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.