late due to the suspicions that I was working for the other side. Yesterday's piece in the Times (circulation: four priests and a pimp) should have done enough to dispel any doubts about whose side I'm on so 'Ashton Lane here I come', I sang as I strode down the road, corduroys squeaking at my knees.

Jintys has been quiet since the republican bhoys were rounded up a few weeks back but there's a new crowd in town, the republican ghirls! Not as much to my liking but it's good to be around girls dressed in green nonetheless. Funnily enough, I found them to be even more bitter than their missing boyfriends! We had a few drinks to toast beating Motherwell on Saturday - a win for Celtic is always one in the eye for the Man - and then drank a few more to Dundee Utd who we hope will take points off the Great Beast tonight.

Refreshed, I sauntered into the UB Chip and had a few lines with the lads from Reporting Scotland who were celebrating hushing up the STUC report on sectarianism scandal. They figured it was the least they could do in tribute to Devine, Finn and the blessed Fatima Uglyboot since they too went missing almost a month ago. I was just coming back out of the loo having had a quick one up the nose and another quick one up the ronson from Dougie Vipond when the team from Scotland Today came in. They noticed the Reporting Scotland mob sitting at the end of the bar and stopped in their tracks, eyed them up and cautiously made their way to the other side and ordered some drinks. After an hour of celebrating much the same results as the BBC boys, the STV gang became boisterous and started shouting loudly that they were much better Celtic men than 'that lot from the quay' and threw peanuts across the bar. Next thing, Brian Currie had John MacKay in a headlock and it all kicked off. Women screamed and the barmen shouted for order as the two news teams fought over who were the biggest tims until suddenly someone shouted that Raman Bhardwaj was a 'hun' and everyone turned on him, pummelling him as he shrieked that he 'supports Partick Thistle, honest!' It wasn't long before the police arrived and broke it up, making one arrest - Raman Bhardwaj 'for being an orange bastard' and then both sides, buoyed by their working in tandem to out a bluenose, ordered trebles all round and celebrated their diversity by singing about the 'old country' in spite of the fact that none of them are from there.

The Curious Case of Nil By Mouth Epilogue

In the safety of Findlay's residence at 221b Baker Street, I sat by the fire warming my hands as Watson sat in a corner smoking a cigarette and listening for the return of his companion. The loud thump of a pair of huge feet on the roof heralded his arrival. Since we sat in silence I could hear the great footsteps as they climbed in a window and walked along an upstairs corridor. The potion was obviously wearing off as the footsteps became lighter as the steps progressed along the hall and into a room to be changed. Eventually he appeared looking refreshed and dressed in evening wear covered by an auburn dressing gown. 'Well met by moonlight Spiers! I'm glad you're still with us, pipe?'
He offered me a pipe from a rack on the fireplace which I declined, took one himself, taking tobacco from a Persian slipper which hung there, looking at it cautiously before packing his pipe and lighting it with a faggot from the fire on the end of a poker. Then he sat there, puffing away and eyeing me suspiciously.
'So what do you make of all this then, eh? Think you'll still be running to Nil by Mouth for their opinion on any matters involving Rangers or protestants in general? No, I didn't think so. I always thought a man of your intellect might have realised that Nil by Mouth are an organisation serving one side of the sectarian divide only - I mean, when was the last time they commented on any naughty behaviour of our separated brethren? When have they ever? No, that organisation was a sham when it was set up and has steadily descended to the level of the east end gutter ever since. I can't fault them though, can you? They've been given the opportunity and the funding to attack their enemies under the guise of fighting the very thing they are perpetuating, I can't blame them for not jumping at the chance. What I do fault them for is for being like that in the first place.'
'Being like what?' I asked.
'For being the way they are, the way they all are, mainly. Catholics are an odd bunch, especially here in the west of Scotland where they are absolutely obsessed with religion and battling their perceived enemy, us - the protestants. Meanwhile we protestants carry on merrily with our lives, ignoring them because we're just not that bothered. I suppose it's got something to do with the conditioning - the indoctrination at childhood that leads them to believe they are so different and that they should be picking fights with people not that dissimilar from them. Their parents eventually tell them that Santa Clause doesn't exist but by golly, those other fairy tales about the baby Jesus, the Virgin and all the saints? Well, they continue to batter that into their poor children's heads until they're as bitter and stupid as the parents; it's a vicious cycle.
'A cycle we didn't pay too much attention to in the old days, we just let 'em get on with it. Now however, they have insinuated themselves into positions of power where they perpetuate only their own kind until we are now have a situation where the bloody country is run by them and for them while we are demonised at every turn. The minority elite are running the show and not content to use their power to further the cause of all of us, they are insidiously marginalizing the majority until who knows where we're going to be in ten/twenty years time? They dominate politics, they run the media and are now taking over the law and believe me, as someone who has all his life pursued the furtherance of justice, I am appalled at how they are utilising it to their advantage. There's nothing they won't take over and use for their own exclusive benefit.
'We have an evil web here, Spiers. A web whose sticky strands are attached to every facet of life in this country and at the centre of that web we have the very essence of malevolence itself; the spider tugging at the threads, from the demon barber Galloway to the awful Devine, from the beast Traynor to the marionette Keevins, from Glasgow City Council to the Scottish Labour Party, from every Scottish newspaper and television centre to Nil by Mouth and the STUC; they are all responding to the spider...'
His brows darkened as he trailed off and took another pull at his pipe, smoke drifting from his mouth and gathering in the gloom at the edges of the room.
'I think you know Spiers, who this spider is.'
And with that he sat down and gazed out of the bow windows and spoke no more. I was ushered from the room by Watson and sent home in the black car. Through the streets filthy with fog, over bridges and through tunnels until I was again in the west end and at my flat. I unlocked the door and entered to find the lights not working. Puzzled, I felt my way into my lounge and found the fire burning. A spark of fear lit up inside me and I looked around the room until there in the corner, illuminated by the flames, was the spider. He moved with supernatural speed and grabbed me by the throat, pinning me against the wall and began to slash at me with a belt. I knew right at that very moment what I had to do. By the end of the night I had penned another column attacking Rangers.

