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.