The Monkey's Paw

I woke up this morning, dozing in the half light when I became aware of a roughly masculine arm flopped across my chest. I'd had a few too many the night before and tried hard to recall who it was lying beside me. I could remember being in the Chip, another pleasant meal with Walter Smith before he left and I joined the Reporting Scotland bhoys upstairs who asked me what I was doing with 'that orange bastard' and cheered when I told them I was keeping my enemies close, then it was doubles all round and a quick line in the toilet - ah, BBC Scotland, you can't beat 'em, always Celtic men, always got the best drugs. We were having a laugh about the reaction of the huns over our approach to the Alan McGregor affair especially in comparison to how we screamed blue murder when Neil Lennon got what was widely accepted as a deserved kicking in Ashton Lane (Neil is quite possibly the most vile little man I've had the misfortune to have bugger me but I sugar coat him at every opportunity just to wind up what few Rangers fans still read the Times). Oh yes, poor wee Neil mouths off and is knocked to the ground and it's a sectarian crime with Lawwell jumping all over the press and the police, threatening to withhold season tickets and dish out thrashings of his own if we don't portray his attackers as foul bigots and now we have Alan McGregor innocently making his way home after having too much to drink and leaving Karbon early because he was too drunk to pull, being pushed around by some Celtic supporting scallywags and what do we hear from Ibrox? Nothing. There was more noise coming from Lawwell and it wasn't even his player! Yes, Lawwell was all over this as much as he was the Lennon incident, demanding no mention of sectarianism or bigotry (as if anyone in the Scottish press would dare anyway, they're already too far on message) and instructing everyone to get stuck right into McGregor as every little psychological advantage counts before the big match on Sunday. At the same time, Lawwell wheeled out a few more hired mouths to talk up the Celtic agenda and every day this week it's been a new face on the back pages calling McGregor an idiot and saying Celtic are going to beat Rangers. If only.

So I recalled all of this but who was in bed with me? I thought back to last night, still in the Chip and the drinks were flowing when the door opened and in came the Scotland Today bhoys, red cheeked from chasing Raman Bhardwaj through the Botanic Gardens, the smiles on their faces betraying the fact that they'd got him yet again - that'll teach him for getting a job by pretending to support Partick Thistle. If they'd asked me at the time I could've told them I'd spotted him in west end bars cheering as Ronald DeBoer scored against our heroes but no one thought to at the time so he infiltrated STV and made a decent fist of passing as a neutral while helping them meet their diversity targets (STV are so diverse that they have no Rangers fans working for them full stop, beat that Labour Party!) until recently when someone snitched on him (wonder who that could've been). So there we were, the great and the good of the Scottish television news media, guzzling gin, snorting gear and celebrating our diversity by hating protestants when the door flies open and in hurtles a figure in a black suit, he cartwheeled through the door, his arse sticking out and legs bent so it was hardly a cartwheel to be proud of, then he stopped and motioned with his fingers as if he was shooting us like some romantic Irish republican terrorist or as the BBC would have us call them now, 'dissident republicans' - it was Robbie Keane! The whole pub cheered at the sight of a proper Irishman for a change and everyone broke into a few verses of the Fields of Athenry as people flocked to him for autographs and to marvel at his cheeky chappy smile. So could it be Keane whose arm lies across my chest?

The impromptu party was in full swing as someone was sent over to Jintys to summon the republican girls as the television bhoys were becoming horny what with all the stuff they were snorting, their lascivious grins betraying their sudden lack of inhibitions (could it be one of them who now lies beside me?) and it wasn't long before the girls arrived with green and white scarves borrowed from Jintys and a fiddle band who'd been playing in the corner over there for nothing but who scented the chance to earn a few bob as it got really wild in the Chip. Then just by coincidence, Professor Tom Devine fetched up, arm in arm with his latest slut who looked suspiciously like Elaine C Smith but that was impossible, she was kept in a cage in Devine's basement and anyone who went near her tended to be savaged - didn't she take the hands off John Reid when he got too close and didn't she half kill one of the previous Keevins when he fell down the stairs and knocked open her cage by accident? 'Ah Spiers,' said Tom Devine, 'This is Elaine C Smith, my latest project, my fair lady if you will. I'm teaching her how to behave in civilised society. I've only recently got her to stop eating slops and biting the ankles of anything that moves but we're getting there.' I gazed in disgust at her hairy arms and god help me, please don't let it be her who is lying beside me in bed right now!

The arm stirred, outside I could hear the eerie silence of the snowfall, light peeped in through the curtains illuminating the mystery arm.

The party continued and word soon got around until the car park behind Ashton Lane was full of chauffeurs sitting waiting in tax payer funded cars while their MP and councillor masters scurried to get into the Chip to join the celebrations. It was pandemonium: the fiddles blazed furiously as the STV bhoys danced with the republican girls, twirling them around and around until they were dizzy and sick in a corner; Elaine C Smith was under a table gnawing on a bone while Tom Devine having forgotten about her was having pint of port drinking competitions at the bar with anyone who'd come near him; the BBC bhoys were all in the loos, unable to leave such was their addiction; MPs and councillors stood on tables shouting the drinks were on them while pocketing the receipts to claim on expenses; and Robbie Keane turned poorly executed cartwheel after cartwheel, knocking over chairs and revellers as he did. It was magnificent and made me proud to be part of the Celtic family as everyone sang along to the latest reel by the band and just as we were about to howl 'soon there'll be no protestants at all' the door burst off its hinges and flew across the room. The band stopped and there was an eerie hush as one jackbooted foot stepped into the room followed by another. It was Lawwell. 'What is this?' he growled. 'Haven't you all got work to do?' And at that, everyone grabbed their coats and made for the exit, ducking as they passed him lest they take a stroke across the cheek. As the crowd made its way downstairs I was grabbed by the elbow by Robbie Keane; he smiled and winked at me and we skipped down Ashton Lane towards Byres Road and ultimately my flat and a night of naked cartwheels - oh joy! It was Robbie Keane beside me! My memory was returning.

