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.