The Curious Case of Nil By Mouth Part 4

Everyone in the Nil by Mouth office stood or sat frozen to the spot as Donald Findlay and his confederate, Watson, prowled the room, Watson holding up his service revolver to encourage everyone to keep still. All that could be heard was the sobbing from the girl in the cage and a faint, tinny, fiddly dee music coming from the collected ipods of everyone in the room.

Findlay grabbed at some paper off one desk and held it up. 'Look! Look at what they have here Spiers, here's your unbiased government funded anti-sectarian organisation at work!' he shouted and I took the paper he offered me. It was the minutes of a meeting recently held in this very office and detailed in the present section was a who's who of Labour MPs, MSPs and councillors, various Seans, Declans and Anthonys all working for Nil by Mouth and there at the top of the column, Peter Lawwell. I shivered. I was hoping to avoid Lawwell for a while and this didn't bode well. I looked down the page and the items covered were there in black and white: payment to various households for use of their names in creating false stories about sectarian victimhood; recommendation of several books by sympathetic writers to the RC cause to be used on the school curriculums in non-denominational schools; further advancement of denominational schools by MPs to spread the illusion that denominational schools outperform non-denom schools; Lisbon Lions tour of Scottish denominational schools; Lisbon Lions tour of non-denominational schools (just to rub it in and to dare them to object); and so it went on, a shameful list representing a one sided agenda against non-RCs in Scotland.

Watson kept his gun trained on the room while Donald Findlay filled a bag with as many documents as he could and we backed out of the room as the girl in the cage screamed for us not to leave her. Once out of the door we ran down the stairs and out onto Queen Street, sprinting across the road towards the black car which awaited us on the other side. Suddenly Findlay bumped into a figure which hadn't seen us coming in the fog and they both clattered down onto the road. Findlay looked at the man he was sprawled beside and let loose an oath. 'Drury! Paul Drury! You swine, what're you doing here?'
Drury's ugly, fat face flushed and he scrabbled to pick up his mobile phone and dictaphone, 'You're too late Findlay, I've just dropped off the pics and story from Seville - I was undercover you see and now the News of the World have everything they need to lead with another anti-Rangers story on the front page!'
Findlay raged, 'I hope you're pulling my leg Drury otherwise I'll pull yours and it'll be the worse for you.'
'Do what you will Findlay,' Drury sneered. 'It's over, you might have Spiers puffing you up tomorrow but this'll knock the stuffing out of you.'
Watson tried to intervene, 'Quick Findlay, we must move...' and as he said it, the Celtic shirt militia poured out of the Nil by Mouth doorway.
'There's nothing else for it,' sighed Findlay and reached into his coat and pulled out a vial of bubbling orange liquid.
'No, Findlay!' shouted Watson.
'Relax Watson, old fellow, it's only a seven percent solution,' and he gulped down the liquid and looked up, his face trembling. In an instant he'd grown to a man five times his size and let out a roar that could be heard from the Clyde. 'Kissed by an Angel, eh Drury? Only a team like yours could laud a man just because his dead wife had a name like Bernadette, eh? And only you could cash in with a book on it. Cynical bastards. Well you're about to be kissed by an angel yourself, you third rate scribbler,' growled the Findlay-like monster who'd taken his place as he picked up Drury by the leg and threw him at the advancing Nil by Mouth militia. Drury's body knocked them over while his leg stayed, bloody, in Findlay's care which he then used to bludgeon the militia as they lay on the ground screaming for mercy. I looked away and as I did, I was bundled into the black car by Watson and we drove off.
'What about Findlay?' I asked.
'Don't worry about him,' said Watson. 'He always finds his way home. Across the rooftops normally. We'll meet him at his house at 221b.'
I sat back in the car and watched the blur of street lights pass as we drove through the fog.