'Robbie!' I cried, turning over in bed and pulling back the sheets only for, oh horror, Tom Devine to roll over and frown at me. From under the bed I could hear the grunting of Elaine C Smith and it all came back to me. There was only one thing to do to recover from such a shock as this, I must cheer myself up and write an article laying the boot into the Rangers supporters.

A Question of Attribution

What a delightfully busy weekend I've had; all day Saturday spent debating with myself in my bedroom over how best to annoy the Rangers support a week before their game against my beloved Celtic. I've already gone down the road of calling them white trash and troglodytes so I thought I'd get them thinking with a line about leaving their mules parked outside Ibrox. Caloo calay, how clever am I? I also stuck a bit in my piece about their abuse of Keane next week in the hope that they'll rise to the bait and I'll be able to gloat over my incredible foresight. So excited was I by the end of writing this week's column, I had to pull out my Martin O'Neil scrapbook and knock one off, finishing late on Saturday night, exhausted and unable to leave the flat to go to Jintys to meet Neil Lennon as promised so he could give me a thrashing in the toilets. As I lay there sweating in my corduroys, my phone was busy vibrating away with texts coming in from the lovely Neil saying first that he was waiting for me in Jintys then he was fed up waiting and was going to Karbon and then that he'd met Peter Lawwell and Dr John Reid and were leaving to ambush Alan McGregor who they's spotted leaving on his own. They are such scamps. I can just imagine Lawwell, minutes before jumping McGregor calling up his agents in all of the papers and barking at them on how to report the McGregor incident (if at all). It certainly wouldn't be as a sectarian attack, that's for sure - the Celtic establishment have made sure that sectarian only enters into it if it's an attack on a Celtic player just like they've made sure that Nil By Mouth when asked to comment on an attack on a Rangers player or fans, will stick their fingers in their ears and sing the Fields of Athenry very loudly until the reporter hangs up. If he phones at all. Such is the way of the press in Scotland and who would have it any other way? Not me, it's give me a right old hard on.

Bumped into Gordon Smith, Craig Levein and George Peat yesterday over at Hampden where I'd toddled to try and quiz them about Scotland's fixtures for Euro 2012. I came across them in the car park where Peat was carrying a huge ladder. 'George,' I shouted and he turned round, knocking down Smith and Levein with the ends of the ladder as he turned. They got back up, 'George, over here,' I shouted again and down went Smith and Levein another time, holding their heads and glaring at Peat who still couldn't see me. 'George, oi, George,' I cried but this time Smith and Levein ducked but Peat turned a full 360 degrees and caught them the second time knocking off their bowler hats as they were knocked to the ground. I giggled and wandered off, making up quotes in my head and trying to figure how best to slander the Rangers players in the Scotland team in my article.

Sunday lunchtime in the Chip and the Scotland Today and Reporting Scotland bhoys are all there having a boozy brunch with pudding served in lines on the cisterns of the loos and celebrating the general mood of the country as Celtic have pulled the lead of Rangers down to seven points. Everyone has been going doolally about this even although Rangers still have a game in hand and will probably bring it back to ten points after Sundays game against Mowbrays Cirque de Soleil defence. If this happens then I'm sure Mowbray will leave Celtic, after all, he's been telling me for months he hates it there. I have a bad feeling that Rangers will win the game but this isn't shared by the Chip bhoys who are all whooping it up and celebrating their diversity by singing charming songs about Irish Republican murder gangs. Later on I make my way home and am mugged in the lane by the side of Sainsburys where my wallet is stolen and my arse given a good wringing by Marc Horne - I could tell it was him in spite of the balaclava he was wearing since his breath always smells of John Reid's cock. Still, he gave me a good shafting, sneered then spat on me, leaving me gasping for more as I lay in the gutter. As I said, what a delightfully busy weekend.

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins? Part Two

There were four of us met up in a dark room high up the stairs of an old office block on West Nile Street, I was last to arrive and sitting there before me were Peter Maguire, Gerry Duffy and one of the republican girls I recognised from Jintys. They were all smoking and the blue fug added to the seedy atmosphere in the room as nobody spoke and the only sounds were the honking of the traffic outside, the only light from the red neon sign blinking across the road. I took my seat and waited in silence with the rest of them, declining a cigarette from the republican girl. Then footsteps sounded from down the corridor and everyone in the room looked towards the door until at last Lawwell marched in. He was wearing a long trench coat and trilby hat and scowled at us all in turn as he closed the door behind him.

