The Pit and the Smelly One

I had come to, lying on the edge of a great pit with a wall behind me impossible to scale to escape the horror below. I could feel pain shooting up my left arm and with a gasp realised that I was tethered to a rope which spanned the mouth of the pit and ended at the other side from me, tied to Tom English who was also stirring. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I had hung up my cute little Celtic cheerleader's uniform and put away the green and white pom poms and was sitting in my usual seat at Ibrox - the cleanest seat in the stadium considering they have it disinfected and washed after all of my visits, something that pleases me no end as it's good to know that no matter how much I lay into the Rangers, they will always make sure my seat is nice and clean. So a jaded looking Rangers took a hiding from Hibs and I headed off to the Brazen Head for a knees up with the Green Brigade as I fully expected everyone to be there celebrating a win over Hearts but if only I knew enough about football to check the results before jumping to conclusions and heading into the night full of hope.

When I got there everyone was debating whether or not Neil Lennon had been exorcised at Lawwell's Satanic shindig on Saturday night after all since after losing to Hearts he'd vomited bile and his head had spun while mouthing obscenities but having been there in person at Schoenhausen, I reassured them that he had indeed had the evil Screwtape cast from him by no less than Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter himself. The Green Brigade visibly flinched at the mention of his name and I had to ask why. One wizened old wreck of a man, he could have been no more than twenty one, leaned over a candle and in hushed tones told me, 'Jorg Albertz has gazed upon the walls of heaven and blazed at the gates of hell; he bottled the devil in a bar in Bangkok and has the head of the angel Gabriel in a box in his flat. You'll do well to avoid him Spiers, the man is a menace, especially to us - we took him on in 1997 and he hypnotised us into eating our own shite, it took us two days to notice where the smell was coming from.'
I sat back and considered all of this for I'd met Albertz and he'd been perfectly nice to me, just like most of those at Rangers which has always surprised me considering how much trouble I've caused them over the years. Of course we used to be lovers until I touched up Michelle Mone at Murray's orgy in Paris that time but after he threw me out the clique, I've been hunting him and his club ever since. The fact that my crusade against Rangers has brought me into contact with such fine champions of liberty and freedom of speech as the Green Brigade and Jeanette Findlay is just a bonus.

Talking of Findlay, I later came across her in a lane off Byres Road where she'd been pishing in the street, her petticoats hoisted just out the way enough to avoid being soaked and I asked her what she'd been doing since her patron, the vile Tom Devine had disappeared with my wife. I expected a breakdown of her continuing struggle with the west of Scotland Protestant establishment and how poor Catholics could never attain positions of power while such ingrained sectarian attitudes prevailed here, well that's her usual routine in spite of being in with the bricks at the oldest seat of learning in the city and how she's managed to do that and keep up her night time job of disgusting old whore peddling her arse in the gutters of Glasgow I'll never know. Instead she just sang a few verses of some old Irish terrorist song more suited to the dark days of the 70s, told me to stick my poppy up my arse, was sick on her stockings and collapsed in a puddle where I imagine she spent the rest of the night. Had I known the danger I'd be plunged into as a result I'd have tried to help her, give her a room for the night perhaps or just put some traffic cones round her but I wasn't to know and I walked right on, aiming to get home and stuck into my Martin O'Neill scrapbook as soon as possible and so I sealed my fate and that's the beginning of how I fetched up balanced on the edge of a pit, tied to Tom English, both of us trying to dislodge the other to fall into that gaping hole at the bottom of which waited the horror of all horrors, a hungry and demented Elaine C. Smith.