The Curious Case of Nil By Mouth Part 3

The black car pulled up in Queen Street and we stepped out and into the fog, Donald Findlay and I, a more unlikely pair you could ever meet. As our car pulled away, a tall man appeared out of the mist and motioned with his head for us to follow him to a doorway. I looked at the wet brass plate on the wall and gasped.
'Yes,' grinned Findlay. 'This is where you see the big picture Spiers.'
The tall man went first into the building and we climbed the stairs in silence. As we approached the top floor I heard a scuffle ahead and someone rolled past us, unconscious, down the stairs; our tall man had taken out a guard. Then I heard Findlay say to our protector, 'I hope you've brought your service revolver Watson?' which received a positive nod and then we were through a door and into an office, Watson holding up his gun and telling everyone to stay perfectly still.

I looked around the room, trying to take in what was happening. In a faraway corner, in a darkened cage, was a young woman screaming, 'save me, let me out, I didn't know what I was doing!'
In the foreground was a man in a high visibility vest with GCC on the back, a cheap suit and emerald green shirt caught in the process of handing over a suitcase full of money to a man in a Celtic top. Everywhere else there were others in various Celtic garments answering phones, typing on keyboards and shuffling various documents around desks. A white board on one wall had prominent writing in green capitals, 'REMEMBER, CATHOLIC GOOD, PROTESTANT BAD'. So this was the Nil by Mouth office, to tell you the truth, I quite liked the look of it.

The Curious Case of Nil By Mouth Part 2

We were in the Blue Room at Ibrox and Martin Bain was showing me all the work Rangers had been carrying out behind the scenes, unannounced to combat sectarianism. It was very impressive, even to an old Rangers hater like me. All the while Bain was talking, the editor of the Scottish Sunday Times sat across from me glaring - he was in no mood to be at Ibrox I knew, because he's more often than not to be found in the VIP section of the Celtic Park main stand celebrating his diversity by singing about soon there'll be no protestants at all.

Bain finished his piece and sat down, then Donald Findlay, teeth clenched around an unlit pipe, looked me in the eye and said, 'This is your Sunday column, Spiers - don't argue, Carlos here has already agreed to it to avoid us kicking up a stink about your invidious piece on soldiers being invited to Ibrox, haven't you Alba, you smirking, bald cunt? You're already on a hiding to nothing since we went straight to London who incidentally, are very disappointed at what happens when they give Scotland a free rein to write their own copy. What was it they said - 'go to town on that dago/mick prick Donald and if Carlos Alba says anything you don't like then tell him I'll be straight up there to stick a copy of Keep the Faith, The Story of Celtic’s Historic Treble Winning Season right up his arse and give him his P45 while I'm doing it'? So you see Spiers, I know the Celtic indoctrination machine is too great to overcome and we'll never have you on our side but at least we can get to you through your editor who realises his usefulness to Lawwell will disappear overnight if we have him sacked from his influential position thanks to you. We're not asking much, just parity and you can start on Sunday.'

There it was, if I wanted to keep my column in the Sunday Times then I'd need to write a Rangers puff piece. Could I do it? Could I bear to turn my back on all my principles and write positively about Rangers? Of course I could - I've done it before, when I used to be invited to all of SDM's private orgies in Paris, Marble Arch and Gstaad until he had me booted out of bed for touching the wrong person in a foursome that time in Clichy and then I turned on Rangers in such a vicious manner it surprised even me, it certainly surprised my family who haven't spoken to me in over ten years. So I agreed, Findlay and Bain smiled and Alba's face, almost puce with rage, told me that I was in for a caning once the meeting was over. It wasn't to be that simple though; Alba was ushered out of the room and Findlay came over to me and clapped his hand on my shoulder.
'You used to be one of us Spiers and we do have a soft spot for you in spite of all your recent tricks and fancies, this is why we've pulled your fat out of the fire more than once but our subtle approach doesn't seem to be getting through to you so I'm afraid we have no choice but to show you the real enemy. You're to come with me and once you see what we're up against? Sunday's column should be no problem to you.'

The Curious Case of Nil By Mouth

As I sat in the study of 221b Baker Street, Newlands, Glasgow, awaiting an answer from the saturnine figure of Donald Findlay standing by the bay windows, gazing at the pea souper which had been lying over the city for a week as he contemplated my question over a number 5 pipe, I reflected on the unique set of circumstances which had brought me to this place.

I had been in Oran Mhor with my Rangers supporting friends who are always good for quoting when I criticise Rangers and their fans in print. We were standing at the bar and I'd bought the drinks which were sitting in front of us as I asked their opinions on the skirmish in a bar between the Spanish police and Rangers fans. Billy One had a lot to say about it, none of it complimentary towards his fellow supporters while Billy Two echoed his sentiments. As I congratulated them for their piercing insight and asked why they weren't drinking their pints, the barman came up to me and looked at me oddly before asking who I was talking to. 'Why, my Rangers supporting friends' I told him, then he looked around me, shot me another puzzled glance and walked off. We continued chatting and I told them of the word I'd heard on the grapevine that Dick Campbell had been caught on film singing along with Rangers fans in Seville. Billys One and Two echoed my own sentiments on this subject and I stood there loudly exclaiming that I agreed with them while people standing close to us shuffled away and stared at me from a distance - they obviously couldn't bear to stand so close to such genius at work.