Five exhausting hours later we all knew our place in the plans and scuttled off into the night, all except Maguire who caught up with me as I headed for the underground station. 'Exciting, isn't it?' he giggled, walking beside me, his hands thrust deep into his pockets and looking up for a reaction - it's becoming well known in media circles that I'm Celtic's go-to-guy and he was obviously looking to me for some sort of guidance. 'No more than any other mission I've been on,' I replied, cocking a snook at him but still he kept up with me, panting with the effort of carrying all that extra weight while I skipped along in a jaunty manner, my corduroys flapping in the breeze. 'You know, having two names should be handy in this business,' chirped Maguire.
'Oh yes, why?' I asked him.
'Well, you know, international intrigue, spying, assassinations. I'm just saying, having two names would be pretty cool for a spy,' he prattled.
'But you already have two names, Maguire or should I call you Martin? Why did you do that anyway? It's always puzzled me.'
'Oh you know, changing my name from Maguire to Martin and then making a big deal of it got the message out there that to work in the media, anyone with too catholic a name would have to change it or they'd never get a job.'
'But it's quite the other way around these days,' I interrupted. 'Without being a catholic you have no hope of a job in the Scottish media.'
'Yes, but the public don't know that, at least most of them don't and it's good to keep the Celtic fans wound up about masonic conspiracies and protestant domination to keep anyone from stumbling upon our complete take over of the press. I like to think that my little trick with my name contributes to that in some way. And now it'll be helpful in this, the Great Game.'
'Hmmmmm..., yes, if you say so.' I sighed, I could see that Maguire was going to be hard work, I was just grateful I hadn't been paired with him in Lawwell's plan - no, I was partnered with Rose Marie, the republican girl. As I was thinking about her I was startled as out of the corner of my eye I was sure I'd caught a glimpse of Stuart Munro, one of the Souness commandos but as I stopped and stared into the gloom of the alleyway next to the tube station, I could see nothing and put it down to a trick of the light.

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins? Part Three

Everything was going as planned, days had passed during which Rangers shrugged off St. Mirren and continued their inexorable journey towards a domestic treble while Mowbray shifted and squeaked in the papers in an attempt to sate the Celtic fans with laptops who had been scenting blood for months. There's only so often Lawwell can summon them all to his office for a thrashing and inevitably, some dissenting voices were being heard among the usually docile throng. This assassination was to be the mother of all warnings to bring everyone back into line and Ewan Cameron had been chosen because he was the main culprit who had refused to toe that very line. Poor wee Ewan, thought he was untouchable in his ivory tower, well he was in for a fright.

I first caught a glimpse of him as he pulled up outside the Hilton in his car, he got out leaving Alan Rough panting in the back seat and didn't recognise me in my false beard and tennis gear. I wandered around the foyer of the hotel, looking at all the CCTV cameras and wondering if Lawwell had taken them into consideration. Rose Marie joined me and we got into the lift beside Cameron and I noticed once again, the CCTV in the lift as the doors shut and we were alone with our prey. I shifted nervously, swinging my tennis racket back and forward as Cameron looked me up and down. 'So where's the tennis court then Spiers?' he asked, my cover was blown!
'How did you....?' I stammered, trying to think quickly but nothing came to mind.
'The false beard, the fact there's no tennis courts in the Hilton, the corduroy tennis gear - do I have to go on?' said Cameron smiling then suddenly Rose Marie brought her racket down on the back of his head and knocked him to the floor. 'Plan's f*cked, we need to try something else,' she said, reaching down and grabbing Cameron under the arms and dragging him out the lift as we arrived at our floor.

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins? Part Four

We dragged Ewan Cameron along the corridor on the fifth floor of the Hilton, the republican girl doing most of the heavy work while I stumbled after her, gazing suspiciously at the CCTV cameras in the corner. As we got to our destination, a room door opened and inside were Gerry Duffy and Peter Maguire, dressed as bell boys. 'Quickly, get him in,' shouted Duffy as they looked in alarm at the consequences of our plans unfolding.
'What are we going to do now? It's not exactly as if our disguises are going to hold up now, not with you two clubbing him unconscious in the lift!' screamed Maguire, hysterical with fear.
'We can still do it, we can still do it and leave him here, change our disguises or something and leave by the stairs,' said Duffy, trying to reassure us but it wasn't working, the panic was spreading through our little group and we began shouting at each other about what to do when a voice behind us shut us up instantly. We turned and there in the corner of the room by an open window was Graeme Souness, moustache bristling, pistol pointed straight at us, calm as you like.

'I suppose if you want to frame somebody then you'd be as well involving four morons you can depend on to act like idiots and get themselves caught on CCTV in disguises that wouldn't fool Nicola Sturgeon,' said Souness, motioning to us with his pistol to step away from Cameron who was still slumped on the floor.
'Framed? What do you mean framed?' I asked.
'Framed, set up, used by Peter Lawwell to further his own nefarious agenda, that's what I mean. Do you really think Lawwell wanted Cameron simply taken care of - after his criticisms of Celtic the finger would obviously be pointed at Parkhead? No, this was all a trick, a trick to get you chumps to make a mess of the hit then you'd all conveniently disappear too, at the bottom of the Clyde no doubt before evidence pointing towards Rangers was paraded around the media followed by the usual uproar. Meanwhile all attention is taken away from Celtic's continuing problems and Rangers inevitable treble as accusations of assassinating their enemies are hurled at Ibrox.'
'I don't believe you,' shouted Duffy.
'Oh no? Look at inside your bell boy jacket,' countered Souness, a smile playing on his lips. Duffy opened his jacket and let out an oath - 'Murray Dry Cleaners!'
'Yes, not too subtle and not a smoking gun but enough to point the finger at us. Now look at your tennis shoes Spiers.' I took off one shoe and there on the inside was the make: Masons Shoes. He was right, this was a clever way of yet again carrying out some hideous act and blaming it on Rangers and the masons and we'd fallen for it.
'So what do we do?' I asked.
'It's quite simple,' said Souness. 'You get Ewan back in his car and leave. We'll take care of the rest. Oh yes, and while you're all toddling off home tonight with your tails between your legs, remember you owe me one.'

