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.