After I'd finished my first pint I noticed that the Billys hadn't had a drop of theirs - probably because they were so busy helping me with my latest assault on Rangers. I asked the barman for another pint for myself and told him that Billy One would be paying. He shot me an angry look and told me I'd need to pay as it was clear I was on my own. He was so right, I am on my own on this crusade of mine, no one else will join me in constantly demonising the Rangers. Granted every other sports or otherwise journalist in Scotland has a pop at them occasionally, Lawwell sees to that, but no one else has made it their life's work to see the end of that vile sporting body. I was in the middle of saying this loudly to the barman when he said, 'right, I've had enough of this, get out you weirdo - you're barred!'
I left with my chin held high and Billy One and Two followed me but I lost them in the general hubbub and fog of Byres Road and didn't see them again that day.

Before I settled with my laptop to post my column for the Sunday Times I decided to pay the wife a visit in Broomhill. When I got there she was standing looking out of the window as she has been since her lover, Aamer Anwar went missing. Of course I know fine well what happened to him since I was one of the last to see him during the battle of the City Chambers when I'd helped him lose his grip and heard him fall to certain doom from an outside ledge. I couldn't possibly mention this to the wife though, not that she'd let me into her new flat and I spent the afternoon again, standing outside her door, ringing the bell, knowing she was inside but ignoring me.

As night fell and I left Broomhill after neighbours threatened to report me to the police, I made my way through the foggy gloom to my place in Hyndland. As I walked down Clarence Drive, a train thundered overhead on an unseen bridge, scattering pigeons who shat in fright all over my corduroy jacket. I cursed them when a figure stepped out of the fog. It was Donald Findlay, resplendent in his great coat and deerstalker hat, his whiskers bristling at me. 'Come with me Spiers, I have something very important to show you, something which might change your approach to Rangers.'
I doubt it, I thought as he whistled and a great black car pulled up beside us. He motioned for me to get in and I did, wiping bird shit from my shoulders as I stepped in. I gasped when I got in though, for sitting there were Martin Bain and my editor!
'To Ibrox! The game is afoot!' shouted Findlay to the driver and we disappeared into the mist towards the Clyde Tunnel.

Secret Diary, Saturday 5th December

On Saturday I had what could possibly be the strangest encounter of my journalistic career so far. I was loafing around Parkhead, avoiding Peter Lawwell who hasn't been in the best of moods with our fraternity since last Tuesday's antics at the City Chambers - indeed, it's been rumoured that he had Stephen McGowan on the rack for five hours on Thursday and it would've been ten had Celtic not won on Wednesday night so we can guess that McGowan won't be straying very far from the Lawwell agenda for a while (not that he ever did, the toadying little slut). I was there ostensibly to interview Willie Miller who had come down from Aberdeen to keep an eye on the referee but he was proving as elusive to me as I was to Lawwell of late so I took time to try out one of Celtic's new catering ventures - the soya and lentil green pie, otherwise known as SoyLent Green. Quite tasty it was too.

Corporate hospitality at Celtic Park isn't the place for me just now considering half the Labour MPs in Scotland suspect me of being in cahoots with Graeme Souness and the Late 80s Rangers Squad Commandos so I took a stroll down to the changing rooms to see if I could pin down Miller. I was standing outside the changing rooms with no one else around when from above the noise of the Parkhead faithful celebrating their diversity by singing sad folk songs about the ethnic cleansing of protestants in rural Ireland, I could hear a strange humming noise coming from the Aberdeen changing room. It seemed damned odd so I popped my head in the door to make sure everything was alright and was dazzled by the multi-coloured lights which danced around the walls. I took a few steps in and called out hello but no one answered and still that strange noise persisted as a psychedelic display of colours lit up the showers. I could hear a low voice now which merged with the booming noise I'd heard from outside, it was a soft voice, reassuring, almost hypnotic and as I ventured further into the changing room I could just about make out what it was saying and as the realisation hit me, there in front of me, sitting on the benches, transfixed by the colours and under the influence of the sounds emanating from speakers on the walls, was the entire Aberdeen squad, hypnotised. The recording was saying over and over to the weird music, 'You are Aberdeen Football Club. You never play well against Celtic. You will go out onto the park today and lose by many goals. When you play Rangers you will play like heroes and strive to beat them. When you leave this room you will not remember what has been said here but you will not beat Celtic.'

