The Ass Menagerie

The relative peace and quiet, common when Celtic are top of the league, came to an end yesterday when John Reid was leaving Hampden after thinking he'd pop in to give the SFA a piece of his mind and George Peat, obviously having had enough of being told what to do by the Celtic Chairman, put on his boxing gloves and chased Reid into the car park where he felled him with one blow. The knock to the head obviously confused Reid who thought he was back on the bevvy again and promptly phoned Dawn Primarolo and told her she was a grown woman and that he was waiting for her in his bedroom. Something must've happened to Peat too as he then went on to go on record ridiculing Celtic's complaints and calling them tiresome but then Peat isn't a man to regret anything, if he did then surely he wouldn't still be roaming the corridors of the SFA with a blunderbuss, hunting a phantom Gordon Smith who he claimed was mocking him by singing from the shadows?

The comedy continued later that night at an entertaining post-match press conference when Neil Lennon was whining about the Accies goal and his own chopped off attempt in the obligatory six minutes of injury time; he asked, 'You tell me, you guys are the neutrals reporting on games... is it fair?'  At which there was a lot of coughing and shifting in seats as every sports writer to a man tried to discreetly stuff their Celtic scarf into their coat pocket.

If you ask me, I don't think Lennon had any complaint about his last minute equaliser as if there'd been any chance of Collum giving it, he would have - Collum knows from painful experience what an Irish Republican siege of his house is like and how much it costs to replace double glazing - but since the ball was so out of play before Celtic scored that it was practically thrown back onto the park from the terracing, Collum would've risked ridicule and censure had he allowed it. But then no one asks me so I have to record it in this diary. Which no one reads. A bit like the Scottish Times really.

Celtic have the additional problem with Collum you see in that being a practising Roman Catholic working in a denominational school teaching of all things, Religious Education, Celtic can't possibly accuse him of sectarian bias. But they do. Like I said, comedy.

After the game and when everyone had filed their copy and gone to the Brazen Head, I heard from a source a little about Lennon's hearing in front of the Disciplinary Committee the other day. Apparently Celtic had taken a big shot legal advisor who was to remain nameless as he is supposedly mortified to be seen devoting his time to such rubbish. Not knowing what 'off the record' means I can tell you that it was Paul McBride QC who shuffled and had the decency to look embarrassed having been forced to attend after being blackmailed by Peter Kearney (apparently gays aren't going to heaven but Kearney can have a special word for those who help the cause). I sympathised with McBride as no one knows more than I how it feels to be sitting safely in the closet only to have someone threaten to out you if you don't do something that goes against the grain; in my case I was in a cosy dresser with Stuart Cosgrove, spying on Willie Haughey's kidnapping of Stephen Purcell when Cosgrove insisted I come out the closet with him to help Purcell - it's all in my diaries from last year if you care to look.

Interestingly, it didn't take long for what happened at the Disciplinary Committee to reach the papers so either Celtic were feeding this information to their pet journalists or the legendary Hampden Mole had struck again. It really is the worst kept secret in Scottish Football, who it is who is leaking all sorts, from panel proceedings to Hugh Dallas's emails and forwarding them to John Reid. Reid however, was still recovering from Peat's right hook when he put together an ill thought out and grammatically poor but anonymous statement on the official Celtic website as he managed to put something out there for the press which didn't include phrases like the 'Celtic story' or my favourite, the 'great Celtic narrative'.

It had been a long day and I was making my way home by bus to the west end when I was approached by two youths and an older man who should really consider the company he keeps as hanging around with such young boys is really creepy. Anyway, it was the Green Brigade and they sat beside me at the back of the no 59, the older rapey looking guy said, 'Spiers, we need to do something about Bill Leckie.'

The Return of the Ming

Now that my little December adventure was over I returned to the mean streets of Glasgow and found that with Celtic sitting at the top of the league, the madness had subsided and life for Scottish sports journalists (not forgetting self proclaimed anti-sectarian chroniclers) had become one big party. In speakeasies and jazz clubs throughout the city, glasses were clinking as the dirty inkies let down their hair and relaxed. I joined them and took a stroll down to the Chip for a few lines with the Pacific Quay CFC who were there in their numbers, living it up with the Scotland Today bhoys who were celebrating a return to the weekly dunking of Raman Bhardwaj in the river Kelvin for 'pretending he wis a Partick Thistle supporter but turning out tae be a hun'. Ah, the craic...

