The Lawwell and all his Works

Sitting on the 44 bus I find myself envying Bryan Young who although being a hack, has a captive audience of tens of thousands of commuters in that free daily comic, Metro. From there he can get his pro-Celtic message across to naive commuters who will read his puff pieces and believe that Celtic are the victims in all of these latest crises of their own making. And in doing this, Young will avoid another kicking from the Stasi - didn't I last see him tied and hooded, being dragged from his screaming wife and children the last time Lawwell set up the gulags for the Scottish press? My kickings aren't as easily avoided; since the Times started charging for internet access my readership has plummeted and if it wasn't for Costa Coffee stocking the Times and the bulk order for the Pacific Quay CFC then I'd be the only one reading my Celtic propaganda. Me and Lawwell that is.

So I was sitting on the 44 bus thinking about all of this and trying to piece together the end of Lawwell's little party at Schoenhausen on Saturday night when he baptised the editor of the Herald into his infernal brotherhood. The problem was, he and Reid underestimated their control of the denizens of hell - they're not exactly the Scottish media, there to be bullied and cajoled to do their bidding - it turns out it was quite the other way around.

Something happened, something diabolical. I don't know what started it but I came to dressed in a green and white cheerleader's uniform with a sore arse and covered in a sticky white substance. As the fog cleared from my mind and I looked around the chaos in that room where just minutes before the great and the good of the Celtic Minded were celebrating Mark McGhee's kind gift of a terrific goal difference, I recalled a frenzy of demonic activity as a mass possession took place and suddenly the room was alive with piss and shit and vomit as Scottish football journalists and Celtic FC employees waded in waste like maggots covering themselves in a stench that no amount of bathing would ever remove. I recall Reid handing me the cheerleader's uniform as he ran to Lawwell's chamber to produce some torture instruments and as I climbed into it willingly I was grabbed from behind by Stephen McGowan of the Daily Mail who fucked me into next week before spitting on me, sneering and leaving me rolling around the floor speaking in tongues.

Then just as things began to get really weird with the place beginning to resemble a Borgian orgy, Jorg Albertz made himself known and exorcised everyone, leaving us dazed and watching as he carried out the final exorcism to Neil Lennon. Lennon's head spun, he vomited green bile over the party guests, he crawled on all fours on the ceiling like some obscene spider and he pissed on a hardback copy of Casualties of the Great War while bellowing like a horse but eventually Jorg Albertz had rid him of the final demon in that room of horror then he lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in my face and left.
'Bloody hell,' said Lawwell.  'That was magnificent! What a party, shame it had to end early.'

I limped home and still wearing the Celtic cheerleader's uniform, penned a piece on why everyone should leave Celtic and their fans alone and let them defile Remembrance Sunday if they like. Shame that no one will read it though, they'll all be reading Bryan Young.