Walter's Last Stand

We heard them before we saw them, in fact we could smell them before we saw them, the angry hordes of a small Celtic Minded army marching on a secluded warehouse in the middle of some fields outside Newton Mearns. They were coming under the cover of darkness but the first wave was wearing those awful bumble bee away tops and presented an easy target for Souness's sharp shooters. Their numbers soon told though and it wasn't long before the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos were engaged in hand to hand as the BBC Scotland column, out of their heads on cocaine and their own unique hatred of Rangers, threw themselves onto the mealy bags. Souness stood above it all, a calm, reassuring voice above the madness, instructing his men and moving them to the flanks to meet the charge of the priestly flying squadron and take them at the bayonet, which is after all what the priests had been doing to their choir boys up until now.

Somewhere to the left I could hear the howls of the Traynor and his fellow freaks from King Bastard as they wrestled with Mark Falco and Graham Roberts and came off the worst. On our right the republican girls had forgotten why they were there and were being pumped by some spotty youths who were all that remained of the Green Brigade. It was at the centre though, that it all fell to pieces. Mad Joe O'Rourke came hurtling towards it in Lawwell's Panzer tank and knocked the mealy bags down, breaching the defensive wall. Everything looked lost as screeching Celtic fans poured through the breach but then a whistle blew and the doors to the warehouse opened and out came an army of mechanised Ally McCoists. The Celtic Minded army was no match for them and they fell away in the face of a concentrated assault by thinner, fitter, Allys all sporting curly mullets and wearing retro Rangers tops.

As the mop up operation began, Stuart Munro and Robert Fleck brought some prisoners into the warehouse and they were thrown to the floor in front of Donald Findlay and Martin Bain who resisted Graham Souness's suggestion that he take them behind the sheds and put bullets into their skulls - he's a blood thirsty one, that Souness. Pragmatic as ever, Findlay decided that these prisoners could do Celtic more damage if they were set free to wreak more havoc with their buffoonery on the outside world which outweighed any benefit of sticking them behind bars beside Jack and Bridget McConnell. So the Traynor, Joe O'Rourke who was still foaming at the mouth, Hugh MacDonald who as usual was creating a puddle where he stood and stinking the place up and a few others, were all let loose.

'Well then,' chuckled Findlay. 'You weren't expecting that after a meaningless Tuesday night old firm match, eh?' and everyone laughed. Except me. I knew I would still have to face the wrath of Lawwell sometime and it was obvious after being set up tonight by kindly old Walter, that I no longer had the protection of Rangers and all their agents. Bain allowed me to wait a while to allow the Traynor and his buddies' howling at the moon to fade into the darkness of the moors to make sure they'd gone home, and then I trudged dolefully out of the compound, leaving behind Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos, Bain, Findlay, Cosgrove and Walter with his curious collection of Ally McCoist replicas. I left them all and leaving them behind I became aware that I was now leaving with them, any feeling of safety I once had and that the future now held only awful and unforeseen horrors. I paused one last time at the edge of the field and looked back and felt a strange sensation of sadness that whatever spurious connection I once had with Rangers was now gone and I wondered one last time, how I was going to get back to the west end from here?





Spiers will return in the summer in Graham Spiers the Musical.

The Final Curtain

So the season's nearly over and after all of the adventures I've had, coming close to death on numerous occasions only to be saved by someone from Rangers, who'd have guessed that it'd be wily old Walter Smith who would eventually seal my doom? I'd walked right into a trap and now Peter Lawwell was gathering the full might of the Celtic Minded to launch against me.
'What the fuck did you do that for?' I asked Walter, Bain, Findlay and Cosgrove.
'You've been asking for that for years, you mincing ponce,' sneered Walter.
'Don't tell me you thought we were preserving your miserable hide all season because we like you Spiers?' laughed Findlay.
'Because you're a Rangers hating twat,' sighed Bain.
'I just hate you,' said Cosgrove.
'But why wait until now?' I asked, confused at them pulling my fat out the fire all season only to betray me now.
'Two reasons my talentless friend,' began Findlay. 'The first being that even although Mr Murray turfed you out of his orgy in Paris that time for feeling up Michelle Mone while he was on top, he still had a soft spot for you for some reason and as long as he was in charge at Rangers, you weren't to be touched. Since you were untouchable we considered keeping you under observation until such a time that Murray would be gone and you were worth more to us in our battle against the forces of evil. When Walter suggested that we replace Lennon with a robot and make sure he get the Celtic managers position to make our third title in a row an easy one, we realised that once the fans were clamouring for Lennon to the get the job, we were free to reveal to Lawwell and the press that they'd been fooled all along and who better to blame for the deception than you? Of course the press will never report this, Lawwell will see to that but I can assure you, that lunatic won't rest until you're dead and buried.'
My heart was sinking, for so long now I'd been so smug that I could act with impunity as far as Rangers were concerned and all along they had been planning to stick me in it at the end of the season. My mind would have been racing had it been quick enough so as I slowly pondered the pickle I was in, my mobile phone came to life as dozens of texts arrived at once, all of them from various members of the Scottish football press gloating that Lawwell was sending the combined might of King Bastard, various Celtic supporters groups, the republican girls, the Cape Wrath flying squadron of priests, even a small column of volunteers from BBC Scotland and all led by Joe O'Rourke in Lawwell's personal Panzer tank. They knew where I was and they were converging on Walter Smith's secret laboratory right now. I was just wondering how they knew where I was when the final text came in from the Traynor saying that there was a locating device lodged in my colon, put there by someone who'd rogered me, sneered then spat on me over the past nine months - well that could be anyone!

