Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad

 

We splashed through the tunnels for almost an hour in the pitch black, the only light coming from the occasional lighting of a cigarette by Albertz and every time he lit one, he'd contrive to blow smoke in my face. Every time. How did he know where I was in that stygian darkness? We came across the occasional slow mutant: lost Glasgow City Councillors, moaning and grappling to get a hold of us for what, food? We didn't stop to find out. Soon we reached the City Chambers which was empty of course, there being a Celtic match on, and we stepped into the light. What we saw had us scrambling for the dark again - there waiting for us was Torquemada, the Celtic minded super villain dressed head to toe in white robes with a pointed hood through which his green eyes glistened with hatred. He moved with lightning speed, aiming a punch at Albertz who disappeared as if he had never been there in the first place, and Torquemada turned to fix on me but I was haring back down the stairs and splashing along those dark tunnels, heading back to Parkhead, howling and fearing that I'd do a Hugh MacDonald and soil my corduroy pants.

I didn't stop running and by the time I reached the stairs to the Parkhead cleaning cupboard, I thought I'd lost him since I hadn't seen or heard a thing during my frantic flight but then the tunnel lit up in an eerie green glow and my heart sank as Torquemada appeared in front of me, his arms folded, robes billowing as he levitated at the bottom of the stairs. I sank to my knees and began to sob, there was no strength left in me to flee again down that disgusting tunnel and I was beginning to accept that it was the end of the road for old Graham Spiers, champion journalist and defender of the great oppressed when there was a crack of thunder and Master Mason appeared behind Torquemada, tapped him on the shoulder and as he fell for the oldest trick in the book and turned his head, Master Mason landed a punch such that would fell a mighty elephant and Torquemada's glow disappeared with him down the tunnel, landing with a crash miles away under the city centre. Master Mason looked at me and I saw those blazing blue eyes through the mask that covered his face, he winked at me and shot off into the darkness to pursue his mortal enemy. Well you didn't have to ask me twice so I was up and out of that tunnel in a twinkling and continued fleeing until I'd run all the way through Parkhead and in my panic, I fetched up in amongst the Green Brigade and that's how I came to be singing and dancing with them and how I came to have their superb banner stuffed up my corduroy jumper and ushered out of the ground to safety by sympathetic Celtic stewards.

As I made my way home I popped into the offices of the Scottish Times and gave the banner to the editor and it now has pride of place in his office. While I was there, I switched on the radio and listened to the rest of the Celtic match and wrote my piece right there and then, trying to hide what I was doing as the editor passed me on his way to dinner with John Reid. He sniggered. 'No one reads it anyway Spiers, I don't care if you're there or not,' and he left.

Thus I Refute Lawwell

The thing about the Green Brigade is that no matter how many of their heads Donald Findlay pulled off or how many of them fell on the bayonets of the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos, there are always more spotty faced youths to take their place. They resurfaced like Hydra again on Sunday, waving some badly illustrated banner and haranguing the bigots of Rangers while utterly failing see the irony in their hatred of the Rangers fans. Of course I was in amongst them, singing along like a good 'un and why not, it's refreshing to celebrate diversity in this manner and who out there is going to chastise me? Certainly not the Scottish press who almost to a man, missed the Celtic match due to the impromptu meeting Lawwell called after watching Rangers take three off Hibs at Easter Road. Lawwell, never one to miss an opportunity to tell the media how to do their job, had watched Kyle Lafferty receive a red card and figured that there was no time like the present for another campaign of intimidation against the Northern Irish protestant. Since being hunted from John Reid's mansion last week, I'm not sure if they know it was me or not and have been keeping a low profile anyway, just in case. So I lurked around the back of the queue to get into Lawwell's office and then when no one was looking, ducked down a corridor and hid in a cleaners cupboard.

