The Alphonse Karr Factor

We're not even into the beginning of the season yet but there we were, lined up in Lawwell's office at midnight as he paced up and down in front of us in his Wehrmacht uniform, flailing around with his horse whip and screaming instructions to us about tomorrow's editions. Meanwhile, Neil Lennon sat whirring and clicking behind him as we all pretended not to know that he was a robot and that the real Lennon was lost in the west end somewhere with a pack of wanton hottentots. Apparently Lawwell had the robot Lennon's circuits over-ridden to wrest control of him from Walter Smith and was persevering with it until his agents could track down Lennon who, scared of going head to head with wily old Walter, was hiding behind the petticoats of the republican girls.

So, in the aftermath of the Celtic fans rioting in Lincoln, Lawwell put out a three line whip and we all fetched up in his office as he dictated our reports on the singing of the Rangers fans in Australia - yes, that old chestnut. No mention was to be made of the Celtic fans in Lincoln - the twenty arrests, the banning orders, fights within the stadium or the disgusting pro-terrorist chanting and compliant to the last, we all took notes and recorded his ravings on our dictaphones, some of us even seemed to be aroused by the process and at least one charming young journalist had a commotion going on inside his corduroys. As I was leaving Parkhead, I noticed the Traynor howling into his mobile phone and felt pity for the poor subby at the other end who had to translate that into copy. Lawwell needn't worry though since such is the Daily Record, the subby would probably be at that very moment, wearing a Celtic top anyway and no matter how insane and deranged the Traynor's rantings, it'd still read Rangers bad, Celtic good.

By the time I got home it was very late and the wife was in bed, seemingly having cried herself to sleep beside a picture of Aamer Anwar which was a turn up for the books as I thought she'd got over him judging from her behaviour since I turfed him off the ledge at the City Chambers last year, since when she'd been consorting with Bishop Joe Devine's arse puppet, Jason Allardyce and coincidentally also being seen on Devine's brother's arm, the monstrous Tom Devine. This of course was all very disappointing to me as one expects more of one's beards. I removed the photograph from her sleeping arms, tore it up and put it in the bin in the kitchen where I noticed an unopened letter addressed to me sitting on the worktop. I opened it and out fell a single white feather which was strange. I put it to the back of my mind and toddled off to the toilet with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook under my arm and iPod tuned into Elton, looking forward to knocking one off when I noticed a face peering in through the window. Since it was only Alex Mosson, I opened the window and shooed him away and he scrambled over the fence and went off to burgle someone else. This put me off my stroke somewhat and I ended up going to bed quite frustrated. I also posted copy on my latest piece for the Scottish Times but since no one buys the paper and now that the online version charges for access, no one reads it either, I doubt anyone will ever know.

So, as another season approaches and it looks like nothing much has changed, I look forward to many more adventures although I hope that this time I'm not dragged into quite as many hair brained schemes which see my hide in danger of a roasting and not in a good way.