Next stop was Hampden where I found George Peat had employed the services of a couple of hairy musical specialists to help him identify the phantom singing coming from the SFA rafters - still chasing Gordon Smith around the place then, and Peter Regan dressed in a lilttle tu-tu, jumping through green and white circus rings (seems like I'm not the only one who enjoys jumping through hoops for Celtic then although my hoops are a bit more hairy). With nothing changed at the SFA I loafed over to Parkhead to visit Neil Lennon and check how he's been getting on since the exorcism of the demon Screwtape. I pressed the buzzer at the gates of Celtic Park and when asked who was looking for Lennon, I replied simply 'a gentleman caller'.

'Oh fuck off Spiers, not you again,' came the reply from the intercom then there was a pause and I was buzzed in. I couldn't find Lennon however and as usual, it wasn't long before I bumped into Herr Lawwell, in a darkened room, shovelling bullets into envelopes.
'What's that you're up to there then?' I asked.
'None of your fucking business smelly now fuck off before I set Wormwood on you,' Lawwell snarled then his face lit up.
'Hold on,' he approached me, putting an arm around my shoulders and walking me over to a table. 'You could be of some use to me right now - something big's coming up and I need a distraction (that's the bullets over there, you'll soon see what they're for), what do you say to a few nights on Twitter and a lovely big fluff piece on anti-Catholicism in your sports column?'
'You know me Herr Lawwell, if it's laying into the huns then you don't have to ask me twice.'
'Excellent,' he hissed and bent me over the table and laid into my arse with his horse whip. 'Just in case you think I'm going soft,' he said and sent me on my way with a really sore bum which couldn't possibly take another pummelling today - oh well, Neil Lennon would have to wait.

U-1BBB

As the ghost of Stuart McCall rampaged around my little farmhouse, he knocked over a paraffin lamp and set fire to the place before wandering out onto the snow to watch as the place burned and I suppose it thought I was still in there so I settled down by the door of the barn to try to take advantage of the heat from the blaze until the ghost decided it'd had its revenge and left me alone. My relative comfort didn't last long though as sparks from the fire soon drifted onto the roof of the barn and before you could whistle Boys of the Old Brigade without censure, the barn was ablaze too and I had to make a run for it. I ran screaming away from the flames, McCall turned and noticed my flight, groaned and started towards me, cutting off my escape into the mainland so I sprinted off in panic towards the shore, haring across a bridge and over some sand dunes until I realised that I was trapped on the beach with a vengeful ghost behind me and the cold sea in front of me. Just as McCall appeared over the dunes I heard a voice cry out above the sound of the waves and the wind - it was Hugh Keevins and he was in a rowing boat coming to shore. I scrambled through the waves and met him, tumbling into the little boat and looking back at the beach where the ghost of Stuart McCall was nowhere to be seen. As the Port Glasgow Fenian navy rowed like Billy be damned away from that horror, I slumped back in the boat and breathed a sigh of relief that I'd been saved once again from certain doom and it was only when I looked up to thank my rescuers that I noticed sitting there opposite me, the sea rotten figure of Stuart McCall, in the boat! I screamed and stood up, there was a melee as I tried to get as far away from that ghastly spectre as possible, the boat rocked and I felt myself losing my balance and plunging into the waves as people screamed above me.


I felt cold hands grab my ankle and then chains bashing against my shins and as I breathed water I could see the shape of two figures pass me into the black depths of the ocean then another hand pulled me onto the boat and I fainted.