I couldn't believe it, Celtic had been hypnotising Aberdeen all this time! Everyone had wondered of course, how a team could raise their game against Rangers one week then play like drunk farmhands the next when they face Celtic, well now I knew! I sneaked out of there and left the stadium, wondering what now to do with my new found knowledge. Knowing full well what the outcome of the Celtic Aberdeen game would be, I caught a taxi to the west end to consult Gillian Bowditch and found her in her usual haunt on Gibson Street, supping ale and haranguing the gay bar staff with Graham Grant of the Scottish Daily Mail. I told them everything I knew and they took a moment to consult in private before Grant approached me and asked if he could have a word in private. He led me into the toilet and said 'Listen here Spiers, we can't have stories casting aspersions on Celtic appearing in print - if our flock start questioning the integrity of Celtic then whatever next? The church? It's hard enough in these secular times to get people to chapel but praying for a Celtic win is one way and begging forgiveness for their many sins while supporting that team is another. Without Celtic the catholic church in Scotland would be out of business and to whom then would I be able to preach my extreme anti-gay prejudices? Now then, while we're here, bend over and take this like a man.' And at that he buggered me right there in the loos, sneered, blessed himself and spat on me, leaving me shaking on the floor. Well I guess that was my answer then.

Et In Arcadia Ego: The Stephen Purcell Story and How I Came to Be

It has been the most remarkable weekend. First of all I became embroiled in the most peculiar set of circumstances at Parkhead on Saturday which I'll relate later but first I want dear diary, to ponder my chance meeting with Stephen Purcell on Sunday and the memories it awakened.

I'd thought Stephen gone you see, after his fall from the balustrades in the City Chambers the week before during the great Hapoel adventure. Then on Sunday I was wandering down Byres Road and there coming towards me, being pushed in a bath chair by a tall muscular Swede was Purcell. He looked drawn and ill and was clutching his teddy bear as he used to in those long gone days when I first knew him at Glasgow University. The west end was still a city of aquatint then, exhaling the soft airs of centuries of youth. Her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare of her summer days - such as that day - when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled the soft vapours of a thousand years of learning. It was this cloistral hush which gave our laughter its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, over the intervening clamour. I'd bumped into Stephen in the cloisters and he whistled and whispered 'hello sailor' before whirling me off on my first adventure since arriving in Glasgow the son of a stern presbyterian who had yet to encounter that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city. By day we'd attend soccer matches at Parkhead and delight in the company of Celtic supporting ruffians in various seedy pubs in the Gallowgate and by night we'd flounce around such bars as Austins and Findlays before catching cabs to Bennets where we'd dance all evening before repairing to Stephen's flat to lie in each others arms until the pigeons on the window ledge heralded morning. 'I shall protect you for ever Spiers' he sighed.

Time and circumstance cruelly separated us though and although he disappeared into local politics and I into sports journalism, we remained in touch, usually to conspire over our latest scheme to heap opprobrium upon the Rangers but fate was to intervene when he felt the all conquering pull of his religion which dragged him from my arms. I remember well the day when he told me we could no longer sit among the ivy, eating strawberries and sipping champagne - he had his teddy with him as usual and had been chastising it for the slight huff it had taken after it had been announced that Billy McNeil was returning to manage Celtic. 'Such a pompous old bear' he had said, 'if anyone is to bring glory back to Celtic then it is this man. Anyway, what do stuffy old bears know about football?' and he tapped its nose with a hair brush. Of course he was wrong about McNeil but he wasn't wrong about the end of our affair. He was to be married shortly and in a Roman catholic church, the Romans being not very fond of the love that dare not speak its name, I was to break off all contact with him. I did but ever since, whenever the cherry blossoms are in bloom, I think of him and every piece I have ever written about Rangers, denigrating them as much as I dare, I have done for him. For his part, he has kept his promise and always protected me, especially from the Traynor. Ironic that he should have fallen just as the Traynor and I had at last joined forces but this is way of the world in which we live.

On Byres Road on Sunday he bade farewell for the last time, he is now gone to a Tunisian monastery to see out the last of his days. A tragic, forlorn figure in his bath chair with his teddy, St. Aloysius. As I walked home that evening, my mind lost in reminiscences of those lost days of youth, a dark figure walked up to my side and kept pace with me. 'Don't look around Spiers,' said Graeme Souness. 'Another one bites the dust, eh? At this rate my team will have mopped up all the opposition within weeks and the war will be over by Christmas. What do you think of that?'
I turned, my eyes full of tears but he was gone as suddenly as he'd appeared. Oh Stephen, Stephen Purcell, I'll never forget you.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 1st December Part 5

Findlay was calm as you like, his eyes sparkling as he watched the STUC get closer.
'Where is Souness?' I screamed. 'Where are the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos?'
'Oh we won't be needing them Spiers' says Findlay. 'This was all just an enormous ploy by Lawwell to draw them out into the open - a trap. That's why I'm here, to save your miserable hide without risking our boys.'
'For God's sake Donald, I'm being pursued by the STUC who have an arab's bloodlust and are armed with suicide vests, tulwars and jezails, what have you got - a pipe?' I was babbling now with fear as those lunatics got closer and let up a scream as they saw us trapped.
'Watch this.' said Findlay and he reached into his cape and pulled out a vial full of a strange orange liquid which bubbled as he pulled out the cork and gulped it down in one. Then his face shook, he spasmed and bent over double and he let out a great roar as his clothes split apart and he grew to five times his size leaving an enormous, muscle bound, be-whiskered animal thing growling there before me. Jesus - one drop of the hard stuff and Donald Findlay turns into a bellowing maniac, who'd have guessed it?

