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.