So we carried Ewan Cameron out into his car where we left him with Alan Rough licking his face and all of us disappeared into the night. I headed for Ashton Lane with Rose Marie and as we got there, we both looked at each other, embarrassed and saying nothing she went into Jintys while I nipped into the Chip to calm my nerves. Inside I met the Reporting Scotland bhoys who were all excitedly chattering into their mobile phones. 'What's going on?' I asked one of them at the bar.
'Ewan Cameron's been found drunk and unconscious in his car wearing a Celtic scarf outside the Hilton hotel!' he exclaimed. 'He's being done for being drunk in charge of a vehicle, it's a sensation!'
'But the Celtic scarf, I can't believe you guys are going to run with this if it's a Celtic bad news story,' I said to him, scratching my head, knowing that Souness was behind this little piece of mischief.
'Run with it my arse,' shouted the man from BBC Scotland. 'We're burying the bloody thing!'

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins? Epilogue

Another day and another Celtic player is on the back pages claiming that Celtic can still win the league. This is what the mighty Lawwell has been reduced to. I've been avoiding his calls since the Ewan Cameron hit went wrong but I hear that Duffy and Maguire were carried off the streets screaming, into the back of black cars, gagged and taken to Celtic Park where they were tortured for a while before being dumped in the Gallowgate. I knew I should never have got involved in that one, Maguire just doesn't have the skill for an operation of such a magnitude and Gerry Duffy's good for nothing but stealing stories off football chat sites. Keevins would've been a better choice, why didn't they ask him? Expendable too.

I've been taking a bit of a ribbing from the Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today bhoys in the Chip. I was in there at lunchtime and they were laughing at me appearing on all the news channels where all the CCTV footage of our attempted hit was compiled and used in an attempt to piece together what had happened. Of course the BBC blamed it all on Israel and STV were too busy yabbering on about Lent to notice anything had happened so I got away with it again. We were still laughing at the black and white footage of my fake beard when Jackie Bird took me by the hand and led me to the toilets, everyone around me cheering and whooping. I'm going to get some lady sex with Jackie Bird here I thought to myself as she locked the cubicle door behind me but to my horror she produced a huge rubber contraption and defiled me with it before sneering, spitting on me and leaving me shivering on the floor.

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins Part One

Ewan Cameron didn't recognise me in the hotel lift since I was wearing a false beard and dressed in tennis gear, discussing my back hand loudly with one of the republican girls who was wearing a wig. It was a long journey which had brought me here, a journey fraught with peril, intrigue and the usual promise of season tickets at Parkhead.

Why Didn't They Ask Keevins? Part One

The night before my appearance in disguise, I'd been at home typing away on my lap top, working furiously on another article supporting Tony Mowbray and trying to figure out how to get a few digs at Rangers in there too when my telephone rang. It was Tom Devine who, now back on the scene, was making up for the lost time when he was incarcerated by the Graeme Souness Rangers 80s Squad Commandos by delving straight back into the Machiavellian world of Celtic minded politics. He was in a pub around the corner and had to see me urgently with another vital task. I slipped into my new corduroy suit and was off down Byres Road in a twinkling, whistling gayly at the thought that once again, I was a vital cog in the Celtic machine.

Devine was sitting in the corner of Findlays, drinking a pint of red wine with his hand up the skirt of a new trollop who sat beside him, swaying and cackling at his under the table fumblings. 'Hello Spiers,' he greeted me, 'This is Alison McConnell, Celtic daft journalist for the Evening Times, she's stepping out with me for the moment. Say hello Alison,' and she shrieked as he put his hand somewhere she wasn't expecting, spilling wine over her petticoats in the process. I sat down and Devine leaned over the table, fixing me straight in the eye, 'Ewan Cameron, what d'ye know of him?' He asked.
'Not much, as you know I'm a Clyde man but he's got a football show on Real Radio, he takes his mutt Alan Rough with him to the studio instead of having him in kennels and he's not as easily bought off by Lawwell as everyone else, why?'
'Because Lawwell wants him taken out, that's why. He's putting together a crack team of assassins and you're to be one of 'em.'

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Epilogue

Mowbray was free and Findlay was all apologetic, 'Terribly sorry old chap, got a bit carried away,' he said as we skulked out of the park and up towards Argyle Street. In the park we could hear occasional rifle shots as Lawwell's men fired at shadows or in one case which I found out about later, at Darryl Broadfoot who they caught flitting between trees and shot in the arse. I'm not sure what he was doing there on a Monday anyway as our usual night is a Thursday but that'll teach him, it's certainly not the arse action he was expecting, lurking around there at that time of the night.