Suddenly the door flew open and in strode Graeme Souness, sporting a new fighting moustache and carrying a bazooka.
'Lawwell's hordes are descending on you, there'll be no retreat from here, we must die where we stand,' he growled.
'I have the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos building up mealy bags outside but we need more men if we're to make a last stand here.'
'I have just the thing,' said Walter Smith and he rushed over to his great computer and pulled a few levers and flicked some switches and all of a sudden the rows of Ally McCoist robots on the walls sprung into life.

And to think only a few hours ago I was in the press box at Parkhead watching a game of football.

Revealed and Interview with a Wanker

Revealed

Low branches whipped across my face as my game little filly flew through the fields, kicking up dirt behind us and snorting with excitement. At this rate I had no fear that the flying squadron of armed priests behind me would ever catch up with us but just as I was thinking this, my horse reared at a fence as Frank McGarvey suddenly appeared from behind a hedgerow wielding a rifle at us. I screamed as I was thrown from the saddle and watched as my filly galloped away without me as McGarvey approached, bayonet at the ready. I closed my eyes anticipating the horror of being run through with cold steel when all of a sudden from out of the trees came Graeme Souness on a magnificent black steed, charging down McGarvey with a lance. Then Souness reined in his beast and picked me up and before I really knew what was happening, we were haring across the fields to safety. From a safe distance I could just about make out the priests dismounting and slapping McGarvey around the head with some incense burners for letting us get away. After half an hour of going at the gallop, Souness trotted us into a little farmhouse just off Cape Wrath and he hopped off and into a waiting jeep, winked at me, said 'see ya loser!' and drove off without me, leaving me regretting once again trying to follow the paper trail for the Celtic Tour of Japan, 2008 and wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end this time.

I got back to Glasgow just in time for Lawwell's routine thrashing of the Scottish football press before an old firm game. We were all gathered in his office and it was just like old times as he whipped everyone into a frenzy of Celtic Mindedness with his horse whip except this time he had a full grown beard and was completely naked - the pressure obviously getting to him.
'Now remember,' he ranted. 'Callum Murray is well primed for this game so your job is to completely ignore some of the more contentious decisions we are about to witness, alright? If McGeady goes down as if he were a Kamikaze pilot who'd just spotted an American arsenal and no one is near him, you do not mention it. If Fortune palms away a defender's face like a rugby player on coke, scores and the ref doesn't award a foul, you do not mention it. If any of our players go through Rangers like a priest through a deaf school for boys, you ignore it. Are you getting the message?'
Everyone harrumphed in agreement and filed out and up into the press box where their complimentary sandwiches, bungs and Celtic scarves were waiting for them.

The game came and went with Celtic winning and celebrating as if the win was worth eleven points and just as everyone was making their way to the after match press conference, I felt a tap on the shoulder and it was Donald Findlay looking unusually jovial considering his team had just lost.
'Come with me Spiers, we have something to show you. I think you'll like it,' he said and led me out of Parkhead and into his car. Martin Bain was sitting inside and as Watson drove us off, I noticed we were being followed by Bat Cosgrove in his batmobile.
'We have to be quick because we're expecting quite a show,' grinned Martin Bain.

