Tell it to the Marines

 

Since I don’t drive, I couldn’t set off after Devine who’d made off with my wife while I was too busy being lauded by the great and good of the Celtic Minded who it seemed had only been amusing themselves by keeping me occupied while Devine bundled my darling into his car and sped off into the night. Just when you think you’ve finally been accepted by that lot!  So I sloped off from the party and headed for the nearest village where I might find a bus or a train station but as I left the gates of Reid’s manor I noticed a familiar figure standing by the gates, wearing a long black coat and puffing on a cigarette in the shadows, it was Jorg Albertz.
‘What are you doing here?’ I exclaimed.
‘Oh don’t worry about me, Spiers,’ he said, exhaling smoke, ‘I’m not Souness, I’m not here to look after your miserable hide – no, I’m here for another reason altogether and your little display with the penalties just so happened to cause a big enough diversion to allow me to get away with a little bit of burglary – got myself a little relic Reid had spirited out of Iraq when he was in Defence, so I reckon I owe you one. A small one, since I’d have pulled it off anyway, so here’s what I’m going to do…’
And that was how I was introduced to the Rangers 90s Squad Marines and how I fetched up in a black Range Rover hurtling towards Inverkip sitting alongside Andy Goram, Stuart McCall and Ian Ferguson, all captained by the brooding figure of Richard Gough dressed in his white fighting coat.

We got to Inverkip with the St. Bernard long gone but the Rangers Marines sprung into action and loaded up their own yacht, the Walter Smith, with weapons and provisions. I gazed at their flawless work and wondered why the need for all the heavy artillery only for Richard Gough to appear by my side on the jetty and tell me that the Rangers Marines never ventured forth without being prepared for any eventuality, ‘Ready, that’s our motto – always has been, always will be,’ said Gough, proud and wise as Solomon, standing there gazing out to sea and as I stood there with him, watching the ominous thunderheads gather in the sky above us, I wondered why it was that even although all I ever wanted in life was to be accepted by the Celtic Minded as one of their own, they always treated me abysmally and why it was that although I treated Rangers appallingly, they always somehow came to my rescue. Do none of them actually read my articles?

Spiers's Lady

 

September was coming to an end and the low sun cast long shadows across the fields upon which I gazed as I hurtled towards Inverkip in the back of a black Range Rover.  I was accompanied by the Rangers 90s Squad Marines who sat around me checking their weapons and wondering what the poontang was like in Largs, but I’m getting ahead of myself – how did I fetch up in this latest of extraordinary pickles? Well it all started at a party at John Reid’s house…

Reid had thrown a party to celebrate the return of Mr Freeze back to the fold, Freeze himself, having realised that everyone had now forgotten the tens of millions he had fraudulently been gifted by Stephen Purcell who he’d then had spirited away.  Lawwell had unwittingly done Freeze’s dirty work for him by taking out any of the admittedly few Scottish journalists with an ounce of integrity left to ask questions about the whole seedy affair. It’s all documented in my diaries of last season if you care to have a look. Suffice to say, Reid was buoyant about the return of the prodigal son and had thrown a huge bash with all the great and the good of Scottish local and national politics, journalism, law and police; all of them united in one thing: Celtic.

I was there by the skin of my teeth, having been in and out of favour recently to the extent that even Lawwell wasn’t exactly sure if I was in his good books now or not and since I didn’t have a clue about my standing either, I kept a low profile, attending with the wife, although it wasn’t long before that sneak Charlie Gordon sniffed me out and stood grilling me while I cast an uneasy eye over proceedings. In one corner sat Neil Lennon, simmering like a boiled pot of potatoes, under the vile influence of the demon Screwtape who’d possessed him only a few weeks ago although of course, such is the behaviour of Neil Lennon these days that no-one had noticed anything different when his head spun, bile spewed from his mouth or he crawled on all fours on the ceiling. Nearby was Jack McConnell, also back in favour briefly since being freed recently by the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos for some reason known only unto them. Tom Devine was by the bay windows drinking quarts of port and challenging the Celtic team to press ups competitions. On a small stage at the other end of the vast room, sat a few well known faces playing traditional Irish reels: Glen Gibbons on the bassoon, Kevin Smith on the mandolin and Michael Martin on the fiddle. Lording it at the top of the table were Reid and Lawwell themselves, whispering conspiratorially to themselves until suddenly a fight broke out. Now, at a normal gathering of such distinguished people you’d expect everyone to try to break it up but as Alex Mosson pulled a flick knife on Michael Martin for some perceived slight, a circle was formed and everyone urged the pair of them into action.

Mosson lunged at Martin and cut him with his knife just above the left eyebrow, blood immediately flowing from the wound, blinding the old Speaker in one eye.  Gorbals Mick was fast though, and pulled out a steak knife from his jacket and swiped it at Mosson who shrieked as it cut his trouser leg open, revealing a red suspender belt and stocking underneath. They circled each other for a bit before Mosson made another slash, catching Martin this time on the ear but as he took the wound without a sound, he feinted to the left and as Mosson tried to parry, old Gorbals made a move with a sneaky punch with his right and knocked Mosson over, gore spilling from a wound somewhere on his face. The crowd screamed in delight and gave a round of applause while baying for more; that’s the thing about the Celtic Minded, they love the sight of blood, the more the better – just don’t sing songs about being up to your knees in it as that offends them.

