Quiet Days in Glasgow

As I suspected, the Traynor couldn't find Gordon Smith anywhere inside Hampden and indeed, found no trace of any phantom so who knows what George Peat is talking about? I popped over there yesterday evening to ask Peat what he thought of the Traynor's findings but when I got there I found that contractors had been re-laying the car park and somehow Peat had cycled into the middle of the wet tar and was quite stuck. I'll come back later, I thought but then as I was leaving I was sure I could hear the sound of singing somewhere in the basement.

I paid a visit to BBC Scotland on my way home and found Richard Gordon sitting typing furiously on his laptop while Pat Nevin hopped around his desk clapping his hands in excitement. 'What are you pair so animated about?' I asked. Gordon looked up at me and smiled, one Rangers hater to another and told me that it was their turn to spit roast Jackie Bird and that Pat was very excited about it, having never seen a woman naked before. I shuddered at the memory of when it was my turn and Matt McGlone and I struggled to work out what to do with her and where to put everything and then I wished them luck and toddled off to see if I could catch up with the Reporting Scotland bhoys. It didn't take long to find them, I just followed the sound of sniffing - they all suffered horribly at work from the effects of their prime Columbian intake every night in the Chip - but none of them could spare me the time for a chat as they were all working hard on keeping a lid on the Rangers league victory on Sunday and trying to find denominational schools from where they'd film Labour candidates gushing about education. 'We're under strict instructions not to mention you know what,' one of them told me. Oh well, seems like Lawwell hasn't completely lost control.

Later on I got home to the flat and found the wife in a cheerful mood, quite unlike her really but curiously I noticed she had red wine stains down the front of her blouse (that's the last time I'd get to wear that, dancing around the flat to Elton John while holding my Martin O'Neill scrapbook to my breast) and that she'd taken to wearing petticoats and stockings - this was odd, I wonder what she's up to? She was quite drunk but pleasant with it but then she started making lewd suggestions so I quickly picked up my laptop and bolted out the door before she could get her hands on me. As I strolled down Byres Road I noticed King Bastard coming towards me, pushing pedestrians out their way spitting on shop windows. I quickly crossed the road before they could see me and ducked into Bonhams and who was sitting in the corner with a pint of red wine, some of it spilled down his front, but Professor Tom Devine. He noticed me but didn't beckon me over as he was holding court over a bunch of local Labour activists, all wearing red rosettes and emerald green shirts. I stayed for a moment or two until I was sure King Bastard had passed and then I was off again, down Byres Road, whistling a gay tune and thinking that sometimes in life, nothing much happens.

Of course that's when it all kicked off.

The Abyss Also Gazes

The sweet smell of pipe tobacco filled the room as I sat waiting for Donald Findlay to speak. I'd been shown to his room by Mrs Hudson the housekeeper and was welcomed with a shake of his hand to sit down as he paced the floor puffing furiously on a number seven pipe. Before coming here I'd finally been cornered by the wife who was waiting at the back of my flat and jumped out at me when I'd lowered myself on a rope from the bedroom window - maybe I should get rid of this rope as I'm sure it's how Tom Devine, Bat Cosgrove and Alex Mosson when he's on the burglary again, get into my gaff constantly. Anyway, the wife surprised me by asking for me to take her back - it seems her latest arm candy, Jason Allardyce has gone back to his boyfriend, Bishop Devine and chucked the missus out on her ear a week ago so here she is begging to be let back into the marital home. Her sobbing touched my heart so I told her to hang on while I tidied away the Martin O'Neill scrapbook and took down the framed pictures of Matt McGlone naked and let her in, telling her to make herself at home while I set off on my latest adventure. I could still hear her crying as I closed the door behind me and set off for 221b Baker Street.