Findlay popped into the nearest pub and made a phone call and pretty soon a black car pulled over, his old friend Watson at the wheel and he bade us goodnight and was gone. It was in his interests, he'd told us as he waited for his car to come, to keep Mowbray safe and working for Celtic; while he's there, falling over his feet and putting out teams full of clowns then Rangers have one less worry as they face up to one of their greatest challenges ever, to stay alive. I shrugged when he told me this, it didn't seem unreasonable although I still have faith that Mowbray can turn around his fortunes and that if he wins every game until the end of the season and Rangers stumble a little, that he can still win the league. I told him this once we were alone and he let out a huge sigh, 'I wish you lot wouldn't say that sort of thing, every time the press run with it from that angle it always comes back and bites us right on the toosh. Lawwell thinks it's good PR to flood the papers with ex-players and various other Celtic minded mouth pieces who all agree that Rangers are rubbish and that we'll still win but whose fault is it then when it doesn't pan out that way and Rangers pump Hibs and we draw with an Aberdeen side full of farmers? Mine, that's whose fault it is. I'm sick of this job Spiers, I've had enough and I'm out of here the first chance I get.' I thought about this as we walked home past the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the moon rising above its sandstone turrets and illuminating the bushes where in five minutes time Mowbray would drag me and I'd take one right on the chin.

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Part Four

Kelvingrove park by day is a leafy west end sun flecked haven of tranquility overlooked by a glorious sweep of Victorian architecture, it is here that the youth of Glasgow frolic, rolling with lovers on the grass, beaming with pride as they walk with their toddlers or whistle after their dogs as they pad around the slopes sniffing the trees. By night it's a different story. By night it's a nightmare of screams and madness especially when Donald Findlay disappears into it carrying Tony Mowbray while pursued by Peter Lawwell and his stormtroopers. I hopped after them, still tied and gagged.

The normal noise of the park was stilled by the sudden rush of insanity that invaded its territory: by the bridge, Ewan Cameron paused and looked up, holding tight on the leash to stop Alan Rough from barking and running after the sounds coming from the bushes; in those bushes lay Graham Grant and Gillian Bowditch as they scoured the night for another victim of their gay bashing; splashing could be heard down by the river as the Scotland Today bhoys ducked Raman Bhardwaj in the Kelvin; and in the distance, not in the park but in a lonely neighbourhood far away, howled the Traynor who had sniffed the air and known instinctively that something was amiss. I hopped past them all, ignoring them and trying to find Mowbray before the beastly Findlay hurt him. Leaves rustled in the dark as Lawwell's stormtroopers beat the bushes to try to bring Findlay to ground but I followed a different path on the other side of the Kelvin, guessing that Findlay wouldn't go too far into the park and found him sitting disconsolately in front of the old bandstand, Mowbray was in front of him, hanging in chains from the ceiling. Findlay had changed back to his normal self and seemed quite put out. 'I don't know what I was going to do to him really,' he told me as I hopped towards him. 'Torture him probably. Once my alter-ego is let loose I have very little control over him. I didn't take much of the potion though so my inner beast didn't hang around for long and now here I am, my clothes frightfully torn with Tony Mowbray chained up in front of me - what is a fellow to do?'
I moaned at him through the Celtic scarf still sticking out my mouth and motioned for him to un-gag me. He did and untied me too and as the ropes fell from my body I ran over to Mowbray and fell at his feet weeping to see such a fine man laid so low. I looked up and he'd opened one eye and could see me there. 'Get me down Spiers, for fucks sake' he said.

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Part Three

They arranged a handover of Mowbray to Celtic officials through a line of communication arranged by one pimply specimen who claimed to know 'sumbdy who works at Shellick cleaning the showers.' At this a great murmur went up as they all marvelled at one of their group knowing someone who had a job. Mowbray had stopped crying now and sat beside me, his head down, sniffing. I wanted to be able to tell him that we'd be okay, that someone would come to our rescue, that someone always did - why, my fat has been pulled out of the fire more times than I can remember but there was an old Celtic scarf stuffed in my mouth so I couldn't tell him anything so to try to cheer him up I began to wink at him but he only sighed and started crying again.

We were eventually bundled into the back of a hired transit van and driven through the night until the van stopped, the back doors were opened and the Green Brigade muscled us out into the gloom. I recognised Glasgow University instantly and felt a little comfort at being back in the west end then we were pushed onwards until we were all standing around in the deserted darkness of the cloisters where we were to meet someone from Celtic who was going to hand over assurances of Irish referees and various sweets and tracksuits in exchange for Mowbray and, I hoped, me. Then I was taken aback as one of the Green Brigade reached into a sports bag and started handing out pistols!

If that surprised me, what happened next was absolutely astonishing. Out of the night, dressed in top hat and tails and carrying a diamond topped cane came toddling Donald Findlay, whistling a merry tune without a care in the world as he crossed the grass towards where we were being held among the cloisters. One of the Green Brigade stepped out and pointed a gun at him and told him to stop right there. Findlay smiled at him, nodded towards me and said 'Good evening.'

