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.