I'd been sitting in the middle of the pipe smoke for about half an hour before Findlay deigned to speak and even that was to simply say, 'He's here.'
'Who's here?' I asked and the door opened and in came Martin Bain, tucking his shirt into his trousers and straightening up his tie - was that a glimpse of a red cape I noticed sticking out of the collar of his shirt?
'Ah, Spiers,' said Bain, 'glad you're here. Has Donald told you anything?'
Findlay piped up, 'No, we haven't spoken yet - I take it you've been to erm, you know where?'
'Yes, yes, let's just say there are two men in Boston who won't be doing anything like that again in a hurry,' smiled Bain who I noticed smelled strongly of ozone.
'What did you do to them?' asked Findlay.
'Stuck ones head up the other ones arse, I thought it was for the best,' smiled Bain, sitting down, regarding me the whole time he was speaking.
'So Spiers, tell us how Lawwell feels about having an android for a manager then,' said Bain, turning to Findlay and laughing. So I told them about Lawwell losing his grip and not noticing anything wrong with the new Lennon and they listened intently, smiling and nodding occasionally.
'Yes, we didn't think he had,' said Findlay, tugging at his whiskers and taking a long slow pull at his pipe. 'He's so busy maintaining order with the few journalists he still has on side that he's not even stopped to wonder why his interim manager is rolling around the ground with steam coming out of his nostrils although with the past behaviour of this curious fellow, who's to notice the difference? No, no one at Parkhead suspects a thing, or if they do then we don't know about it but the thing is, and this is what interests me the most, since it ain't us and it ain't them - who's controlling Lennon?'
There was a long smokey silence until Bain spoke up, 'And that's what we want you to do, find out.'
'Me? Why me?' I bleated.
'Because, my dear fellow, we have pulled your fat out of the fire more times than we can shake a stick at. Why, on a monthly basis Graeme Souness saves your life, Donald here has rescued you on at least three occasions I can think of and who do you think arranged the reconciliation of Jason Allardyce with Bishop Devine to allow your wife to return to you?'
'That was you?' I squeaked in indignation. Who said I even wanted her back in the flat and me back in the closet?
'Of course, you can thank us later,' chortled Findlay, his eyes flashing with mischief.
'One thing you need to be aware of,' smiled Bain. 'We added a little something to Lennon's internal works when we had him in pieces at Murray Park, if anyone should try to make a fool of us next Tuesday...'
He left it at that and I wish he hadn't because I didn't have a clue what he was on about as by that point I was already thinking about Neil Lennon leaving something inside me. By this time though, it was obvious I was no longer needed and I rose from my seat to stop Mrs Hudson from pulling at my sleeve and coughing into her hand. As I was leaving the room I turned and said into the smoke, 'Do you think it's nearly all over? The madness I mean. There's never been a season like this before what with all the violence, gulags, monstrous creatures and deaths and everything. Now that you've won the league, do you think it'll finish?'
I heard Findlay chuckle and Bain's voice came from within, 'It could be. Or this could all just be the beginning, Spiers. Think about it, when did all these strange and awful things start happening? When did Lawwell turn from a mere bigoted Chief Executive of a second rate Scottish football team and become a raving monster? What turned Jim Traynor from an ignorant hack into a slavering beast and yourself from a pompous parochial sports writer into a ranting Rangers hating parody?. All these things have one thing in common and Cosgrove wasn't far off it when he called you a weirdness magnet. Yes Spiers, all of these things began to happen the moment you began to write your diary. Strange, eh? Think about that on your way home tonight. Oh, and remember who your friends are when Lawwell has his strength back and is brandishing that horse whip of his.'

I left 221b and jumped into a hansom cab and sat beneath my corduroy great coat listening to the sounds outside of the horses hooves as they clattered along the cobble stones, pulling the cab behind it. I gazed out of the window and saw silhouetted against the full moon, the shape of a man dressed as a bat crouching on a rooftop. This was all rather rum and that's without even considering the interim manager of Celtic being a robot. I sighed, then lay back in the cab and gazed unto the abyss.

Knocking on the Salarian Gate

All I could hear was the roar of the wind as the ground although miles away, came rushing towards me at a pace which had me crying and wishing I hadn't become involved with Jim Murphy and his attempts at trying to woo back the Catholic Labour vote. Behind me, the huge aircraft, Inquisition II, fell to earth in flames, blazing a trail of acrid black smoke behind it - much like my career these days but that didn't concern me quite as much as the fact I had no parachute. Then I heard the flapping of another flysuit beside me in the sky and there was Graeme Souness as he fell alongside, struggling to get his spare strapped to my back. I could see the clear shapes of trees now through the clouds as Souness strained to buckle me up then with a click, he pushed me away from him, winked and said 'See ya loser' and I felt the awful force of the parachute halting my fall as Souness sky-dived onwards without me until I saw the puff of his own parachute billow open below. He reached the ground a good fifteen minutes before I did and was into a waiting jeep and driving off just as I came to an undignified landing into the middle of a Ferniegair pig farm, not the first time I may add that I've been up to my neck in shit at a piggery. I lay there, feeling for broken bones and wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end this time.

The next day I fetched up at Hampden to see how George Peat was getting on with his phantom only to find a great crowd gathered on the steps. I forced my way through the melee to reveal a great black van rocking on its wheels at the centre, howling emanating from within. I spotted Darryl Broadfoot and squeezed up next to him and asked him what was going on.
'Peat is convinced the phantom is Gordon Smith so he's brought in some specialist hounds to hunt him down.'

This was bound to be interesting so I hung around for a bit until the back doors of the van opened and half a dozen distressed dogs came bounding out and ran off howling into Kings Park. The van continued to rock though and I could hear a horrible growl and clanking of chains so I peeked in only to see the Traynor chained to the rear of the van. The driver pulled a lever and the chain dropped from the Traynor's neck and he stalked out, looked around him, growling at the crowd who took a step back as one and parted, leaving a path for the Traynor to leap up the steps and into Hampden. He'll be a while in there, I thought, as I didn't believe Gordon Smith was the phantom at all so I loafed off over to Parkhead.

