One Flew Over the Lawwell's Nest

I've noticed recently that I haven't been getting up the noses of the Rangers support as much as I used to which is obviously down to the fact that nobody buys the Scottish Times anymore and the paywall prevents anyone from reading my deliberately provocative writing. What's the use of being a football reporter if you can't lay into the Rangers and have everyone know what you're up to? Without a readership I'd be as well head butting the John Greig statue outside Ibrox at three o'clock in the morning (something I'm sure Neil Lennon told me he used to do before he was possessed by a demon and his behaviour improved considerably). So to rectify this I created an account on Twitter. Actually, I was forced to create an account on Twitter by the editor who reckoned that since every other Celtic Minded bigot in the Scottish media was using it to lay into the huns then I might as well jump on the bandwagon. The only problem now though is, I have a stalker. Some loony called Brian McNally seems to think I'm his soul brother and is not only tweeting me but has taken to hanging around outside my flat and following me to all my regular haunts, the Chip, the Brazen Head and Heraghtys. Sometimes in the dead of the night, if I peek out my curtains I can see him in the sodium glare of the street lights, naked save for the obligatory Mirror Group Celtic scarf and committing as they say in the business, a sex act. Strange behaviour indeed. If only he had the nerve to ring my doorbell he'd find a warm welcome, somewhere round about my arse.

Talking about my arse, it got a good pummelling last night off Herr Lawwell who had his minions remove the sandbags and barbed wire from around his bunker deep beneath Parkhead and let me in for a last minute thrashing as I was tied to a table and lashed with a horse whip as Lawwell dictated what my next column was going to be about. Obviously with the way he, Reid and all of Celtic have been appalling the nation with their insidious antics over this poppy business, it was my job and my job alone, to put the message out there that Celtic are the innocent party in all this and that it is, wait for it, yes, Rangers who are at fault. I was told to throw in a mention of the singing of the Billy Boys and when I squeaked that it's only reappeared thanks to the disgraceful sectarian chanting of his own support, he increased the speed of the strokes so that the pain was almost too much to bear.
'You think I haven't noticed our fans' chants?' he raved at me. 'You think I don't know that if we hadn't almost bankrupted ourselves with the whole Mowbray affair that we wouldn't have had to take the cheap option and employ Neil Lennon and if we hadn't employed him then we wouldn't have had to take to the schemes with the Celtic Republican Roadshow? How I regret that, those morons figured it gave them carte blanche to indulge in all sorts of singing, chanting and banners I thought we'd eradicated years ago. All that work to have the public believe we didn't have the same problems as Rangers is evaporating as we lose control of our own people so I need you Spiers, to get out there and blame Rangers for all the ills of the world, starting with the Billy Boys and since you have no shame, I want you to heap opprobrium upon them for their charity work surrounding Remembrance Sunday and don't worry about your editor thinking you've gone too far - I've already had him over and dangled him above Elaine C Smith's pit - seen Tom English since you managed to best him in our little game on Friday? No? I didn't think so, that bastard'll think twice before thinking he can talk about me like that again.'
He went on like this for an hour until I had no choice but to agree. To tell you the truth, I was ready to agree before the thrashing but there's nothing I like better than being whipped by a man wearing jackboots.