The Lawwell Letters

 

'So if Neil Lennon's in hiding and the robot is still taking his place, then who is buying all these players? You know, Gary Cooper, Neil Hooper, whatever his name is, and Ephraim Juarez or Zac Efron or whoever and erm, all those other guys whose names I can't quite remember right now (and no-one will remember again in a years time) - who's choosing and purchasing that lot?' asked Harrison Ford as he sat on the edge of my bed discussing the current football climate in Scotland. The wife had got up early and gone to work but my old friends who appear to me every now and then, Harrison and Sylvester Stallone were waiting for me to wake up to chat about Celtic.
'I'm not really sure but since you mention it, perhaps it's something worth investigating?' I responded, getting out of my corduroy nightdress and into my corduroy action suit. I looked around for a response but they were gone so off I skipped on my own to begin sniffing around Celtic in search of answers.

My first port of call was the Chip. As ever, if you want to get a handle on anything going on at Parkhead you only have to hang around there and listen into the banter of the Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today bhoys. The faces have changed since their ill advised charge during Walter's Last Stand at the end of last season when they were all but wiped out by the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos during their valiant defence of Smith's Compound but BBC Scotland and STV made sure their replacements met the usual criteria: liberal/left leaning, Celtic supporting, west end trendies with a penchant for shovelling huge amounts of cocaine up their noses and bragging about their Celtic Minded mischief too loudly in Ashton Lane pubs. The place was empty however, which was odd so I toodled off to Parkhead itself to have a mooch around.

Upon arrival I witnessed the most curious thing - I'd been led into the waiting room outside Lawwell's office and the place was full of Hugh Keevins lookalikes, apparently being interviewed for the new position of Keevins since the last one came to a sticky end in Verbier after getting on the wrong side (again) of Lawwell during the close season seminary for journalists. I'd missed the whole thing having been too busy watching Graeme Souness outrun a helicopter with only his skis and a brilliant new moustache. I didn't want to miss this though and rather than announce my arrival, I slunk around watching the Keevins look-alikes go in and out and wagering with myself who I thought would get the job. Eventually there was one left and as all the others were put on the waiting list and sent home, I listened in at Lawwell's door as the successful Keevins was given his briefing.
'Now you understand,' began Lawwell, 'that previous Keevins have gone off at a tangent, thinking they were more important than Celtic and we've had to put them in their place?'
'Erm, yes,' replied the nervous new Keevins.
'And that place is usually at the bottom of the Clyde,' said Lawwell.
'And the Alps,' interrupted Father Wormwood.
'And occasionally the Eaglesham moors,' added Father Screwtape.
Fathers Wormwood and Screwtape were Lawwell's new side kicks, recommended by Mario Conti as a vicious pair of bastards who were very reliable when it came to certain inquisitory tasks. He'd taken them to his bosom during the close season and now they were very rarely far from his side although no one had quite seen them yet, only heard them.
'You can count on me,' said Keevins.
'I'd better be able to count on you or else you won't last, you hear me?' threatened Lawwell. 'Now your predecessors had a habit of taking over the Daily Record phoneline and making up the comments to suit a Celtic agenda...'
'Oh I won't be doing that' butted in Keevins, and I took a sharp intake of breath because I knew what was coming.
'Oh yes you fucking will! That is your prime directive, that if things aren't going our way then you print lies in order to get our message across, got it, idiot? There's still time for me to change my mind about you and employ one of the other guys you know'
'And you will disappear,' hissed Father Wormwood.
'And no one will know you were ever here,' slithered Father Screwtape.
'So leave at once,' screamed Lawwell, 'before I have the Fathers take your skin off with a pencil sharpener.' And with that Keevins hurried from the office to begin his new job ready to conjure up some lunatic comments and attribute them to football fans.

As he left, the door didn't quite close behind him and I went to take a peek in the gap to have a look at Fathers Wormwood and Screwtape but just as I was bending towards the door a huge scream exploded from within as if a man were having his very soul ripped from his body - it was excruciating and I couldn't bear it much more so turned to leave and as I did, I heard a voice dripping with evil whisper, 'So Kevin O'Hare, it's too late to stop your report in the Daily Record about Celtic fans rioting in Lincoln, is it? Let's see how late we can keep you here tonight then and how long you can stay alive with all this burning.' That whisper played around my ears and my hair moved as it physically whirled around me, a black, twisted sound that was almost taking shape and dragging me back towards the room. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands and it stopped suddenly and I fled Parkhead wondering what ancient and stinking malevolence Lawwell had invited into the world of Scottish football this time.