'I hear you have Tony Mowbray here boys, do you think you could extend me a courtesy and let me have him?' asked Findlay, twiddling his cane. The Green Brigade looked at each other in disbelief and the one pointing his gun at Findlay shouted 'Naw.'
'Oh be a good chap and hand him over, we can't have fans' groups running around kidnapping club managers, where would it all end? Come on old fellow, let's have him.' But before the Green Brigade could respond to Findlay's entreaties, there was a galumphing of jackboots and clinking of weapons as black clad stormtroopers ran into position by the outskirts of the cloisters and pointed their rifles in towards us. Once they'd settled, Peter Lawwell came marching into view, luger in hand and resplendent in full Third Reich combat dress and stood there facing us. 'Out of the way Findlay, this is our problem, we'll deal with it ourselves in our own way, ' shouted Lawwell.
'They're only children, Peter, let me deal with them,' replied Findlay, calm as you like.
'They're old enough to kidnap a Celtic club manager and old enough to carry guns, step out of the way or you'll end up being punished with them,' threatened Lawwell.
'Look,' shouted one of the Green Brigade from behind me and he shoved me out into the open. 'This is getting out of hand, here take them, I never wanted to get mixed up in this anyway - I'm at university, I was only trying to hang out with the Green Brigade to better my chances of getting a job with BBC Scotland,' and he dropped his gun and pushed Mowbray out of the way. There was a chilly silence as both groups realised that the hostages were in the clear and that Lawwell's men had a line of fire without the threat of hitting Mowbray. Suddenly Donald Findlay leaped for the shadows just as Lawwell opened fire with his luger, his men following and in seconds the night was lit up with the flashes of gunfire. Mowbray and I hit the ground as the Green Brigade took cover behind the arches and then something remarkable happened. I could just see in the darkness, the shape of Findlay take out a vial of liquid and begin drinking it, then I could hear the tearing of clothes as he grew into that awful shape I remember so well from previous experience - Findlay's Mr Hyde was upon us. He disappeared into the cloisters and then began to appear above the Green Brigade, reaching down from the ceiling, that hideous beast illuminated only by the gunfire as he snatched off their heads one by one. It wasn't long before the shooting ceased as the headless bodies of the Green Brigade fell to the ground and Lawwell's men noticed no one was firing at them anymore. Then Findlay was down beside us picking up Mowbray who had swooned by now and he was off with him over his shoulder, leaving the University in two great leaps.
'Quick, after him!' shouted Lawwell and they ran off in pursuit while I lay there being ignored, which I hate incidentally.

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Part Two

I came to, gagged and tied to a chair. I could hear a muffled moan beside me and when I opened my eyes and looked around the room, I could see beside me Mowbray, also bound and gagged. The room was dull, illuminated only by a single lamp on the far side, around which gathered a group of what can only be described as children dressed in grubby sportswear and various forms of Celtic merchandise. So this was the Green Brigade? They noticed we were coming to and one spotty youth approached us first and peered down at me. I couldn't tell at first if he was looking at me or Mowbray as his eyes were so squint but since he bitch slapped me across the cheek I reckoned it was me after all.
'Thoat you'd protect Mowbray then Spiers, eh?' he whined through his nose. 'Well there's nae chance ae that, know? We're the Green Brigade, naebdy messes wi us.'
'Whit aboot the polis?' Interrupted one of the others from the corner.
'Aye, well apart fae the polis, naebody messes wi the Green Brigade.'
'An they Rangers fans who kicked us up and doon George Square that time,' interrupted another.
'Awright, awright, an they Rangers fans who kicked us up and doon George Square but apart fae them and the polis, naebody messes wi the Green Brigade.'
'The Shellick stewards who papped us oot fur singing?' Piped up another.
'Look! Will you lot shut it, I'm tellin this pair oor conditions, know?'
He held up a filthy hand and pointed to a fungal finger, 'Furst, we waant somethin done aboot the referees in this country - they bastards huv been doin Shellick oot ae points aw year. The Green Brigade proposes neutral refs fae Ireland, right? Then we waant mare good players. Then, then..., oh aye, we waant a better manager, sumbdy who knows the traditions ae Shellick football club.'
'Mare than him,' said his mate.
'Aye, mare than him, Mowbray played fur Shellick n'at but he's no wan ae us, no really so we waant him oot, know?'

I sat there dumbfounded at their ridiculous demands as they became more and more outrageous until they began to ask for sweeties and new tracksuit trousers. Meanwhile, Mowbray sat beside me and wept.

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Part One

It all happened the way Devine said it would that night when he broke into my house. There I lay, swimming in blood, floundering among headless bodies in the cloisters of Glasgow University as Donald Findlay bounded across Kelvin Way with an unconscious Tony Mowbray over his shoulder but I'm getting ahead of myself...

The Battle for Mowbray's Soul Part 1

After I got over the shock of finding Tom Devine in my flat that night, he warned me of a diabolical plan by that barking collection of extremist Celtic supporters, the Green Brigade, to kidnap Tony Mowbray and hold him to ransom until the SFA replace every Scottish referee with 'neutral' referees from the Republic of Ireland. Their plans were secret he said but they are so thick that they've been chatting about their plans on public internet forums so any fool could find out what they were up to. 'You've been chosen to prevent this Spiers,' grunted Devine as he helped himself to my sherry, spilling it down his front as he gulped it straight from the bottle. 'But I thought you were being held by Souness and his 80s Squad Commandos? I saw him shoot you with a tranquiliser gun and carry you off during the whole STUC Report business,' I said.
'Ah, but you underestimate the power of our organisation, I've been free for some time now and let's just say that a certain late 80s ex-Rangers defender is now very highly thought of by the Spider.' He chuckled, sending more sherry bubbling over his chin onto his shirt as I shivered at the thought of the Spider and the night he held me by the throat, choking the life out of me by the light of the fire at the close of the curious case of Nil by Mouth.

