The Mowbray Sanction Part 3

I was sitting in a quiet bar at the bottom, less trendy end of Byres Road, knowing fine well that no one would notice us here. Tony Mowbray was with me and he was scared. 'There's a civil war going on Spiers and it's all down to me.'
I ordered a skinny decaf latte from the barman who sighed and said he'd bring it over, then I sat beside Mowbray and asked him to tell me all about it. I listened intently as he offloaded all his worries and everything that had happened to him since arriving at Celtic, finishing with an anguished 'I don't know what's worse, that lunatic Chief Executive or the mental fans - they're all off their rockers! And do you know something? I didn't even want the job in the first place. If Gordon Strachan had been a catholic then I wouldn't even be in this intolerable position in the first place - if the little bogger had been a tim then he'd have been given more kudos for the sterling work he pulled off and wouldn't have been hounded out by those imbecilic supporters. And then, to turn to me? Why, because my last wife was called Bernadette? Bloody hell, some of them were even writing books about her, sticking a green and white cover on it and selling it to the morons as Celtic merchandise - I despair! I wish they'd just left me alone.'
Here was a broken man and do you know, for all he's brought my favourite club to its knees this season, I still felt sympathy for him; I liked him in spite of what he's done, perhaps that's why he's turned to me? I was always the one at after-match press conferences who gave him an easy ride, I also couldn't stop waving a pink handkerchief at him so who knows?
At this point a hand reached over our table to put down my skinny decaf latte and I said thanks without looking up but then the look on Mowbray's face made my spine turn to ice and I looked up and there holding the latte was the Traynor.

The Mowbray Sanction Part 2

I was tidying myself up in front of the mirror in the loos at the Chip while behind me Brendan O'Hara, still sneering was pulling up his zip and heading for the door. As he opened it there was a sudden bang and he came flying back into the toilet, landing with a crash where he'd just given me a right good seeing to. Then I heard a snarl and in came Peter Lawwell, growling at O'Hara. He was in Afrika Corps desert fatigues so I knew he was looking for a fight and was going to take care of this one himself. He picked up O'Hara by the front of his shirt and shook him, laying a few slaps across his cheeks before launching him into the corner, narrowly missing me. I was shocked and rooted to the spot so stayed to view this remarkable scene.

Lawwell continued his assault with a few well aimed jackboots into O'Hara's groin before bawling, 'So we're responsible for the financial downfall of the SPL, eh?'
'I don't know what you're talking about' squeaked O'Hara.
'The Old Firm Shame Game, O'Hara - that's what it's supposed to be called but I didn't hear this phrase mentioned once in your programme last night, instead you pinned all the blame on us and hinted that because of the behaviour of our fans, there'd be no more Sunday evening games and with those gone Sky weren't interested and pulled out their money!'
'But I didn't even mention Celtic in the voice over, just home fans' jabbered O'Hara.
'Home fans isn't enough and the clips you showed of the violence were too long, clearly showing them to be Celtic fans' he aimed another kick, this time to his ribs then continued screaming at him. 'You could have missed out the incidents altogether just like you removed Rangers winning the treble from the 2003 programme but no, you had to go and create negative images of Celtic, your own f*cking club, you moron!'
'I was under pressure, those orange b*stards were complaining about the 2003 programme in their thousands, I had to make changes. You know me, I'm completely on message but the pressure was too much and the Establishment were leaning on me' cried O'Hara.
Lawwell's face turned a bright shade of red and he pulled out his horse whip and laid about O'Hara with it.
'Establishment? Establishment? Don't talk to me of the Establishment - we are the Establishment! That's just something else we put out there to rally our fans to do what they do best, rail against an imaginary enemy while overlooking the real problems at Parkhead. F*cking Establishment, I don't know O'Hara, sometimes I wonder if you're worth all the bother of getting you this commission. I'll be watching next week's programme very carefully and if it doesn't meet my agenda then I'll be looking for you.' He turned and made to leave but then paused and without turning round said, 'Don't think I don't see you cowering in the corner Spiers, I know what happened on Inchmarnock and I'll be wanting a full report on my desk by Monday' and then he was gone.

I left O'Hara groaning on the floor and sneaked out the toilet and looked for Mowbray but he too was gone, obviously frightened off by the sudden appearance of Lawwell. I was running downstairs to head for home when I heard a whisper from the restaurant door, it was Mowbray. 'Spiers, I need to talk to you' he whispered, his nose wobbling beneath his hat.