I came to in the Inquisition 3, the official U-Boat of the Scottish Catholic Media Centre where I was offered hot cocoa by a member of the Fenian Navy. I asked him what had happened and was told that Pat Nevin would be along shortly to fill me in. For a brief moment my heart jumped but then I realised Nevin was only going to update me. He arrived looking like a Level 8 student from Strathclyde University in the 80s and I babbled all about the ghost of Stuart McCall, fearing he wouldn't believe me but he raised his hand to hush my blathering and told me that I wasn't the only one who had seen it, the navy rowers had seen it too and probably so did Keevins before he fell into the sea.
'What, Keevins fell in with me? Was he trying to rescue me? What a hero, my old friend Hugh - I owe him one,' exclaimed I.
'Erm, no you don't, uhmed Nevin. 'Keevins tried to push you into McCall to save himself, lost his balance and fell in. The spook got him and dragged him to the bottom, believing he was you. Still, I suppose he did save your life. In a way. And don't fret about him, losing a Keevins is not an issue - Lawwell has a never ending supply of them which is why we always carry a Keevins during our most dangerous missions as he makes a good sacrifice when one is required in an emergency.'
'So what now?' I asked, worrying that I was on board a Kearney vessel so soon after betraying him on board the space station.
'Oh nothing much,' continued Nevin. 'Our orders were simply to pick you up and take you back to Glasgow. Celtic have just beaten Rangers, the fans are on a high and the Parkhead car park is secure for the time being but Lawwell's got wind of a renegade faction within the SFA plotting to hand Neil Lennon a six week ban and draw us against Rangers at Ibrox in the Scottish Cup. He needs you back at the tiller - oh the Times janitor writing your columns while you're away is all very well but he needs your own unique brand of idiocy to get some of his latest messages across, so it's back home for you my friend.'

I sighed and lay back on my bunk and thought about recuperating the entire journey back to the city but then I noticed a saucy look in Nevin's eye and for the next hour it was a case of hello sailor!

Oh Mist Rolling in from the Sea

Have you ever seen fire in zero gravity? It comes at you in waves. I was fortunate because once the Inquisition 4 began to burn up thanks to some conveniently placed incendiary devices left there by Souness and his Rangers 80s Squad Space Commandos, I was grabbed by Stuart Munro and plonked unceremoniously into the baggage area of their re-entry craft and we hurtled towards earth while Inquisition 4 fell to bits behind us and with it Peter Kearney's latest plans for a Catholic insurrection.


We ditched in the sea just off the Mull of Kintyre and as usual there were jeeps waiting for Souness and his men while I was left to walk, soaking wet to civilisation but after experiencing Campbeltown I found that I preferred being in the sea. I didn't linger there then - too many furrow browed Rangers fans eyeing me up, trying to figure out how they recognised me so I bolted before they remembered and I received a thrashing. Not sure if news of my failure to support Kearney's last plan had reached Lawwell yet, I decided to keep a low profile and took lodgings in a cottage just outside Machrihanish and this is where I spent all of December in case you're wondering what happened to my diary over the past month or so - well I could hardly write it while fleeing for my life around a space station or stuck in an old farmhouse by the sea which was lucky it had electricity never mind the internet.

It was while holed up in the farmhouse that I decided to put my time to good use and pen my magnum opus on Scotland's sectarian problem or 'anti-Catholic bigotry' as we've all to call it according to the Catholic Media Centre and by extension, the Scottish Government. The problem was though, that without having my friends from Celtic, the Labour Party, the Green Brigade or the Republican Girls around to tell me what I think, my masterpiece stalled at the first page and I took to the bottle, getting drunk on Cinzano Bianco every night until one night and I think this was around mid-December when I was lying on the floor sobbing to myself and I heard a sound from outside. Being jumpy in case it was disgruntled Rangers fans or a Lawwell assassination squad, I dimmed the lights and scurried around the floor, peeking out of the windows every now and then in case I could see anything but although I heard the occasional bump, there was no one to be seen and I settled down for a sleepness night in a corner, listening to the wind howl and the snow battering the windows. The next morning I went outside to take in some fresh air and found foot prints in the snow.