While all this was going on I didn’t notice that the wife had wandered off and joined Tom Devine and not liking the look on the randy old goat’s face as he talked to her, I sidled over and stood beside them.
‘Oh darling, the most wonderful news,’ gushed the wife.  ‘I’ve been invited by Professor Devine to join him on his yacht for a spell, I’m sure you won’t mind, do you darling?’
I stared at the pair of them, appalled, not at the thought of this disgusting old Satyr alone on a boat with my wife but at how public they had made it – the way she announced it, the whole party had heard, putting me in an awful position where on the one hand I wouldn’t really mind getting rid of her for a few weeks which would leave me to get busy with my Martin O’Neil scrapbook and Elton John collection but on the other hand, my cuckolding was now going to be made public. No, for the sake of my reputation I had to refuse her so I shook my head and gave her as manly a look as I could muster and said, ‘Sorry my sweet, you know this is a busy time for both of us, it wouldn’t do.  I’m sorry, Professor Devine will have to sail on his own or with some other young thing.’
The pair of them protested but I’d made up my mind and couldn’t be talked out of it especially now that Mosson and Martin had been taken away in an ambulance and the crowd had gathered around us to listen in to what was going on.
‘You’re a sporting chap, aren’t you Spiers?’ said Devine, a sly glint in his eye. ‘Why, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a challenge then, something football themed since that’s your purported specialist subject – how about shooty-in? Five penalties each, I win and your good lady wife accompanies me on the St. Bernard, you win and she stays at home with you. What do you say old sport?’
The bastard had cornered me as the gathered crowd thought this was a whale of an idea and were giving three cheers while the Celtic squad set up some goal posts outside in the grounds and I had no option but to agree. What worried me though was that although I report on football, I’ve never played it in my life, I don’t even know that much about it whereas from the way Devine was playing keepy uppy with a ball which had been produced from nowhere, I could see he’d at least spent some time playing in some capacity. Within minutes, Artur Boruc had been spirited in from another room, looking upset and hinting that he'd been dragged from some orgy or another and we all made our way out to the grounds where the penalty kick competition was to take place.

We tossed a coin which I won and allowed Devine to take the first penalty and I was lucky as Boruc guessed right and stood his ground and Devine’s first attempt was booted straight at him, caroming off his belly and bouncing straight back out at Devine in so fine a line that he actually caught the ball. I then stepped up to take mine and waited until the crowd had hushed.  Hearing only the rustle of the trees and slight whistle of the wind as everyone gazed at me, I took my first long run at the ball and sliced it so hard that it flew into the audience and hit Kenny McAskill square in the face knocking him out so that another ambulance had to be sent for.

Devine’s second was well placed in Boruc’s bottom left corner and he had no chance of getting it especially since he made no effort having been distracted by the sight of a pretty faced young man in the crowd who was blowing him kisses. I stopped flirting with him and strode to the penalty spot for my own attempt and this time got the ball on target although my foot booted the ground first before hitting the ball, I howled in pain from a sprained ankle but fortunately for me, Boruc had dived to the right while the ball trundled slowly to his left and crossed the line for a goal. I limped off to watch as Devine’s third attempt went over the bar giving me the chance to take the lead but my ankle was swelling now and it was difficult to put my weight on it never mind kick a ball but I must, so I gathered up my reserve and hobbled towards the ball and hit it poorly that it rolled along the grass so slowly that Boruc had time to have a fag before picking it up and throwing it back at me as the crowd laughed and cheered on Devine as he came on for his penultimate penalty.

Devine’s rocket soared past Boruc’s shoulder and almost burst the net and I groaned as I tightened the laces on my light corduroy brogues and decided to try to hit this one with my left foot - it worked! I caught Boruc by surprise and the ball floated to the top left corner and the crowd let up an ironic cheer, it was all even with one penalty each to take. With only a brief pause for stewards to remove Jackie Bird who had streaked onto the park, Devine walked past me to take his run at the ball and as he did, I asked him whether he held his breath or breathed out as he prepared to take a penalty.  He faced the ball I could see he was mulling this over: in or out? His face contorted and he shot me a look of sheer hatred as he realised I was playing mind games with him and it was working. He ran at the ball and sclaffed it so high that it flew over Reid’s stables and another ball had to be found. This was it, I only had to score and the wife couldn’t go sailing with Devine which would leave my reputation in the gutter. I took the new ball and placed it carefully on the penalty spot and took six steps back, gazing at the ball and trying to keep the thought of all those people watching out of my mind. A great rushing noise coursed through my head as I jogged up to the ball, the pain in my ankle now forgotten as I ran and with increasing horror realised that I didn’t know with which foot I was going to kick it – the talentless left or the useless right? I half stumbled but at the last second I managed to hit it with my right, screaming in agony as the ball sailed through the air straight at Boruc who was gazing right at it, a certainty to save it. Then something odd happened, Boruc although watching the ball come straight at him, dived to the left and the ball hit the net, I’d scored!  The crowd went wild and invaded the makeshift pitch, hoisting me up on its shoulders and carrying me into the house where everyone toasted my victory by getting horribly drunk and celebrated their diversity by singing songs about terrorists.

Later, when things had quietened down, I sidled up to Boruc and asked him why he’d deliberately missed the save and he told me in that odd mincing accent of his - which coming from me is saying something - that it didn’t matter who won, that Devine was going off with my wife anyway. I asked him what he meant and he laughed in my face and said ‘Can you see your wife or Devine anywhere at this party now?’ and he was right, they were nowhere to be seen - gone, the pair of them. Then I realised that everyone was looking at me once again only this time they weren’t cheering, they were ridiculing, their grotesque faces contorted in vicious amusement at my predicament: Devine had kidnapped my wife and was right now driving towards his yacht in Inverkip.