I stood there in the dark, appreciating the silence after the din of too many fat journalists smelling of Scotch and yapping in excitement when suddenly from behind me, I heard a match being sparked up. I almost jumped out my skin and would've shrieked like a girl had I not been even more scared of Lawwell hearing me. I turned and there behind me was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter, lighting up a cigarette. The small flame of the match illuminated his face briefly then he shook it out and blew cigarette smoke in my face.
'How did you get in here?' I whimpered, holding my chest and trying to keep my lunch down.
'Quite by accident,' said Albertz. 'I was poking around the City Chambers and finally found the secret tunnel that leads from there to Parkhead. I've always suspected it existed, indeed Donald Dewar tried in vain to find it in his final years as he attempted to rid the Scottish Labour Party of institutionalised bigotry and we all know what happened to him. So now I've found it, it's quite a walk and I chanced upon some sights to chill even me to the marrow - in the tunnels below, there are creatures; foul, dank creatures, descended from those Glasgow City Councillors who got lost in their hurry to get from the Chambers to Celtic home games and remain scurrying around the tunnels in all that's left of their cheap suits and emerald green ties. They were easily avoided, I reached the steps leading up here and found you hiding in the entrance which looks like it's disguised as a cleaners cupboard. So I take it you're avoiding Lawwell?'
'Too right I'm avoiding him, he's briefing the press right now, to not let a day go past without lingering on the Lafferty and McGregor incidents today. He's also heard somehow, that Kenny Miller hasn't got long to go on his contract and has everybody primed to cause him unrest with strategically placed subterfuge about who is interested in buying him and anything else that might unsettle his game, especially after he pumped three goals past Hibs today. But how did he find out about Miller's contract? I mean, I know he has moles everywhere but surely not inside Ibrox?'
'Screwtape,' said Albertz.
'I don't know if I even know what that looks like, how about cellotape? That should be around here somewhere,' said I, looking around the cleaning cupboard.
'No,' said Albertz, 'Father Screwtape. That's how he found out and guess what Spiers?'
'What?'
'He's coming in through the ducts right now and is forming at your ankle.'
I looked down and shone my keyring torch at my feet and Albertz was right, there was a disgusting brown mist coming through the ducts and swirling around my leg which froze at its touch.
'Don't worry,' said Albertz, 'he can't hurt you without physical form, he won't even be able to possess you - no, these demons need someone with no will power of their own, someone with the intelligence of a cretin, someone unable to resist the power of evil... Come to think of it Spiers, we'd better get you out of here.' And with that, Albertz opened the secret door into the tunnels and we disappeared into the darkness to escape the malevolent spirit of Father Screwtape.

What we didn't realise as we ran down the steps was that having lost us, Screwtape's essence had slithered into the corridors of Parkhead where coincidentally, right at that very moment, Neil Lennon was passing on his way to the changing rooms. The malignant brown smoke enveloped him and entered through his nostrils and Lennon's eyes turned a bright, burning red, he fell to the floor jerking, his arms and legs in spasm, green bile vomiting out of his mouth and ears. Although such is Neil Lennon's behaviour these days, no one noticed that he'd been possessed.

The Old Man and the Quay

After all the excitement of the previous night, I'd popped into Hampden for some light relief and found it in George Peat running around the corridors of power in his long-johns, carrying a blunderbuss and threatening to shoot anyone who even sounded like they were singing Andrew Lloyd Webber songs. I loafed around for a bit but he didn't claim any victims, instead he slipped on a puddle of milk and let off the gun which blasted the ceiling, bringing plaster down on his head. He sat there covered in plaster and spilled milk and started crying so I left to visit the BBC Scotland bhoys to see if anything more interesting was happening at Pacific Quay CSC.

BBC Scotland's Celtic Minded Nerve Centre was a hive of activity. All around me, the BBC bhoys were running to and fro, updating websites, ceefax, and writing copy for the radio and television news, expurgating any mention of Rangers two new signings. By the time they were finished and had all sat down in the canteen for skinny latte and a wee rendition of the Fields of Athenry, you would never know that Weiss or Jelevic even existed, never know that Rangers even existed. Meanwhile if Neil Lennon even farted, it made headline news (although Neil Lennon farting being a negative news story, obviously Lawwell would issue some made up on the spot good news to encourage everyone not to run with the fart story - so everyone was happy; the BBC bhoys got their Celtic headline, Celtic spun over a fart and Lawwell rested easy knowing he had knocked the Rangers off the news again). After such a busy day, it wasn't long before they were all in the Chip, comparing sandals and backpacks, taking too much coke, drawing straws on who gets to spit roast Jackie Bird and celebrating their diversity by singing anti-protestant songs even although half of them were born Church of Scotland. I joined them for a few pints but left after Professor Tom Devine came in for a pint of port and sat at the bar, growling at David Leggat who sat at the other side with a pint of sherry and a measuring tape which I found strange, was Leggat indicating he had the measure of them all? I took a mental note of this and vowed to investigate Leggat at a later date.