Lawwell was holding a briefing for the Scottish football press but his office was almost empty, he was beginning to lose his grip I noted. He still had a few of the usual suspects lined up and was marching up and down behind them, thrashing them with his horse whip and demanding that as soon as Rangers win the league on Sunday that they bring up the Rangers finances and pursue the line that Walter Smith would be leaving, this alongside some speculation about the new Celtic manager should ensure the Rangers title win would be off the back pages by Tuesday. The old Lawwell however, would've been dressed in a shining new Wehrmacht uniform but today he was naked save for a standard issue German helmet and thong which granted, had a swastika on the pouch but this was no way for him to conduct business if he was to retain the fear factor among my colleagues.

The weekend came and went and nothing of note happened save for Rangers winning the league, so on Sunday night I wrote a couple of pieces and a column which didn't contain any savaging of Rangers or their fans and hoped that this would be an adequate thank you to Souness for freeing my burning foot from the webbing inside the Inquisition II and then jumping out after me with a parachute after I'd tripped over Paul Cooney and fallen backwards out of the jumping bay without one.

The season nears its end, I sense the fall of the Lawwell Empire and yesterday morning I received a telegram from Donald Findlay asking for me to visit him at 221b one last time before the football finishes up for the summer. I wonder what that could be about?

Le Fantome de Hampden

I visited Lawwell yesterday and found him in the process of upgrading his office. Gone were the oak panels, replaced by sandbags and barbed wire and two sentries now stood on guard at his door. I was frisked and allowed in only to be confronted by him naked except for a pair of comedy Freddie Starr Hitler underpants. He was marching up and down his office brandishing his horse whip and swatting at imaginary mice. This didn't exactly set me at ease and  I took my usual seat on the floor to report to him what I knew about Lennon, leaving out practically everything I'd found out about the android replacement and the involvement of Rangers - no point in upsetting him while he's fragile I thought.  Plus there was also the little matter of my being paranoid that Bat-Cosgrove might be spying on me. Lawwell eyed me suspiciously then turned and thrashed Tommy Gemmell with the horse whip. After about ten minutes of this I realised he'd quite forgotten I was there so I got up and backed towards the door and got out without him noticing. As I was leaving Parkhead, I observed a Rentokil pest controller at work in the corridors laying down traps for the infestation of imaginary mice Lawwell had reported. As the man was laying the traps, Lennon stood behind him in a scruffy tracksuit shouting 'Exterminate! Exterminate!'  All very strange but since he's like that every night in his cups anyway, nobody noticed any difference.

Not as strange as it is at Hampden where I went next. As I got there, George Peat was lying in a horses' drinking trough, up to his neck in water. 'Hello George, got a replacement for Smith yet?' I asked. George harrumphed and got out the trough and accompanied me up the steps to the SFA offices where in the distance I noticed Darryl Broadfoot leave his office into the corridor, notice us walking towards him then scurrying back into his office and locking the door.

We arrived at Peat's office which was a mess of various splashes across walls and the floor - some white paint here, black tar there, feathers covering almost everything. George sat down behind his desk and I sat on the chair in front of him, the chair farting in protest. He looked at me and said 'I didn't get where I am today without noticing strange goings on in the dungeons and alcoves of Hampden. Something odd is happening in these hallowed halls, Spiers: maniacal laughter late at night, a dark figure flitting around in the shadows, singing. I tell you Spiers, I think this has something to do with Gordon Smith - he knows I stabbed him in the back and somehow he's returned to exact revenge.'
'Sounds damned odd to me George,' says I.  'Couldn't there be another more rational explanation? I mean, it's a bit far fetched to imagine that Gordon Smith is haunting Hampden' and just as I said this, there was a noise from the wall at the far side of Peat's office. We both halted and looked towards the huge arras covering the wall which seemed to be moving ever so slightly. I looked at Peat in horror and he raised one finger to his lips for me to be quiet and got up from his desk, silently pulling a sword from his umbrella stand. 'How now? A rat?' he shouted, running towards the arras, his sword pointed towards the shape moving behind it.
'Dead for a ducat, dead!' and he ran the sword through the arras as someone howled in pain. I jumped up and pulled back the curtain to reveal Darryl Broadfoot pinned to the wall.
'Oh, hello Spiers, George,' he said, grinning through gritted teeth while his blood trickled down the wall.
'What in blue blazes?' goggled Peat.
'I was just looking out for you George, honest! I know how you're shaken by this phantom business and didn't want you saying to Spiers here anything that might be misconstrued. It's my job after all, remember?'
Broadfoot's babbling seemed to satisfy Peat who pulled out the sword, told Broadfoot to get to the nurse and sloped back to his seat, moving to sit down but missing the chair and landing behind his desk in a puff of feathers.

It didn't satisfy me though, Broadfoot was doing more than looking out for Peat, he was spying on him for Lawwell, I was sure of it. This didn't bother me in the slightest so I went home and put together a piece for the Times on Billy Davies being associated with the Celtic managers job which I wrote solely to remind Celtic fans that Billy Davies played for Rangers, knowing that this would completely scupper his chances - if the Parkhead hoards can't handle a non-Celtic-Minded Gordon Strachan managing them, how are they going to react if an ex-Ger took over? No, this would be quite impossible, Reid and Lawwell wouldn't allow it but just in case, I reminded everyone why they shouldn't allow it: bigotry, plain and simple. I dressed it up in language which cast a thin veil over this fact though so it wouldn't lead to a summons to Lawwell's bunker. Scuppering Davies's intentions would benefit my old friend Lennon, providing we find him that is. Even if we don't find him, who's to say the android version isn't an improvement? Happy then with the day's work, I stuck on some Elton John, got out the Martin O'Neill scrapbook and lay back in bed for a long, pleasant evening.