Just then the first STUC member arrived in front of us and opened his robes to reveal his suicide vest. He brought up the button in his right hand, shouted 'God bless Ireland!' and pressed the button. There was a small pop and the vest fizzed. He turned to the rest of the STUC who had just arrived and exclaimed, 'For f*ck's sake Sean, I thought these were full of explosives?'
Sean looked at him angrily, 'Naw, Pat, they're no and d'ye know why? Because ah'm no missin' ra Shellick gemme thamorra night for nothin' - awright? Noo use yer tulwar, that's whit it's fur.' And they raised their great swords and charged us.
The first one to reach Findlay brought his blade down but Findlay broke it in two with the flat of his hand and then ripped his throat out with teeth the size of books. After the first spurt of blood got in my eyes I shut them and kept them shut but I could still hear the screams and the rending and the tearing and the ripping and the sound of bones being chewed apart. By the time the screaming had stopped and I had opened my eyes again, all that was left of the STUC suicide bombers was a bunch of bloody bedsheets and lots of skin and organs stuck to the walls of the City Chambers Roads Dept.

Findlay picked me up in one hand and reached with his other towards a skylight, pulling us up towards the ceiling and in a twinkling we were on the roof of the Chambers. He looked at me and growled, 'My job is done here Spiers, I'll leave you on yonder ledge to make your own way along and into the room where Hapoel are hiding, you can take them to safety from there.' And with that threw me onto the ledge and with great leaps, bounded from roof to roof towards Queen Street and out of site behind the post office building.

I made my way cautiously along the ledge pausing only once to look through a grimy window where I noticed a busy meeting going on and a white board which read 'Sale of East End Games Development to Celtic for £1 - Top Secret' What on earth could that be? I didn't stop to wonder too much though as right in front of me, hanging by his fingertips was a robed figure who'd been shoved aside during the Findlay slaughter and had crashed through a window only to hang onto the ledge by the skin of this teeth. I looked down at him and as he looked up I realised it was Aamer Anwar. 'Mercy!' he pleaded. 'Please Spiers, help me up.' I stood on his fingers and kept going, not looking back as he fell.

I eventually got into the room and guided the Hapoel squad to the front of the City Chambers where we met a delegation from the SFA who were just arriving for the reception. George Peat and Gordon Smith were there, oddly dressed as French Foreign Legionnaires. 'Hello George, Gordon, why you dressed like that?' I asked and in the midst of all the carnage, it sounded the oddest bloody thing. 'Got a fancy dress party after this reception' said Smith, 'Thought we'd kill two birds with one stone.'
Just as he said this the republican bhoys appeared at the top of the steps and charged us, their bedsheets billowing behind them, Celtic tops just visible underneath. 'Quick, get Hapoel into some taxis!' I shouted but the taxis wouldn't let in anymore than five at a time and they were slow in being flagged down. We were surely doomed. Then a stationery supplies truck pulled up to deliver to the council and Gordon Smith's face lit up. 'Hurry Spiers, get them into taxis, George and I will keep this lot back.' and he grabbed Peat and the two of them burst open some boxes from the stationery supplies van and started launching thousands of drawing pins at the rushing republican bhoys who within seconds were hopping around in agony with tacks stuck to the soles of their bare feet. Smith and Peat kept throwing pins and the republican bhoys kept hopping and I got the Hapoel squad into taxis and to safety.

Later that night I lay back in bed and considered everything that had happened but one thing kept dominating my thoughts - does this mean I'll get the wife back again?

Secret Diary, Tuesday 1st December Part 4

So there I was following the Traynor through the dark corridors of the City Chambers when we reached the top of a great staircase. Traynor paused at the top and we both looked cautiously over the banister. Down below Glasgow City Councillors were welcoming the Hapoel Tel Aviv squad. I could see Peter Lawwell there too and several television cameras and loads of journalists, all in all it was a general hubub of activity. The Traynor saw something I hadn't noticed and grabbed my shoulder and began to point down towards something he wanted me to see but just as he touched me suddenly Stephen Purcell pounced from the shadows and grabbed the Traynor. He shouted 'Run Graham, run!' but I was in no danger from the Traynor - Purcell didn't realise though and struggled with the Traynor until slowly, horribly they lost balance and both of them plunged over the bannister and down into the gap between the stairs. I gazed down into the darkness of the floors below but heard and saw nothing, they were gone. I took a step back and was spotted from along the corridor by a man dressed in a bedsheet with no shoes on. 'Stop!' he shouted but I was haring down those stairs before he even finished.