I sauntered over to Jinty's and found the republican girls holding a wake, crying into their Guinness. It turns out Neil Lennon had given himself up allowing Lawwell to put away the robot Lennon for the time being but as the real Lennon fumed and smoked trackside as Celtic played Utrecht in front of a few dozen of the greatest fans in the world, no one noticed any difference. I reported on the match from what I heard on the radio and wasn't worried about any fall out from this since no one reads the Times anymore anyway. I mean no one. It's beginning to concern me. After the match, report submitted, I headed for home but as I was walking down Ashton Lane, who came striding towards me but Matt McGlone and Roddy Forsyth, arm in arm. They pretended not to see me but that was impossible since I followed them to the door of the Chip, tugging on Matt's sleeves, sobbing. Then I ran all the way home and cried myself to sleep, waking this morning, vowing to revenge myself on Roddy Forsyth who for too long now has been trying to take over my crown.

Playing With Fire

The thing about creaking floorboards is that they always sound much louder to the one making them creak than the one in the next room who's not supposed to hear them. John Reid and Peter Lawwell were in the dining room of Reid's country mansion discussing Aiden McGeady's departure. It was easy for me to overhear as I sneaked past the door with Jorg Albertz who had brought me here to investigate the evisceration of the most recent Keevins (for that was who was found under the Jamaica Street bridge) and the disappearance of Chick Young and Hugh MacDonald when they got too close to Alan Dick's silence over the Celtic fans' sectarian chanting at Inverness on Saturday.

'The fucking little prick,' growled Lawwell. 'Thought he was better than the club that made him, well I showed him - let's see how he likes Siberian winters on the Russian Front.'
'Keep an eye on the fans though please Peter,' said Reid, 'you know how much they love him, not for his playing skills of course but because he's a bitter little scrote who, like them, claims to be Irish even although the closest he's been to Ireland is a day trip to Girvan beach with his mammy last weekend. No, we must be careful as I've said in the past, we don't want a return to car park protests - we need to keep the car park clear for secret meetings, remember?'
'Don't worry about the fans, I've already thrown them a bone in the shape of a couple of exclusives to the Record and the Herald where they'll state that McGeady left Scotland because of the bigotry and the nightclub beatings. No one needs to know that the beatings were all by his own fans when they approached him to shake his hand only to find he was a despicable little scumbag who had no time for them. And the bigotry? Well, we'll lay the blame for that at the feet of Rangers fans as usual even although it was every fan of every other club in Scotland who hated him for turning his back on the Scottish national team. The Record and the Herald will lap it up, you know how they love to hate Rangers.'
It was at this point that the floorboard beneath my corduroy deck shoes creaked and I froze, not wanting to move my foot off the offending board lest it creak again but Jorg Albertz reached back and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and motioned for me to continue. I stepped off and the floorboard gave a slight sigh and we continued on up the wooden stairs while Reid and Lawwell continued their palaver unaware that they had company.

Albertz led me to a huge room at the back of the mansion and we entered and closed the door. The room was dark, illuminated only by the lights from the garden outside, the leaves from the branches of trees swaying in the wind by the windows throwing eerie shadows across the room which was empty except for one large Indian rug spread across the wooden floor. Albertz put a finger up to his lips to keep me silent and motioned for me to shine my torch to the floor and as I did he bent down and rolled back the rug to reveal a strange pattern painted onto the floorboards.
'A magic circle,' whispered Albertz, more to himself than to me.
'What's a magic circle?' I asked, puzzled.
'Demonology,' he whispered, this time to me. 'It can protect you from evil or it can be used for evil. I suspect the latter in this case. I've long suspected Celtic had been playing with fire when I heard rumours of two priests newly joined with Lawwell for the new season to ensure Neil Lennon got off to a successful start. These priests, recommended by Mario Conti no less, are called Father Wormwood and Father Screwtape. Wormwood and Screwtape are two second level inquisition demons and I've met them before but never on the physical plane and yet here they are now, almost certainly holding Chick Young and Hugh MacDonald and responsible for the cruel murder of Hugh Keevins.'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about Hugh Keevins if I were you, he gets murdered usually every week, Lawwell will soon find another,' I chipped in, a little too loudly only to be met with a steely glare from Albertz.
'Less of your prattling, Spiers,' he hissed at me but it was too late, my voice had carried and we could hear Reid and Lawwell downstairs wondering what the noise was.
'Shit, what are we going to do?' I panicked, 'Reid will have his guards on us in seconds!'
'You can run if you like, Spiers, I'm going to take my time and leave by the front door,' said Albertz, calm as you like.
'But how will you get away by doing that?' I almost screamed at him.
'By making myself invisible to them of course.'
And at that, I realised I was dealing with yet another maniac and decided to leg it. I opened the window and as I was about to launch myself onto one of the trees outside, I turned and saw Reid's guards run into the room, straight past Albertz as if he wasn't there and run directly at me. I jumped and crashed through the branches, missing nothing on the way down before landing in a heap on the ground. I was up in a twinkling though and absolutely sprinting across the lawns before Reid could release the hounds. Now in the old days I used to be able to call on Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos to get me out of a pickle like this but they'd disowned me at the end of last season. Even Donald Findlay who was also my occasional saviour had taken up bee keeping in exile recently so I knew I was on my own. In the distance behind me I could hear barking and see torches scanning the grounds and still in front of me there was no sign of a fence over which I could scramble to safety. I was beginning to sob like a woman now, fearing that this time it was all over and cursing Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter for getting me involved in this when suddenly in front of me there appeared a cloud of dense black smoke, rising from the grass and forming into some hideous, malignant shape, hissing and filling me with a dread I hadn't felt since I'd accidentally walked into the Glaswegian Bar on match day. I stopped, paralysed with fear and just as the cloud took the form of a cloaked figure with burning red eyes, I felt two strong hands grab me under the arms and suddenly I was airborne. I was lifted up, higher and higher, through the clouds, and across the countryside before being deposited on my backside in some bushes just outside Larkhall. I just had time to spot the mask across the eyes and the square and compass on the chest of my rescuer before he soared off again into the sky and disappeared, leaving me wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end from here.