The car eventually pulled up next to a field just outside Newton Mearns and we got out with Findlay leading us along a dark path until we came across an abandoned warehouse where Cosgrove went to work on the lock. As the door opened slightly, Findlay reached out a hand and stopped us all from entering for just one moment to allow him to say, 'This is it gentlemen, I present to you the man who has been controlling the Neil Lennon robot all this time.'
We gasped in unison and I felt the excitement rise in my corduroy pants. Then the door opened and we were greeted with the site of a great laboratory full of machines with steam rising from them, enormous computers that wouldn't look out of place in the 50s and curiously, along one wall, a row of powered down life size robots of Ally McCoist. In the middle of all this, pulling leavers and speaking into a microphone stood an older, grey haired man with his back to us. He must have heard us close the door noisily behind us because he turned round and I realised it was Walter Smith.


Interview with a Wanker

Walter Smith smiled at me like a kindly uncle then turned back to his microphone and continued to have an interview with the assembled press pack at Parkhead but conveying his message through the mechanised voice of the Neil Lennon robot.
'So it was you all along?' I asked, whistling in amazement.
'Of course,' said Findlay. 'Who did you think it was going to be?'
'Well,' I replied. 'I was kind of leaning towards it being Martin O'Neill.'
'Of course you would, Spiers. What about you Martin, who did you think it was going to be?'
Bain considered this for a moment and suggested 'Purcell?' but Findlay laughed.
'Purcell? Pah! His part in our great drama is over, it was never going to be him. Cosgrove, who was your money on?'
Cosgrove raised a gloved hand to his chin and stroked it before venturing, 'I honestly thought it was going to be Mowbray all along.'
'No, not Mowbray,' mused Findlay. 'No, it was never going to be anyone other than our own Walter, the old rogue! Come and listen to what he's up to.'
So we all gathered around Walter Smith and listened as he spoke into the microphone - we could hear the questions being asked of him from speakers positioned either side of us.
'So Walter Smith accused Hinkel of a lack of professionalism Neil, what is your reaction to that?' said a voice from the press pack. Walter winked at us and leaned towards the microphone.
'Well Walter shouldn't be saying that about Celtic players,' said Walter. 'I've never said anything about Rangers players, erm, since I've been manager, um, the last week..., maybe today, eeeeeeerm, no, I've never said anything detrimental about Rangers players in the last five minutes so Walter should maybe take a leaf from my book.'
I could hear Findlay and Bain sniggering behind me.
'Do you feel your chances of being confirmed manager for next season have been bolstered by this victory?' came the next question from the speakers and again Walter spoke into the microphone,
'Of course, everyone at Celtic knows I'm a safe pair of hands and the fans love me - where else would they find a manager who is as bitter and bigoted as they are?'
Findlay guffawed as we heard the gasps from the speakers.
'Aye,' continued Walter. 'There's nobody hates those orange bastards more than me; the fans appreciate that, the chairman appreciates that, the Chief Executive appreciates that - I'm a shoo in for the job!'
There was bedlam on the other side of the line as the press shouted and screamed questions while in the background we could hear the sound of Lawwell's horse whip as he tried to regain control of the melee. Then Walter took a step back and said, 'Now, watch this,' and he turned a dial which had three settings: chimp, monkey and Glenn Gibbons, he turned it to monkey.
'What does that do?' I asked.
'That makes Lennon's head spin round forcing steam out of his ears,' explained Walter.
'But why? Why give the game away now? Surely everyone in that room will know he's a robot now?' and as I said this I could hear the exclamations from the Parkhead press room as the media realised Lennon was an android. There was a huge commotion until one voice came bullying its way to the front and spoke directly into the face of the robot Lennon, it was Lawwell.
'Okay then, we know that's not Neil anymore so who's controlling this machine, eh? Who's got Neil Lennon and who's letting the cat out of the bag about how we feel about the huns? I mean, Rangers!'
Just as I was wondering how Walter was going to get out of this one, I looked around and Findlay, Bain, Cosgrove and Walter Smith were all staring at me, the smiles gone from their faces. My bowels dissolved as the realisation hit me that all was not right with this situation and then I felt the dagger pressed against my back. Cosgrove whispered in my ear, 'Tell them who you are, Spiers.'
My mind was spinning, Lawwell's voice was crackling through the speakers demanding to know who was controlling Lennon and Cosgrove had a knife pressed against my kidneys. I leaned down and cleared my throat and sobbed into the microphone, 'It's me, Graham Spiers.'
Everyone in the press room burst out laughing, the entire place dissolving in hysterics as Lawwell raved through the speakers that he was going to rip me from limb to limb, he was going to duck me in acid, he was going to feed me to Elaine C Smith, he kept screaming until Walter leaned over and switched off the controls.