Strange Interlude

 

The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Especially when there's a delegation of disgruntled Scottish sports journalists propping up the bar, making clumsy attempts at flattering the scantily clad waitresses as they sigh and go about their business. We were all in Verbier for a spot of ski-ing secretly arranged by Lawwell as a close-season get together to thrash out with all those not in South Africa for the World Cup (most of us) how he'd like our reporting of the new football season to proceed. After we were given lectures on how to report on-field matters by Lawwell himself and how to report off-field matters by Bishop Joe Devine, we were taken to the Eugene O'Neill Casino to unwind a little.

Things have changed since I last took pen to diary, the weirdness has gone - no more gulags, horse drawn carriages or stand offs between super powered freaks from the world of football journalism. No, everything's been rather calm; even the wife has stopped consorting with Professor Tom Devine and settled back down in our marital home although I notice that although much more sober now, she still stays awake at night and sobs before coming to bed when she thinks I'm asleep.

Yes, big changes: Lawwell cancelled my death warrant, Cosgrove stopped patrolling the rooftops at night dressed as a bat, Donald Findlay got back to work as Queen's Counsel and Celtic fans continued to wear their football strips day in, day out as a badge of honour in spite of winning nothing last season, not even some Green Shield stamps.

Neil Lennon, to my knowledge, is still being represented by the android as Lawwell's agents have yet to locate the real Lennon although I suspect he's holed up (literally) with the republican girls and is quite happy as long as no one tells any of his girlfriends where to find him. I thought I caught a glimpse of him in Ashton Lane a week or so ago, rolling around the cobbles and screaming sectarian hatred at some teenager who was wearing a Rangers t-shirt but it was just some other random bigoted ned with a chubby frame and ginger hair wearing green tracksuit trousers, they really are everywhere at the moment.

So there I was enjoying the fresh alpine air in the early hours, taking a breather from the scent and smoke and sweat of the casino and marvelling at the crystal clear stars twinkling in the black night when I noticed one of them was moving. I kept an eye on it until I noticed a beam of light stretching from this 'star', cutting a white streak through the darkness and disappearing into the woods on the side of the mountain. The faint noise of rotating blades soon made apparent that it was a helicopter and that the beam of light was searching for, or following something or someone. Just at that moment James Traynor came loafing out of the casino and joined me on the balcony, he had a glass of brandy in one hand and was holding a cigar in the other. He puffed blue smoke into the cold air and sighed, 'This is the life, eh Spiers? No worries out here, hold on... Is that your diary you're holding there?' He seemed shocked to see it. I nodded, keeping an eye on the helicopter, noticing it was getting closer to the casino.

It was as if everything happened at once and in slow motion: Jim choked and dropped his brandy glass, his body jerking in spasm, teeth biting hard on his cigar sending the lighted part falling onto the timber balcony floor; the helicopter got closer and closer until I saw what it was the searchlight was following - a man on skis, dressed all in black with a bristling dark moustache. He skied all the way over to us until it was obvious it was Graeme Souness and as he pulled up, showering us with icy snow, he removed his goggles, winked at me and said, 'Be seeing you, loser!'

Meanwhile behind me a great beast howled and the Traynor leaped off the balcony and galloped off into the dark woods.

It had begun.