New Wine in Old Bottles

 

I'd popped into Hampden this morning to await the announcement of the new Chief Executive of the SFA when who do I bump into but George Peat, covered in wallpaper paste and paint with smoke rising from the top of his bowler hat. He was tip toeing around the hallowed corridors with an enormous ear trumpet, occasionally crying out, 'There, can you hear it? Singing, b'gawd - I can hear it as clear as you're standing here before me!' He started singing, 'Laaaa daaa, da da da da da da, is heeeeere.... tum te tum tee tum.... Hear it now Spiers, eh? What's that? Speak up man!'
'I didn't say anything George, still after your phantom I see - still think it's Gordon Smith?'
'I don't think, I know it's Gordon Smith,' he barked, 'bloody idiot didn't hand in his keys when we fired him and now he's using them to haunt the bloody place; skulking around singing at all hours of the night. Wait..., hear him now? La la laaaaa, the yada da of the niiiiiight.... The confounded swine, if I catch him, I'll fire him again!'
'Well I'm not sure you can do that,' I offered. 'But tell me George, this new Chief Executive of yours, who is it? Come on, you can tell me, it's Spiers - the only journalist in Scotland with an ounce of integrity.'
I thought he was choking on a grape the way his face went purple but he was only laughing at what I'd just said. I didn't like this one bit, the biggest laughing stock in Scottish football was laughing at me! I turned on my heels and flounced off to try and find Darryl Broadfoot, leaving Peat's guffaws to echo down the corridor and drown out the sound of someone singing in the rafters.

As I was searching for Broadfoot, I passed a strange little man dressed all in black with a top hat and carrying a net. At least I think it was a man as he moved with the strange gait of a ballet dancer with piles and he too was listening intently, seemingly to the walls. All very odd. I later found out his name was Stewart Regan and he was at the SFA to run their new members bar or something. I left wondering who the next Chief Executive was going to be and prepared myself for the Celtic Braga game on the internet since after all, the Scottish Times had no money to actually send me to games anymore. So I sat down in front of my laptop and at first I thought I'd stuck on a DVD of the Keystone Cops but it turned out it was only Celtic attempting to play football. This presented a problem though, how to report this disaster without drawing down the wrath of Lawwell? I considered this for a moment then remembered that absolutely nobody reads the Scottish Times anymore so I just wrote what I wanted and hoped for the best.