The Garden of Heavenly Delights

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes. If you know your Juvenal, as my old Classics master used to remind us - who referees the referees you could almost ask? Well in Scotland obviously it's Celtic but this time Lawwell and Reid have gone too far and the buggers have gone on strike. This puts us all in a very difficult position in that the whole world and its dog knows there is one club and one club only to blame and that is Celtic but how to report the strike without naming them? BBC Scotland got off to a good start, reporting on the strike while showing Dundee Utd players surrounding the ref from their game on Saturday. We in the ink business however, haven't got the convenience of misdirecting footage to fall back on and so have to rely on our wits. Hugh MacDonald didn't even bother with this since the man doesn't have any and he opted for the simple hoot inducing 'nothing to see here, Celtic are right' approach. He had no choice though, I hear he wrote it in the basement of Lawwell's chambers in Celtic Park with a pistol at this head while sitting on a specially constructed chair with a stopper on it to prevent his waste from soiling the room (I quite fancy such a contraption - imagine the hours of fun I could have with what is basically just a dildo strapped to a seat). Old pissy Hugh wasn't alone though, beside him was Ronnie Cully who curiously held the gun to his own head while he typed with his nose and for all the nonsense he came out with, it showed. So there you have it, as usual, Lawwell was telling the Scottish press how to do their job and all in the darkness of the pits of Parkhead because if you know your New Testament, qui male agit odit lucem.


I said last week that there was just no room for catching up with my other adventures these days because merely reporting on Celtic's astonishing behaviour of late has become a full time job and after John Reid decided to put his Livy into practice - plus animi est inferenti periculum quam propulsanti - and went on the offensive against almost the whole of Scotland (because how else could you describe his antics?) it's become a real chore. Go down the Chip these days and you can actually get into the gents loo for a pee without having to climb over the Pacific Quay CFC snorting and snarling over shared lines of coke as they're all too busy covering for Celtic back at BBC Scotland. Pop into the Brazen Head and there's no sign of the Green Brigade as they're all hard at work attacking the houses of referees and intimidating their families. The only place to have some fun just now is Heraghtys because the Celtic Minded who drink in there have no tasks save for stinking up the place with their wild republican rants and as anyone knows, I wouldn't be seen dead in there these days since odi profanum vulgus.

Enough of the Latin lessons however, I could be here all day proving to the ignorant amongst my fellow journalists just how superior to them I am - I'm sure this is why they avoid me these days, it's my incredible intellect and moral superiority, nothing to do with the smell as alluded to by some.
So like I said, what a busy week it's been, what with Lawwell squeezing journalists until their pips squeak and John Reid sitting at home sacrificing hens and chanting, in between skinning up some major doobies while Scottish Football collapses around our ears, I thought I'd seen it all until last night.

I'd been relaxing at home, corduroys around my ankles, Martin O'Neil scrapbook on my lap when my door was kicked open and in rushed two of Lawwell's stormtroopers who tied and gagged me and were dragging me by the feet out of the room when there was a crash and in through the window came Stuart Cosgrove dressed as a bat. He dropped both of them in an instant and took me still gagged to the window where he shot a grappling hook onto the roof opposite. We heard a cry but by the time we'd been hauled onto the roof we noticed that he'd just impaled Alex Mosson who by chance was burgling the wrong flats at the wrong time. As Cosgrove tried to untangle his hook from Mosson's thigh he was taken by surprise by the Joker, Tam Cowan who came at him with an axe while the Piddler, Hugh MacDonald stood in the background soiling himself and pointing a gun. Next thing you know I'm being carried down a set of ladders by the Joker and the Piddler and being bundled into a waiting black van only for the Traynor to appear and with a roar, shake Cowan and MacDonald by the necks and fling them bleeding into some hedges. I was just about to ask the Traynor whose side he was on when Stephen Purcell jumped on his back shouting 'run Graham, run!' And I did only to run straight into a torch carrying mob of the Green Brigade who looked like they thought a Scottish referee lived around these parts. Seeing it was me they let out a cheer, hoisted me on their shoulders and were heading down Byres Road towards Jintys for a knees up when out of the sky swooped Master Mason who grabbed me by the collar and lifted me high into the sky only to be punched unconscious by Torquemada who caught me as I fell with Master Mason towards Kelvingrove Park. He put me down and was eyeing me suspiciously when suddenly he went limp and collapsed to the ground and I heard a jovial chuckle as Donald Findlay appeared beside us, in cape and deerstalker holding a cane tipped with blue kryptonite. 'Come on Spiers, we haven't got much time,' he said. 'We can't have you hanging around Kelvingrove Park at this time of the night, people might think you're cruising again...' but before he could finish his sentence he was lifted off the ground and into a tree by a net and out jumped Mad Joe O'Rouke, naked except for a Celtic hat.

'Woo hoo hoo! I got the great Donald Findlay! He thought he was brilliant and I got him! Woo hoo hoo!' was all he got to say before a black hood went over his head and he was wrestled to the ground by Graeme Souness who barked orders to his Rangers 80s Squad Commandos who carried away O'Rourke, bundled Torquemada into a blue kryptonite lined box and then let down Donald Findlay who looked a tad ruffled and annoyed that his pipe had spilled onto his whiskers.

'We'll be seeing you loser,' said Souness and winked as they loaded up their Range Rover and drove off into the night, Souness shouting at me as they left, 'And don't think we don't know what you're up to with your bum chums at UEFA!'

Then Darryl Broadfoot jumped out the bushes and rogered me senseless, sneered and spat on me, leaving me panting on the grass and wondering what had happened to release all of this madness.