That unnerved me, I can tell you. I spent a worried day pacing around the house until night came, too early in the day for my liking, it seems to get dark here two hours after it gets light! Not having slept much the night before, I figured that it wouldn't be a problem this time since I was exhausted and I was just settling down in bed and looking forward to a good night's sleep although I admit I did miss my Martin O'Neill scrapbook, when I heard noises from outside. It was a shuffling noise, a wet shuffling noise with every now and then a scraping sound like metal being dragged along stone. I sat shivering under my bedroom window and listened as foot steps passed me outside and carried on around the house and then there was silence. I refused to move until I was sure whoever it was had gone and was just building up enough courage to look out the window when the back door handle started turning. I heard it from the bedroom and panicked, not knowing if I had locked it or not and ran through to the kitchen where I saw the handle turning quickly from side to side. It was locked, thank god. Unable to resist, I had to know who was trying to get in, I approached the window and peered out but could see nothing and then it stopped. After another sleepless night I ventured outside at sunrise and found more foot prints and wet patches in the snow and alarmingly, seaweed lying around the back door. I felt a little more at ease now as this indicated that it wasn't Lawwell's goons but who was it? Or what was it? I never used to believe in the supernatural but hanging out with the Celtic Minded would make you believe in anything what with their holy ghosts and conspiracy theories not to mention demons doing Lawwell's dirty work for him, superheroes fighting in the skies above Glasgow, journalists and QCs turning into monsters, Neil Lennon managing Celtic and the mere existence of the Green Brigade - all of it quite extraordinary and beyond the realms of reality.

That night I decided to hide in the barn and keep watch for my night time visitor. It was a bold move and quite unlike me but it had to be done - if I was to stay here out of the reach of a vengeful Catholic church then I couldn't do it while scared out of my wits every time the sun went down. Oh how I wish when Kearney had shouted to grab Graeme Souness I had at least attempted it instead of pulling a Hugh MacDonald and soiling my space suit. It was too late for what ifs now though so I spent an hour in the barn in the daylight and then waited as it got dark and kept a watchful eye on the farmhouse and its surroundings. It was bitterly cold and the sound of the wind competed with the roar of the waves just over the sand dunes and almost drowned out the noise of a figure approaching from the sea. I spotted it glistening in the moonlight as it approached the house, dark and only just recognisable as a man, seaweed dripping from it and carrying chains which dragged along the paving stones as it eventually reached the house. It paused as it passed the barn and I almost vomited at the thought that it might know I was here but then it carried on and walked around the house before rattling the back door and to my horror, the door opened, bathing the thing in light and I nearly screamed as I recognised who or what it was - it was the ghost of Stuart McCall returned to exact revenge on me for betraying the Rangers 90s Squad Marines.

Planet of the Papes

I hadn't yet got used to zero gravity so as the oxygen hissed from the torn pipe leading to my helmet, sending me spinning beyond the reach of the Republican Guard Stormtroopers, I knew that I couldn't right myself to even attempt to fix the leak and would soon be sucking vacuum and dead in seconds. Of course I wouldn't have been there in the first place if it wasn't for the outburst of madness which followed the referees' strike and led to every monster in my great narrative appearing that night when I eventually fetched up in Murray Park watching as Martin Bain and Donald Findlay tutted and removed the mask from Torquemada to discover that it had been Peter Kearney all along. But where did he get his super powers was the question on everyone's lips with Donald Findlay as ever, having the answer to that: a combination of years of religious indoctrination, hatred and bigotry building up into an uncontrollable urge to attack Protestantism in all its guises. Oh and misappropriated alien technology. Which is how I ended up in Kearney's star station, Inquisition 4 and treading space after a daring escape from the station having been found in possession of blue kryptonite, the only substance known to affect Torquemada or the bold Peter as we all know him down at Heraghtys.

I felt my lungs begin to give and had settled into my fate, relaxing and taking in the astonishing view that was the earth in all its blue glory (Kearney will have something to say about that, I thought) when suddenly someone grabbed my air pipe and gummed the hole and I could taste precious oxygen again. I got my balance back and gazed into the face of my benevolent rescuer and there was Graeme Souness, winking and signing that he'd see me later, loser. Then I floated around the earth's atmosphere for a while wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end from here.