The Mowbray Sanction Part 1

The little rowing boat washed up on the shore of Bute and Graham Souness and I climbed out into the shallows, the only survivors of the sinister events on the seemingly deserted island of Inchmarnock. After clambering up the grassy hill towards the road we found Avi Cohen waiting for Souness in a jeep. 'What about me?' I shouted after them as they drove off. There was no reply and I was left alone with only the sheep as company. Wouldn't be the first time.

I eventually got back to Glasgow to find Rangers ten points ahead of Celtic and my answering machine full of demands from Peter Lawwell. First up was to get onto Radio Clyde for some damage limitation. It was just Peter Martin and me, Hugh Keevins the second having been left behind, dead, on Inchmarnock. The position of Keevins is becoming a dangerous one these days but Lawwell never seems to be short of volunteers and Martin told me that he already has a third lined up. In the background the mechanical clown that they pass for Derek Johnstone laughed and agreed with everything we said off microphone until Martin switched it off.

The phone in got off to a flier and we stuck to Lawwell's agenda of attacking Mowbray. His plan is to come at Mowbray on two fronts: Radio Clyde and the Daily Record and destabilise him thus giving the Celtic fans a common enemy to distract from the failings of the board. So far it's been a dawdle.

The show was a success with the usual litany of paranoid Celtic supporter complaints and accusations with the odd Rangers supporter thrown in to counter any accusations of favouritism although as we all know, these 'Rangers supporters' are just the usual Seans and Declans from Coatbridge in disguise. Afterwards, I made my way home and nipped into the Chip for a pint and there met Brendan O'Hara, producer of the Football Years, he was chatting to the STV bhoys who were still high from their daily ducking of Raman Bardwaj in the Kelvin but he found the time to come over and discuss the success of his show, something I appear in, looking mean and moody in black and white which highlights the superb cut of my favourite brown corduroy suit.
'Come into the toilet with me Spiers' said O'Hara and motioned for me to go first, 'I have loads to tell you about how we stuck it to the huns in the show this week'. So I walked ahead but as I was opening the door to the loo, out of the corner of my eye, I spied the lonely figure of Tony Mowbray. He was wearing a raincoat with the collar up and a trilby hat pulled down low over his face, obviously to hide his identity but it was unmistakably him as his great monkey nose was poking out for all to see. I wonder what he's up to, I wondered as O'Hara held my head against the cubicle doors and rogered me senseless before sneering, spitting on me and leaving me gasping on the floor.

Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

What a terrible festive season I had - I came down with a frightful little bug just before Christmas and was laid low for the duration of the holidays. Having spent the best part of two weeks in bed sucking a fisherman's friend, I couldn't complete the Lawwell Christmas Carol and since it's too late now I'll just say that Lawwell tied up all four ghosts of Christmas, indoctrinated them and sent them packing once they were 'on message' - so a sort of First Communion for spirits if you will. Meanwhile Tiny Tim survived and grew up to be a mad junky ned so no surprise there then.

Unable to attend the first old firm game of the new year, I watched it on television from my sick bed and wrote my report with the benefit of multi-angle replays. I was about to write that the Fortune 'goal' was obviously a foul when my fax machine stirred and my email inbox started beeping at the same time as my mobile phone was going off. All of them were messages from Lawwell's office to warn me (and every other Scottish sports journalist no doubt) that there was a three line whip out on this issue and that we were to state that the referee was wrong and that it should have been a goal. We were also to mention the Lafferty tackle and how it should have been a red card and that Celtic expected everyone to campaign against Lafferty and Conroy in an effort to distract the hordes from their team's inability to beat a mis-firing Rangers team.

So copy posted, Lawwell happy, editor praising my work, I put on my best corduroys and took off down Byres Road to check out what I'd been missing when who do I bump into but Stevie Conroy himself. He was wearing a hat, shades, a false nose and fake moustache but I still recognised him. I called out his name but he ducked into the Oxfam shop and made out the back door so I couldn't catch up to ask him how his family was after having their windows smashed on Sunday night. Disappointed at not getting to speak to Conroy, I popped into the Chip looking for the Reporting Scotland bhoys but the barman told me they hadn't been in since Sunday as they'd been too busy burying bad news and trying to erase Sunday's match from history. He had seen the Scotland Today gang who had been in briefly but then they heard that Raman Bhardwaj had been spotted in Oran Mhor and set off to beat him up. Having no luck in the Chip I walked across Ashton Lane and into Jintys but it was empty, not a soul there except the barman who said it'd been like this since full time two days ago. It seems the whole of Glasgow is mourning Celtic's defeat on Sunday, except, they didn't lose, did they? There does seem to have been a higher number of Rangers fans laughing at me in the street than normal so perhaps they did win and in my fever I thought it was a draw. I must check this out at once.