I reached the bottom and along the hall to where the reception was taking place. Fellow journalists seemed surprised to see me pitch up there but I arrived just in time for Peter Lawwell to begin taking questions on camera while standing beside the Hapoel team. He was resplendent in his Waffen SS uniform so I knew he meant business tonight. He took a few fawning questions from the floor and then before I knew what I was saying I found myself raising my hand and attracting everyones attention. 'Erm, Peter, this business of the Palestinian flags at Parkhead - what's your position?' I asked, trembling. What was I doing?
Lawwell glared at me but spoke up. 'Celtic Football Club is a club open to all and we deplore politics of any kind being indulged in the terraces.'
'So you don't condone political demonstrations at Parkhead?' I probed.
'No, we don't. There's no place for political stunts of this kind at Celtic Football Club, a club open to all.'
'I find that odd,' I continued, 'Because aren't you the club that is excused by politicians and anti-sectarian groups for your fans appalling support for the IRA by claiming it is political, not sectarian?'
Lawwell shot me a look which would've had me running for the trees just a few weeks ago but this was a new me, enboldened by recent events and revelations.
'Aye,' he said, 'The songs our fans sing are tributes to freedom fighters from days gone by in the land of our ancestors and are no way sectarian, they are political.'
'But you just claimed there is no place for politics in the stands at Parkhead - or is that only when those particular politics would see you condemned by the football community for being anti-Semitic? It's alright to be anti-protestant though because no one gives two hoots?'
Suddenly there was a great commotion as every journalist saw which way this was going and started to shout out pre-arranged questions about football and the Lisbon Lions who were skulking in the background again but Lawwell took one more look at me and then at the cameras and launched himself at them shouting 'Give me that film!' There were screams as he tore apart camera after camera and was joined by the general press pack who were keen to keep on his good side. Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today didn't know what was going on - they were usually well on message with Lawwell but here they were being attacked by him.
Then there were more screams as dozens of men in bedsheets came running down the hall with no shoes on, screaming and waving swords and muskets. Time for me to make myself scarce I thought and legged it, followed quickly by the Hapoel squad who know a bunch of mad arabs when they see them.

We must have run the length of the City Chambers when we came to a dead end. The Hapoel squad scurried into a room and hid under tables while I stood panicking, wondering what to do. Down the corridor in the distance I could just make out the white sheets billowing as the STUC came running towards me. Then as if from out of nowhere, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned round. There at my back, dressed in a fine tweed suit with matching cape and deerstalker was Donald Findlay. 'Hello Spiers,' he chuckled, 'In a spot of bother I see?'

Secret Diary, Tuesday 1st December Part 3

It was a long few hours under that table but eventually I judged it safe to come out and have a sneak around to see what I could find. The section of the City Chambers I was in was mainly in darkness, the corridors lit only by fire exit signs and the occasional sky-light. Eventually I heard some commotion coming from an office to my right so I silently crept up to the door and peeked in. There were the republican bhoys, dressed in Celtic tops with suicide packs strapped to their chests, making a great fuss over putting on what they thought was ethnic Palestinian clothing - they looked like Ali Baba meets Lawrence of Arabia in Heraghtys bar after too much Guinness but stupid or not, I didn't like the look of those suicide packs.
Beside them were the boys from the STUC and the only difference between the two was that the STUC lot were much older and looked as if they should know better although if someone had told me I'd just stumbled into an anarchists convention, I'd have believed them - all that was missing was the big round shiny bomb with a fizzing fuse - what with all those bristling moustaches.
As I took a step backwards away from the door I foolishly brushed against it and it creaked. Everyone in the room looked up but they froze, not coming to the door right away which gave me a chance to be down the corridor and round the corner before they could see me. I nipped into a room with no lights on and stood there puffing, trying to get my breath back and pulling out my torch to appraise the situation. I switched it on and horror! There was the Traynor, right in front of me in that room! He looked up startled at first by the light and saw it was me and pounced before I'd a chance to even scream but he jerked back in mid-air and I noticed that he was wearing a metal collar and was chained to the wall. I breathed a sigh of relief and was creeping towards the door when I heard him say 'Help me.'
'Eh?' was all I could say.
'Help me Spiers, those b*stards have had me chained up in here since I escaped from Station X only to run slap bang into the republican bhoys as they watched events from a nearby hill.'
'Well you must admit it wouldn't be the most intelligent thing for me to do considering you've been trying to kill me for the past few years, eh Traynor?' I gloated since after all, he was chained to a wall.
'Set me free and I promise never to attack you again and I'll throw something else in, I'll take you to where the republican bhoys and the STUC are going to attack the Hapoel Tel Aviv party during a civic reception. Those boys aren't so smart, they were prancing about outside this room for ages arguing over suicide vests and talking too loudly about their plans. Come on Spiers, have a heart.'
I considered this, looking at his pathetic face all the while before deciding I could trust him. I took out my breaking and entering kit (ironically given to me by the republican bhoys), unlocked his chains and stood back. The Traynor stood up on his hindlegs and rubbed his neck where the collar had been. He looked at me, his eyes flashing with menace and then he said 'Come on, this way' and bounded out of the room with me following.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 1st December Part 2

