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.