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.