Some Velvet Morning

I had just left a meeting with the SPL split committee where I'd gone to interview them about Walter Smith's claims of a Celtic bias but unfortunately I didn't get the chance of a one on one interview with anyone as Peter Lawwell had beaten me to it and had them all lined up on phones, denying to the press any impropriety while he stalked up and down behind them, slicing them occasionally with his horse whip, a Luger pistol hanging menacingly from the holster of his Wehrmacht paratrooper uniform. So I loafed along to Hampden to find out what Gordon Smith and George Peat had to say about things when I was met with the most astonishing site - Peat was hanging from a broken clock on the face of Hampden while below, Gordon Smith stood covered in whitewash and shaking his fist.
'What's up Gordon?' I asked and he turned, surprised and scowled at me.
'I've quit Spiers, that's what's up,' and he took off his bowler hat and threw it onto the Hampden steps and stormed off. I chased after him, asking him why but he got in his car without answering and switched on the ignition only for the engine to blow up in a puff of steam, sending the bonnet into the air as the wheels collapsed and the body hit the ground. Smith got out and hailed a taxi and disappeared round the corner as I turned and wandered back to speak to Peat. I found him in the canteen having extricated himself from the clock. He was eating a shoe.
'Well, we're never doing that again,' he said, taking a bite of the sole. 'Too much bother.'
'Never doing what again?' I asked.
He cut a lace from the shoe and shovelled it into his mouth like spaghetti, 'Never employing a Chief Executive from a Rangers background, that's what. You wouldn't believe the amount of documents I've had to hide from Smith over the past three years and the amount of meetings with John Reid I've had to carry out in car parks behind his back, I'm just glad it's all over. No, the next CEO will be a Celtic man again, it'll save us all a lot of hassle.'
And with that I left trying to figure out the best way to ignore what Peat had just exclusively told me and how to spin it so that Rangers get the blame.

On the way home I popped into the Times Glasgow office to be met by a receptionist spraying air freshener everywhere. They must have a problem with the plumbing or something in that office as every time I visit, they're always running around with the glade and opening windows. The editor wasn't around so I chatted to one of the secretaries for a bit until she took a sudden coughing fit and fled the room after which there was nothing for me to hang around for so I headed back to the west end and nipped into the Chip for a quick drink but I spotted the wife hanging around the bar, obviously looking for me so I didn't go right in, opting to go over to Jintys instead. The republican girls were there and upon seeing me, ushered me into a corner where they gathered around conspiratorially and asked me if I'd noticed anything strange about Neil Lennon. Knowing that there was an ongoing mission regarding this with Donald Findlay, Cosgrove the bat man and the Graeme Souness Rangers 80s Squad Commandos all keeping an eye on proceedings, I didn't dare venture an opinion but heard from the girls that although they've all been serviced by Lennon for a few years now, recently he's started performing like a machine, never stopping and quite exhausting them all. It got me thinking that maybe I should get in on the action while the android Lennon is around as the real Lennon (wherever he is right now) only lasts a few minutes whenever he's galloped me. You see, after Lennon was taken to bits at Murray Park, they put him back together again and let him loose for observation only for him to malfunction a few times at Celtic Park on Saturday, rolling around the ground with steam coming out of his nostrils. Yet again, such is Lennon's behaviour at times, no one from the fourth estate noticed anything unusual.

Feeling that Jintys was too close to the Chip where the wife was stalking me for some reason, I took off to Oran Mhor where I noticed Professor Tom Devine sitting in a corner with Gillian Bowditch. That's a strange pairing, I thought as I approached them.
'Hello young Spiers,' burped Devine, holding up a pint of red wine with one hand while fondling Bowditch under the table with the other.
'Have you met Gillian Bowditch, religion obsessed columnist with the Scottish Sunday Times? Gillian's a genius, why only yesterday she published an interview with some playwright and got the fact that he was Irish Catholic into the second sentence - the second sentence Spiers!' and he guffawed and grabbed at Bowditch's stockings as she snorted and waggled her tongue at me, the wine dribbling down her chin and onto her petticoats. How far she's fallen, I thought as Devine got up and put his arm around my shoulder and walked me away from his table.
'This isn't for any old trollop's ears, Spiers. What's this I hear about you consorting with various huns around town, don't you know that those Orange bastards have a way of getting into your head? They're not getting into your head, are they Spiers?' and he stared at me.
'Not at all Tom, surely you can see from my latest work that I'm still completely on message although I'll admit I have been consorting with some people from Rangers but only to fight them from the inside. How about my piece yesterday totally denying Smith's figures on the SPL split? I mean only a Celtic mad lunatic would deny easily accessible data, don't you agree?'
'That's my boy,' rumbled Devine and patted me on the back before returning to Bowditch and slapping her arse to her squeals of delight.

