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?'