That was two weeks ago and since then I've kept a keen eye on Tony Mowbray as he suffers the trials and tribulations of being in the media glare and there is no other glare quite as piercing as the hateful eyes of the gathering mob of Celtic fans masquerading as sports journalists as they prepare to tar and feather this man for losing the league to Rangers. Yes, they had been mollified by Lawwell's introduction of Robbie Keane but he couldn't stop Celtic shipping four goals to Aberdeen when they had the opportunity to cut the Rangers lead at the top of the table and once again the baying mob are up in arms and ready to storm the Parkhead car park. Not even the wheeling out of Dr John Reid to spout bile and let the supporters know that those heading the club are just as bitter as they are, could calm them down so there I was keeping a watchful eye on Mowbray when I should've been watching my own back, when I was clubbed over the head and dragged off by the Green Brigade.

Last Exit to Rugby Park

I really don't know which way to turn, my whole world is upside down and more and more people are laughing at me as the days go on. It all started with the Traynor persuading me to back Tony Mowbray in my Sunday column which backfired on me on Monday night when Lawwell single handedly brought Robbie Keane to Celtic, marginalizing Mowbray in the process. Then to make up for it, at a celebration in Bairds afterwards which both pleased (to see such scenes of Celtic minded celebration) and shocked (the brutal way Lawwell casually shot Keevins in the chest for doubting him), I went home and wrote the epitome of a Lawwell pleasing article for the Times where I ticked all the boxes:
Celtic, the only club in Britain to be a social phenomenon? Check.
Plenty of religious allegory ('second coming', 'herald the messiah')? Check.
Wax lyrical about Celtic's Irish heritage and culture? Check.
Stick the boot into Rangers? Check.
Betray my slobbering sycophancy with a phrase such as 'too many delicious boxes which are ticked'? Check.

Next thing I knew, Celtic were on the receiving end of a humping from Kilmarnock, Killie fans were singing ironically for Keano, Scottish media offices throughout Glasgow turned into wakes, Celtic fans scattered their scarves all the way from Rugby Park down the M77 and Lawwell went on the prowl in his SS Verfugungstruppe uniform, scouring the west end for Rangers players cars to petrol bomb.

I kept out of the way and tried out a few of the haunts of my favourite Celtic minded friends but was put off Jintys when I looked in to find the Republican Girls fighting amongst themselves and then when I nipped upstairs into the Chip, the Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today bhoys had resumed hostilities and were battling each other once again. Violence was breaking out all the way down Byres Road from Ashton Lane to the Dolphin as Celtic fans celebrated their diversity by beating the shit out of each other so I went home and hid under the bed, wondering who to back next - I seem to be a jinx these days, if I support Mowbray then Lawwell pulls one out the hat, then if I support Lawwell some disaster happens to send him into a blood frenzy.

Lying under the bed weighing up my options, I heard a window smash in my back room. At first I just thought it'd be Alex Mosson again but when I investigated, I found to my surprise, sitting there in my spare room, Tom Devine.

From Lawwell With Love

Another huge party at Bairds last night to celebrate the signing of Robbie Keane. All the usual suspects were there and intriguingly, Lawwell was out of his usual Nazi regalia and dressed in a toga with laurel leaves in his hair. He was brought into the room on the shoulders of the sports staff from the Daily Mail while BBC Scotland and STV executives threw green and white streamers over him and everyone from Radio Clyde waved sparklers and set off party poppers. A great hush then fell over the crowd as Lawwell raised his arms and said, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen, I give you Robbie Keane' and everyone went mental, screaming, popping champagne and singing maudlin Irish laments.

I stood well back, in a corner beside Tony Mowbray who whispered to me, 'You do know I had nothing to do with that signing, don't you?'
'I guessed that' I replied.
'I signed the other guys whose names no one can remember.'
'Yeah, who were they again?'
'And what was all that about in your column on Sunday?' he asked, looking at me funny.
'The Traynor recommended I write that to get everything back to normal, didn't you like it?'
'I liked it alright but you do realise that Traynor's setting you up with that? He's Daily Record, they're persona non grata at Celtic just now thanks to my little faux pas with Scott Brown. Until Lawwell receives a personal apology and the audio tape from Keith Jackson then they're not welcome at Parkhead. He's outside too.'
'Who?'
'Keith Jackson. He's outside in the street pleading to be allowed in to join the celebrations, full Celtic kit on and everything to show how big a Celtic man he is but Lawwell's having none of it until he gets what he wants and he'll wait a long time as the sociopath Traynor won't allow Jackson to back down. It's all very entertaining. When I signed up to manage a football team I didn't realise I was volunteering to be part of this soap opera, all very strange...' and his words trailed off as he noticed Charlie Gordon watching him intently.
'I need to mingle Spiers, catch you later' and with that he was off.