Enough done for the day I was on my back to the flat when I bumped into Stuart Cosgrove on Byres Road, he was dressed in denim with no mask on.
'Hi Stuart, no bat costume?' I asked.
'Never in the daylight Spiers, never in the daylight,' he replied in a whisper. 'Just thought I'd remind you that the eyes and ears of the Movement are everywhere, that's all.'
I stood still and watched as he sauntered off down the road, leaving me gobsmacked. What did he mean by that? Had he been listening to my conversation with Devine? Worried in case I'd been rumbled, I ran back to the flat and stuck on some Elton John to calm me down.

I, Lennon Part 8: Asimov's First Law

The room was bathed in an eerie blue glow and men in surgical gowns and masks stood around testing various obscene looking instruments, Neil Lennon was strapped to an operating table while I sat in the observation deck with Donald Findlay, Martin Bain, Graeme Souness and Stuart Cosgrove who was still dressed as a bat. They hadn't tied me up because as Souness pointed out, I didn't have the balls to try to escape. I found the whole situation very strange because I've visited Murray Park many times over the years and never come across this part of it.

Then below one of the surgeons approached Lennon, pressed a scalpel to the side of his face and looked up at us and nodded. Then he cut around Lennon's face with the scalpel and peeled off his skin while Lennon lay there without flinching. Carefully, the surgeon pulled back the epidermis and revealed underneath, a skull - not made of bone but of metal! So this was why Neil had been rolling around the park at Hampden and Lennoxtown with steam pouring from his ears - he's a robot! But hold on, I thought, I've seen him bleed, I've seen other very human bodily fluids pour from his body so this android must have replaced the real Neil Lennon at some point recently. Donald Findlay spoke up as if having read my thought process.
'Yes Spiers, the real Neil Lennon is being kept somewhere and was replaced with this remarkable contraption sometime around the four nil defeat by St. Mirren but we're not sure exactly when. We were onto it almost immediately of course, after its antics during the semi-final but we just couldn't be sure given the past behaviour of the real Lennon. We had to be certain though considering we're now entering the final stage of the season with a game against Celtic still to come - who could risk some hideous self-destruct mechanism hiding within this metal body that could take out our first team in one fell swoop? The questions are, where is the real Lennon? Do we care and who is operating him because is sure isn't Peter Lawwell who is quickly losing his grip these days and doesn't have a clue about this, wouldn't you say?'
'So, so what do we do next?' I stammered.
Findlay chuckled and sucked on an unlit pipe as we all looked down at the operating table where Lennon's head lay in a dish, wires hanging from it's neck.
'That all depends what happens this weekend,' said Findlay and winked.

I, Lennon Part 7: The Weirdness Magnet

I was taken to Ashton Lane and led up familiar stairs to the Ubiquitous Chip bar where there was a lock-in taking place. Unfortunately for me, there were none of the reassuring faces around - no Scotland Today or Reporting Scotland bhoys or so I thought. As Cosgrove led me inside I noticed them all gagged and tied up behind the bar along with the staff while Donald Findlay stood by the window gazing over the lane towards Jintys.
'Bloody hell Donald, you do this all on your own?' I asked, astonished that he'd overpowered so many. Findlay turned and noticed me, chuckled and said, 'Not at all Spiers, I had a little help' and as he said it, Raman Bhardwaj entered from the other room.
'Revenge is sweet,' was all he said as a huge grin spread across his face.

Cosgrove locked the door behind us and pushed me towards the bar and then went over to Findlay and the two of them had a whispered conversation, looking up at me every now and then, causing my stomach to knot with that usual feeling of impending trouble. Then they both nodded their heads and without saying a word Cosgrove strode purposefully towards me, grabbed me by the throat and pulled something from his cape and wrapped it around my neck, then he pulled me downstairs and threw me violently out onto the cobbles of Ashton Lane. I got up and looked around but the lane was empty then I looked at what Cosgrove had stuck round my neck but before the full horror of the situation could sink in, the door of Jintys burst open and Neil Lennon came running out and attacked me. Cosgrove had wrapped me in a Rangers scarf!

'Neil, Neil, it's me, Spiers!' I shouted but to no avail as spitting on the scarf, he rained down clumsy punches on my head. Then I heard a couple of loud bangs from above and a net fell on the two of us as we struggled on the ground, then it lifted us up and I just had time to see Graeme Souness's winking face as we were hauled through the air in the net and dumped into the back of a black van where Avi Cohen and Stuart Munro bound us to the walls, the doors shut behind us and we were driven off to god knows where.

I, Lennon Part 6: At Midnight all the Agents

Having found that I can no more stop myself laying into Rangers than I can stop myself breathing, I knew I was in trouble with Cosgrove. At the end of the show I sat there dumbstruck and shaking in disbelief at what we'd just done as we looked at each other and wondered what to do next.
'We need some protection from that bat man,' quaked Maguire. 'What about your friends the Republican Bhoys?'
'Rounded up after that Hapoel business at the City Chambers,' I said.
'The Green Brigade, what about them, surely they'll come to our aid?'
'Slaughtered by Donald Findlay that time they kidnapped Tony Mowbray,' I recalled.
'Well who then? Who will come to our aid now?' he was almost hysterical now.
'I've got an idea,' I told him, smiling at the brilliance of the plan forming in my mind.