So after my weekend tip from Ewan Cameron that there was some intrigue going on with the STUC, the republican bhoys and the Hapoel Tel Aviv squad, I got kitted out in my black action corduroys and made my way to the City Chambers. It doesn't take much to infiltrate the place if you're a well known Celtic supporter like me, even if you're not then you could always wear an emerald green shirt or tie and security would just think you were a Glasgow councillor. This is precisely what I did; black action corduroys and a green tie and I was through without anyone batting an eyelid. It was getting dark outside and the council workers were finishing for the day so it must've been shortly after lunchtime, I had to find somewhere to hide out until the civic reception for Hapoel later in the afternoon so I mooched around until I found an empty meeting room where I crawled under the table, hidden from view by a long starched table cover. I wasn't in there for long before I heard the door open and in clattered loads of people and sat down - damnation, I'd picked the wrong room! Everyone sat down at the table and I could only see their feet - to a man they were wearing grubby shoes and emerald green socks, this must be some sub-committee of the City Council I thought and then I heard a voice from the end of the table. 'Right comrades, I'd like to convene todays meeting of the Glasgow City Council committee to choose the next Lord Provost. Do I hear any proposals?'
Then another voice from just above me, 'Comrades, can I propose that we choose anybody we like just as long as he's a tim?'
A great approving murmur went up.
'Good proposal comrade, do I have a seconder?'
Then another, higher voice, 'Comrades, I second that we choose anyone just as long as he's a tim.'
Then the original voice: 'Okay comrades, that's settled, the next Lord Provost of Glasgow will be anyone we please as long as he's a tim. Can I just take this opportunity to thank you all for attending and I'll see you all at the civic reception for ra Shellick later today? Hail hail.'
And they all responded - 'Hail hail!' and they were gone. Phew, I had narrowly escaped detection. I had to sit tight now to await the civic reception and that was when I'd spring into action.

Secret Diary, Tuesday 1st December

It's been a slow few days which saw my column and match reports over the weekend pass without upsetting anyone. I figure that I'm stressed enough about all the Machiavellian intrigues I'm involved in just now without deliberately winding up the Rangers or pushing my luck with Lawwell. Events conspired to protect me anyway with Celtic winning and Rangers losing to Aberdeen so there was nothing much to do except report the facts - had it been the other way round then I'd have been duty bound to write about Rangers fans and their songs to distract from their win and a Celtic defeat.

While not working over the weekend I laid low at home, only occasionally leaving the flat to stalk the wife as she lived it up in town with Aamer Anwar and his clique. There was lots of dancing on tables and champagne being ordered and at the end of the night they all sang the Red Flag before jumping into chauffeur driven cars back to their west end townhouses while I trudged home in the cold, my collar up and hands thrust deep into the pockets of my corduroys. As I walked down Woodlands Road I heard a whisper from the trees in Kelvingrove park. I peered into the darkness and just as I was about to walk on, a figure stepped out from the shadows. It was Ewan Cameron. 'Spiers, I've got something for you' he said, looking around to check no one was listening. I followed him into the park where he began ranting about some great conspiracy.
'You've heard what happened to Hugh Keevins? No, no, no, he's not recovering - he's been replaced! I heard a rumour that he'd been savaged by Elaine C Smith during one of Lawwell's campaigns and they'd replaced him with an impersonator. Well the impersonator proved to be so much better than the original that Keevins is now sleeping with the fishes in the Clyde! The thing is though, I've chanced upon a terrible plan but have already been warned by Lawwell's agents that if I breath a word about it that I'll end up joining Keevins. You've got to help me Spiers, this plan is awful: the Scottish TUC have joined forces with the republican bhoys and they're going to kidnap the entire Hapoel Tel-Aviv squad and hold them to ransom until peace is reached in the middle east!'
'Christ, they'll be holding 'em a long time then.' I exclaimed.
'Yeah, they're not exactly an intelligent bunch but here's what they're going to do; they're going to dress up as arabs to snatch them while everyone is busy worrying about the Celtic fans waving their Palestinian flags at Parkhead on Wednesday.'
'Arabs?' I pondered aloud.
'I told you, they're a thick bunch - remember the time one of them invaded the pitch at Ibrox trying to get Rangers into trouble only this member of the brain trust forgot to remove his Pope t-shirt and was soon identified as an undercover Celtic man? Well this plan comes straight from the same mob.'
'So what do you want me to do about it?' I asked.
'Look Spiers, I've heard word that you have encountered the mythical Rangers 80s Squad Commandos, perhaps if you were to get word to them then they could do something about it? No one in Scotland wants to see this happen - well, no one in Scotland outside the STUC and Celtic want to see this happen. Get onto your contacts, let them know that the civic reception at the City Chambers is where the snatch will take place. You won't be able to miss them - they'll be wearing bed sheets and probably have their Celtic shirts on underneath them, the morons.'
And with that, Ewan Cameron turned and walked off into the darkness of Kelvingrove park. As he left I could only just make out him untying Alan Rough's leash from a fence and the pair of them toddled off into the night, stopping only occasionally for Alan Rough to cock a leg against some trees.