The Lawwell Rides Out

Well the increasing madness of late indicated that the football season was about due to kick off and it did and what a curious weekend I had. Another article in Saturday's Times which no one read since its circulation in Scotland is less than that of the Beano and since they started charging for online access, my fan group among Celtic fans has disappeared. Still, I made my way to Inverness along with every other prominent member of the Scottish sporting press, all under strict orders to ignore the unfurling of the league flag at Ibrox while praising Neil Lennon and his collection of hod carrying foreigners as they huffed and puffed and took one goal off Caley Thistle. The main talking point of the day though was the Celtic fans as they celebrated their culture by singing obscene songs about Irish terrorists. As we sat in the press box, sweating as the chants became so loud that we couldn't ignore them, we all realised that considering our behaviour when the same thing happened at the same ground with Rangers fans a few years back, we'd be accused of hypocrisy if no one attempted to intervene, so at half time we got together over our complimentary lunches and Celtic scarves laid on by Lawwell and discussed who was going to approach the SFA observer. Since he had volunteered to clipe on Rangers before, we had no option but to send old Two Face himself, Chick Young. He squealed and chirped in protest but once the Traynor stepped forward and growled at him, he realised there was no backing down and off he sloped to the main stand to ask the SFA observer what he was going to do about the chanting from the Celtic fans. We didn't see him again.

We later heard rumours that Hugh MacDonald had passed Young as he made his way up the stairs towards the main stand and had heard a most awful sound from behind him and turned just in time to see an awful black shadow engulf poor Chick before he disappeared. That night I cornered Hugh in the Chip and asked him to explain what had happened. His eyes bulged and a dark patch appeared on his trousers as he gripped his glass of whisky and told me what had happened.
'Chick didn't look too happy to be chosen to approach the observer, he remembered the last time he'd crossed Lawwell and fetched up in a bamboo cage, hanging from a tree for a fortnight and was afraid Lawwell would see him before he could make his point and get out of there. As it turned out, he didn't even make it to the top of the stairs. I'll never forget that noise, Spiers; it was awful - like a cross between a sheep and a cow only deeper, it fair gave me a start so I turned round to see what ungodly creature had made such a sound and I saw what looked like a cloaked figure, only it seemed to be made of smoke - don't laugh, it's true! It enveloped Chick, he squeaked and then disappeared leaving behind only the faint scent of wormwood.'
At this I heard a chair scrape behind us as it drew back and a tall blonde figure in a long black coat got up and left the pub. I told Hugh to wait there and got up and chased after him, thinking I recognised him from the other morning at that scene of horror under the Jamaica Street bridge but when I got to the bottom of the stairs he was gone and there was nothing to see but Neil Lennon brawling on the cobbles with a couple of teenagers, nothing unusual there I thought and went back upstairs but when I got to our table, Hugh MacDonald was gone, leaving behind his whisky, a damp patch on his seat and the faint, almost imperceptible smell of, yes, wormwood.