It took until the end of the night before we had summoned them all but at last we had gathered a motley little crew and we all stood on the roof of the Radio Clyde building eyeing each other up suspiciously. There was the Traynor, slightly bruised but let out for the night and looking at the moon wondering whether or not to start howling. The Joker, Tam Cowan was there giggling as he played with his gloves which had razor sharp talons installed in the fingers. Two Face, Chick Young stood around twirling a flick knife on the end of one finger and the Piddler, Hugh McDonald sulked in the background, a puddle forming at his feet.

It was the Joker who insisted that as a gang of super villains, they should have a name and everyone agreed that the Traynor's suggestion of King Bastard was good enough to be getting on with so off we went, into the night - Maguire and me and King Bastard, daring Cosgrove to attempt anything now.

It took two minutes. We'd reached the car park when there was a blinding flash of light then a bang and from behind a pillar came rushing a great black figure dressed as a bat. Everyone was disorientated from the thunderflash as Cosgrove spun and smashed the Joker on the face with the back of his fist, turned and hit Two Face a beauty to the solar plexus while swiping the Traynor's legs from underneath him and slamming his head into the ground. It was over in seconds. Cosgrove crouched in front of me and looked up slowly as the Piddler wet himself and ran off towards the stairs leaving me and Maguire with the rest of King Bastard lying unconscious on the concrete floor.
'You're coming with me Spiers' growled Cosgrove and took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me towards his batmobile which was sitting in the darkness at the other side of the car park.
'And I haven't forgotten about you, Maguire or Martin or whatever you call yourself. I'll be seeing you around' he shouted back at Peter who had fallen to his knees sobbing.

I, Lennon Part 5: The Long Dark Knight of the Soul

Hugh McDonald was only the first. Something had got into Rangers and suddenly anyone criticising Kyle Lafferty which let's face it, was every journalist on the orders of Lawwell, received a visit that night from the bat man. The next day I was in Lawwell's office, briefing him on what I'd found on Lennon so far; he was in a foul temper and when I first came through the door he was kicking chairs, tables and Tommy Gemmell around the room.
'Who the hell does Martin Bain think he is, me?' he was screaming as he helped Gemmell out of the room with his boot.
'You must admit Peter, this isn't like Rangers at all, not their style,' I offered but he turned quickly and glared at me.
'"Peter"? "Peter"? Herr Lawwell to you, cretin and if I want any advice on Rangers I certainly won't ask a rosary tinted oaf like you' and he aimed his horse whip at me but I ducked just in time and it swooshed over my head. This just made him more angry so I made myself scarce just as he was pulling a Luger from his desk drawer.

I laid low for the rest of the day before fetching up at Radio Clyde where I'd been invited to lay into Rangers by Peter Maguire. Maguire looked nervous when I arrived and he sat there in the sound booth with the mechanical clown that is Derek Johnston switched off so the place was in silence.
'What's up Peter?' I asked and Maguire went deathly white and glanced over my shoulder. I turned and there, inches from my face was the black hooded face of Stuart Cosgrove. He said nothing then turned and was gone.
'I think that was a reminder,' said Maguire. 'I hear he's been silently assaulting anyone daring to criticise Rangers this week, perhaps we'd better go easy on them today, eh?'
The poltroon within me agreed, why my knees were still shaking from the fright of finding him behind me just then so what else could I do?
Then the show began and something strange happened - we immediately fired into Rangers and spent the whole night attacking Lafferty. It seems that we just can't help ourselves!

I, Lennon Part 4: Hugh Are You?

After the intriguing meeting in Martin Bain's office at Ibrox I was deposited on Byres Road by Stuart Cosgrove who deigned to slow down his batmobile before kicking me out this time. I got back to the flat and had stuck on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and was bopping around in my corduroy underwear to All the Girls Love Alice when the phone rang. Letting the answer machine take it, I continued to nod my head to the music while admiring my reflection in the mirror when I heard the wife sobbing a message into the machine, something about reconciliation but I ignored it, having too many important issues on my mind like how to work for Peter Lawwell and Martin Bain simultaneously without letting Bain know I was secretly planning to betray Rangers the whole time?

Things were quiet the next day as I loafed around the Celtic training facility at Lennoxtown with my notepad, watching Neil Lennon quietly steam in the middle of the park as his players tripped and gangled their way around the pitch like the Keystone Cops on acid. That night however, things took a more sinister turn as Rangers struggled at Tannadice and a three line whip from Lawwell arrived on every journalist's mobile phone regarding Kyle Lafferty. Big Kyle had been blootered from behind by Kovacevic who received his marching orders and Lawwell, never one to miss an opportunity, saw this as another chance to rally the faultering Celtic support in a campaign against the Northern Ireland protestant and distract them from the real issues affecting the club. Why, only today I'd heard of the recent meeting Lawwell had with various fan groups where the big talking point wasn't the wholesale destruction of the team by Tony Mowbray but the fact that Celtic had poppies embroidered on their jerseys for armistice day. I don't know if this was Lawwell deflection or supporter group lunacy - perhaps both, but it was sheer genius nonetheless.

