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?