The night wore on, the noise got louder and as news reached the outer estates, more and more Labour MPs and councillors arrived in their green ties and socks. Lawwell by now had a few of his closest agents in the media surrounding him as he regaled them with stories of how he put one over Martin Bain and there were plenty of those tales. His cronies guffawed and spilled whisky, fawning over him something awful but then I was summoned and he beckoned me and the others into a private room. There was me, Hugh Keevins (allowed because of his Clyde connections and therefore exempt from the Record ban), Hugh MacDonald, Iain King, and a few young turk television producers. I was nervous as experience tells me in situations like this we're either going to be given an almighty exclusive or the thrashing of a lifetime. Lawwell waited for hush which was instant and then he started to walk among us, all the time saying, 'So what do you think of this signing then, eh? I'm sure none of you actually believed I could pull it off. In fact I'm sure most of you thought it was just the wishful ramblings of some of our more naive fans but no, I, Lawwell, have brought Robbie Keane to Celtic, his spiritual home. Yes, Mowbray's signed a few others whose names I can't remember right now but this is the big one, and I did it on my own without any prompting from the media... Without any hysterical incitement from anyone on the radio... Radio Clyde to be precise.'
All eyes turned on Hugh Keevins who blushed.
'Yes, Radio Clyde, Keevins,' Lawwell went on. 'I heard you loud and clear with your shrill pronouncements that Celtic must do this and must do that - our moron fans thought you were just being anti-Celtic but I knew different, I knew you were trying to cajole us into spending big to make up for Mowbray's failings as a manager. But do you know something Keevins? I didn't need your input, never have and never will and to tell you the truth, I've taken care of much better Keevins than you and will do again in the future so say goodnight.' And he pulled out a gun and shot Keevins through the heart.

Everyone else in the room backed off and stood gaping at the prone body of Keevins the third, fourth, fifth? Who knows? This was obviously a message to the rest of us. 'This is a message to the rest of you' shouted Lawwell. 'Never, I said, never doubt me again' and he threw down the pistol and walked calmly out of the room leaving us all standing in a silence which was disturbed only by the sound of Hugh MacDonald wetting his trousers which was nothing new really.

By the time I'd found the courage to venture back out into the pub, the party was in full swing, Mowbray was nowhere to be seen and a new Keevins was being introduced to the pack. Tuesday night's call in should be interesting to find out just how on-message the new Keevins would be, absolutely spot on would be my guess. I made my apologies to a few people before leaving but all they would do was laugh at me, accusing me of backing the wrong horse right at the last minute and asking me how I felt about my Sunday love letter to Mowbray now. I smiled at one of the republican girls as she opened the door to let me leave and then walked alone down the wet and grimy street as the wind whistled along the Gallowgate.

The Mowbray Sanction Part 4: The Return of the Traynor

Mowbray squealed and tried to get up but the Traynor pushed him back into his seat. I steadied myself, cleared my throat and said to the Traynor straight, 'I thought we were okay now?'
'We're fine,' growled the Traynor. 'This is between me and Mowbray here, it's personal.'
Then Mowbray, scared out of his wits, said 'Look Traynor, it's not personal. My beef is with Keith Jackson, not you' and as he said it, his arm shifted nervously across the table and knocked over his bottle of beer. The Traynor, acting instinctively, reached over and saved the precious booze from spilling over the floor while Mowbray, seizing his chance, ducked past him and out the door. The Traynor looked at me briefly, baring his teeth, then sighed long and hard and sat down beside me. 'It's just not the same anymore, is it Spiers?'
'Eh, what do you mean?' I asked.
'All this, it's just not the same. At least when Lawwell was in control of things you knew where you stood; but now, now we have factions and sub-factions all fighting amongst themselves, the media split down the middle, civil war raging in republican bars throughout the east end while Graeme Souness and the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos mop up the survivors and for what? Well, the reason for all of this has just bolted from this pub, his great nose bouncing as he gallops down Byres Road. I wasn't even tracking him you know, I just happened to be passing this place and saw the pair of you as I glanced in the window. Remember the old days when I'd try and kill you and then Stephen Purcell would appear from nowhere and we'd have the most marvellous ding dongs? Aye, those were the days. These days I'm too busy flicking away journalistic pipsqueaks in Celtic scarves to have time to find a really good fight. I'm bored Spiers, bored.'
Well this was a turn up for the books, here was the most feared animal in all of the Scottish sporting media confiding in me, but why?
'I've got an idea Spiers' said the Traynor, suddenly brightening up. 'Why don't you write a huge love letter to Mowbray in your column this Sunday and that just might get everything back on an even keel? You know how other journalists look up to you, they'll follow your lead, Mowbray will gain support, the in-fighting will stop, Lawwell will be back in charge and everything will be back to normal.'
I beamed in the knowledge that my integrity was a beacon for others in the sporting media and almost immediately began to form a new story in my head which would take the place of my usual Rangers baiting. 'I'll do it' I said and the Traynor shook my hand, downed the bottle of Mowbray's beer he'd saved and left the pub and as he did I thought I could hear the slightest, almost imperceptible sound of giggling coming from him. Strange.

So I got fully behind Tony Mowbray and now I wait for others to join me in my campaign. The only thing is, I've had an uneasy feeling since my column was published yesterday, a queer feeling that something's not right. I can't quite put my finger on it but it'll come to me eventually.