So we got to work on the Lafferty incident and Hugh McDonald was the first away with his match report but little did we know that high above us on the roof of Tannadice, crouched Stuart Cosgrove, his batcomputer hacked into the Dundee Utd mainframe. He intercepted McDonald's piece and was waiting for him as Hugh went to the loo. As McDonald walked through the door the first thing that met him was a clenched black fist straight in the nose and he wet himself as his knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor. Holding his face and looking up, McDonald bawled, 'What the fuck was that all about? Look at me, I'm covered in blood and piss! You punched me, you bastard!'
'No Hugh, I've only been adjudged to have lashed out at you, there's a difference as well you know,' growled Cosgrove from underneath his cowl and then from his cape he produced a cattle prod and stuck it in McDonald's arse and there was a terrible noise as Hugh's bowels went.
'Oh Christ, now I'm covered in shit and piss and blood - what was that for?' whined McDonald.
'That was to show you what a real cattle prod feels like, if you want to know why then look to your latest campaign against Lafferty and Rangers in your Herald article - this isn't rocket science you know McDonald, eventually you'll get the message.'
And with that Cosgrove turned and disappeared out the door in a flap of leather as I stood unseen at the back of the toilet, peeking over a cubicle where only moments before I'd been receiving a roasting from Roddy Forsyth.

I, Lennon Part 3: What Does the Deep Midnight Declare?

As we were leaving Parkhead with Celtic trailing one nil to Motherwell and Neil Lennon behaving in the most odd manner, I was considering just how easy it was for Donald Findlay and me to infiltrate Celtic Park and observe matters from the stand when suddenly from out of nowhere sprang Georgios Samaras and Andreas Hinkel pointing guns straight at our chests. We stopped and raised our hands cautiously as Samaras approached us, his pistol levelled straight at me.
'Thought you could sneak in here and back out without being noticed, eh boys? You forget Celtic's strong ties to the Labour Party, there are more CCTV cameras in here than anywhere in the world - Big Brother is watching, hmmm?' said Samaras in that curious accent of his.
'With so much CCTV around I'm surprised you never finger the lighter throwers, pitch invaders, mobile phone launchers and various other miscreants, eh you dirty dago?' taunted Findlay enough for Samaras to lose his temper, press his finger to the trigger and fire his weapon. I shrieked in fright as his gun went off but he missed me and hit the wall three yards to my right.
'I knew he couldn't hit a cow on the arse with a bag of beans, come on Spiers, let's get out of here,' yelled Findlay and took off out the gate but I was rooted to the spot as Hinkel now pointed his gun at me, his gun shaking as Samaras stood beside him, his head in his hands, wondering how he could've missed such an easy shot. I could hear Findlay outside the ground shouting for me to make a break for it but I was too scared. Then from above I heard the familiar sound of leather wings flapping and a black shape swung on metal chord from the roof towards me and lifted me off my feet and into the air, tossing a smoking orb towards Hinkel as we went. Hinkel tried to trap the bomb but fumbled and it fell between he and Samaras and went off in a cloud of smoke sending them choking and screaming up the stairs. Stuart Cosgrove dressed as a bat held onto me as we swung over the gates and into his batmobile and we roared off quickly followed by Donald Findlay and his companion Watson. Here we go again, I thought as we drove towards Ibrox.

We arrived there just in time to find glazers fixing up a window on Edmiston Drive and an ambulance driving off. Our motley crew got out of our cars and climbed the marble staircase and entered Martin Bain's office just in time to find him buttoning up his shirt beneath which I caught an extraordinary glimpse of some sort of blue, red and gold logo. Bain saw me looking and turned away as he finished with his buttons.
'What the blazes happened here?' exclaimed Findlay.
Bain looked at us all, standing there in front of him; Findlay all in tweed, Cosgrove all in leather and me all in corduroy, and he cocked an eyebrow.
'Oh just a little fall out with our friend from across the city. Apparently Mr Lawwell wasn't too pleased with my comments about sporting integrity and sent the Traynor over to teach me a lesson. Of course I showed him the quick way out of Ibrox and that's him in the ambulance just now,' and he looked out of the broken window as the sound of a siren disappeared into the night.
'Now, what do we have on Lennon?' asked Bain, sitting down behind his desk. I looked at Findlay who was looking at Cosgrove. 'Nice cape,' he said.
'Same back,' said Cosgrove and we all sat down and Findlay told Bain all about his suspicions about Neil Lennon.