One day into the new season and things are taking a turn for the weird already but this seems to be just a little more sinister than the events of last season. I finished my drink and thought of going home and phoning the number on the card I was given on Thursday. Perhaps Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter would be able to explain things since it was surely he who had been listening to MacDonald's story before they both disappeared. On the way home I came across Ewan Cameron who was whistling down Byres Road with an empty leash in his hand. I bade him a good evening and asked what he was doing.
'Alan Rough's slipped the leash again,' he sighed. 'The last time this happened I didn't see him for days and it turned out he'd pupped some bitch on heat out in Hamilton. Honestly Spiers, anymore of this and I'll need to have him neutered, you'd think at his age...' he paused, smiled apologetically, shrugged and off he went, whistling away and shouting for Alan Rough to come back to him.

The Lawwell Rides Out: Prologue

Prologue

The phone began to ring around four in the morning, it was still dark. I was tired so I let it ring and it stopped. Five minutes later it rang again, and again and again until the wife complained and Tom Devine leaned over from the middle of the bed and answered it. 'It's for you,' he said and dropped it on my chest. I got up and took the call in the en-suite cursing myself for rising, knowing fine well that Devine would stretch out and take over my side of the bed.
'Jamaica Bridge, Clyde Street, now' said a mysterious voice and hung up.

Half an hour later I was stepping out of a taxi and approaching a group of men huddled under the Jamaica Street bridge, all of them looking up. One or two were police, I didn't recognise the others and one tall man in a long, black coat stayed in the shadows so I didn't get to see his face. I joined this group and squinted to see in the dark what it was that kept their attention and prevented even one of them from looking at me and wondering what I was doing there. Then I saw something that will stay with me forever; hanging from the pigeon netting under the bridge was a body, it's chest torn open, rib cage parted, ribs protruding horribly through the netting and innards hanging down, dripping gore onto the ground. One of the uniformed cops turned and ran towards the Clyde but was too late and vomited into a puddle, retching so much that he ended up on all fours. This set me off and I too turned but also couldn't hold it down and I fetched up puking all over my corduroy trousers and corduroy hush puppies.

As I mopped my mouth and chin with a hanky, I could see the man in the black great coat saying something to the others and whatever it was, they listened intently. I could just about make out his short blonde hair but that was all I saw before the next wave of nausea hit me. As I sat there, spitting the awful taste from my mouth, I overheard just the one word, 'Wormwood', then the man in the coat strode off from the main group and walked past me. It was at this point that I saw who it was and as I recognised him, he dropped a business card onto the ground before disappearing into the darkness beyond the bridges. I reached out and picked it up and gazed at it. It had a phone number and said simply, 'Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter'.

Back in the Old Routine

I woke up this morning and was intrigued to find Tom Devine lying between me and the wife. They were both covered in red wine and out for the count and I can't remember them coming to bed, only that the wife was supposedly out with her friends last night. I shook them awake and the wife wailed and ran off and hid in the loo while Devine took his time getting dressed, told me to deal with it and left, slamming the door behind him. Oh well, it wasn't the first time I'd been in bed with a Celtic Minded bigot and it wouldn't be the last.

So, off to the Chip to celebrate with the BBC Scotland Bhoys orPacific Quay CSC as some wags like to call them, after our latest kicking of the Rangers aired on Radio Scotland today. We made it so one sided that even I, Spiers: Champion of Celtic and hater of all things Rangers began to worry that perhaps we'd gone too far. When I got there though, looking for reassurance, there was no-one at the bar.  However, a cursory glance downstairs at the toilet found that they were all powdering their noses and slapping each other on the back at how they'd laid into the 'Establishment' team and it wasn't long before they were celebrating their diversity by singing songs about the murders of Protestant farmers in rural Ireland.

After a few drinks I bleated my worries about the show but they told me not to worry and that there hadn't been anyone within BBC Scotland willing to listen to complaints of anti-Rangers bias since at least 1989, so I relaxed and had a few Guinness, a couple of lines and it wasn't long before I'd been cornered in the loo by Tom Devine who had obviously spent his time since fleeing my bedroom getting sloshed on port as he was sodden in it. He grabbed me by the lapels of my corduroy jacket and thrust my head into the corner of a cubicle and took me violently from behind as I squeaked in semi-protest. Then he sneered, said 'Two in one day - back of the net!', spat on me and left me gibbering on the floor.