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.