I, Lennon Part 2: The Game is Afoot

Donald Findlay and I were undercover at Parkhead to monitor Neil Lennon; me because I'd been ordered by Lawwell and Findlay for some nefarious purpose of his own which he wouldn't divulge, choosing only to chuckle every time I asked him what his interest was in the situation. Although undercover, we weren't in disguise and Findlay sat as usual in his deerstalker hat and tweed suit and cape while I kept up my sartorial elegance in matching brown corduroy jacket, trousers, shirt, socks and shoes. We weren't in disguise as there was no one around to notice us, Celtic Park being as empty as a Royston chapel during an old firm game. As we sat awaiting the teams coming out, a soft wind blew old newspapers across the stands, the cry of gulls echoed around the stadium and little whirls of dust blew up from the trackside and carried up the aisles to where we sat alone, Findlay merrily smoking his pipe with no one to bother him.

The first half was telling, Celtic puffing around the park like drunken sailors on shore leave while Lennon raved on the sidelines but there was no sign of any smoke from his sleeves or whatever I was supposed to look out for. Then in the second half Motherwell scored and suddenly I knew what Lawwell had been saying as Lennon's head began to twist unnaturally around in circles, sparks flying from his neck and steam rising from his scruffy tracksuit top. At this point Donald Findlay stopped chortling at Celtic's antics on the pitch and sat up and watched Lennon with a keen legal eye, humming and tugging his whiskers as Lennon lay back on the turf, his feet kicking in the air, fire now issuing from the backside of his tracksuit trousers.
'I've seen enough Spiers, come on,' said Findlay and we left our seats, scattering pigeons as we climbed the stairs towards the exit.

I, Lennon

I can't swim so as I was going under for the third time and noticing the circling barracuda I wondered what would take me off first, drowning or those vicious creatures. Then a strong hairy arm grabbed me by my sodden corduroy trunks and hauled me on board a dinghy. I lay back in the boat, gasping for breath, feeling the hot Bahamas sun beating down on me as Graeme Souness steered us towards land. I must have passed out because I came to with the sound of chattering Nassau fishermen looking down at us from a jetty as I noticed Souness climbing out of the dinghy, crossing the wooden slats and jumping into a waiting hovercraft with Stuart Munro at the helm and a dozen Bahamian beauties in bikinis welcoming their hero. As they sailed off into the sunset I lay there in the dinghy and wondered how on earth I was to get back to the west end this time.

I arrived home to find that many things had changed in my absence. On the door mat was a letter telling me of divorce proceedings from the wife who was now shacked up with Jason Allardyce of the Sunday Times and on my answering machine was an hysterical message from Peter Lawwell summoning me to Parkhead. I checked the internet and found that Celtic had gone out of the Scottish Cup in the semi-final to First Division Ross County so I could hazard a guess at what Lawwell would be looking for - damage limitation. I was wrong.

I arrived at Celtic Park to a strange sight, that of the Traynor scratching at the door of Lawwell's office. As I passed him he snarled a little then went back to pawing the floor. Lawwell's door eventually opened, the Traynor cowered a little and Glen Gibbons walked out, limping a little and looking flushed. He looked down his nose at me as I stepped around him to go into Lawwell's office for my briefing. Lawwell was sitting behind his desk, out of breath, dressed in Potsdam fatigues and clutching his riding crop, 'Sit down Spiers. On the floor,' he said.
'I need you to investigate something for me,' he continued, not looking me in the eye as I got down onto the fabulous emerald green carpet with Celtic crest - the very same one that's in the office of the old Glasgow Herald I thought. 'Ever since we made Neil Lennon the caretaker manager of Celtic, I've noticed something very strange about him. He's taken to the Italian fascist uniforms like a true Celtic hero but occasionally I notice smoke coming out of his collar or sometimes his cuffs or trouser legs. Once I even spotted steam coming out of his ears. This isn't right Spiers and I want you to utilise all your investigative journalism skills to find out just what's going on here. You're close to him, too close if you ask me but look into it anyway.'
'My investigative journalism skills?' I asked. 'With all due respect Herr Lawwell, you should know more than most that I haven't an investigative bone in my body - I only write what you tell me or make up stuff denigrating Rangers, that's more my style.'
'Well it's time to grow up Spiers, the job's yours whether you like it or not. You're about the only person I can trust at the moment - the rest of the press, scenting blood, are on us like a pack of hounds and after the stooshie Alex Salmond made about the last time I locked up the media, I can't very well go around erecting Gulags again no matter how up for it the Labour Party were. Oh I'll give you the usual stuff to be going on with, you know - all that emotional guff about the Celtic family and we might even pop in a few mentions of the diaspora, maybe a wee leak here and there about Lennon's links to Irish Republican terrorists - that'll keep the fans happy until we can get to the bottom of this. Now off you go, I've got to see the new Keevins in five minutes, millions of fans indeed - how many times do I have to tell him it's tens of millions? Don't let me down Spiers.'
And with that I was booted out of his office, past the Traynor still whimpering at the door and past a long queue of priests with hangdog looks on their faces which I found deuced odd.

I hadn't got far from Parkhead when I turned a corner and there leaning against a wall was Donald Findlay, whistling happily to himself and puffing on a pipe.
'So, the game's afoot, eh Spiers?' he grinned as I felt my innards quaking at the prospect of yet another astonishing adventure with this mad fellow.