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?