The Red King Goes Back to Sleep

The following week was a remarkable one and never before have I witnessed such a quick mobilisation of Celtic agents to speak out against the bigoted singing of Rangers fans or as the Traynor put it to me, ‘deflecting from losing to Rangers’. No sooner had I been released from Murray Park having shown Mark Hateley my origami unicorn, given to me by Walter Smith which initially I took to be a sign of friendship but now I’m not so sure, than I came across Peter Kearney and Mad Joe O’Rourke streaking down Byres Road. I don’t even know where to start with this one – I know they’re strange bedfellows in the first place but to have someone like Kearney who is supposed to be an upstanding member of the Roman community mixing with someone so obviously deranged as O’Rourke indicates that something big is happening or as the Traynor said, ‘happened Spiers, happened. Their team got gubbed by Rangers so of course any tim with a platform is going to be wheeled out to deflect from it.’
‘But naked?’ I almost screamed at him but it doesn’t do to be screaming anything at the Traynor especially after he’s had a bucket of whisky.

Over the next week or so they all came out as the Traynor had promised: Kearney and O’Rourke were just the beginning, then came MacMillan warbling on about dogs with erections and how it was all the fault of those Orange bastards; Jim Sheridan talking about ‘that poison’ and making it clear to everyone that he was talking about one side of the divide alone and it wasn’t his side who wear green everywhere they go; Regan of course although he cloaked his words in clouds of ambiguity so that no one really knew who he was blaming but if you were a Celtic fan it certainly sounded like he was on your side; practically every newspaper obviously and leading from the front, me. Well, I don’t know how to do anything else, do I? I wrote a coruscating piece on the nasty Rangers fans and followed it up by tweeting garbage to my growing number of idiot followers on Twitter. If ever a forum was made for someone of my limited abilities, it was this. If I’d known that a simple tweet would lead me to being almost flayed alive in a cave off the coast of Ayrshire at the hands of a lunatic Scottish pretend journalist who thinks he’s Irish then I’d have thought twice about writing it but I didn’t and I did and the course of Scottish football changed forever.

The Red King Stirs

‘You’re walking through a desert,’ said Mark Hateley, ‘and you come across a tortoise,’ and while he was saying it, he was zooming in on my eyes with a camera and studying my responses. I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing and why he was asking me these ridiculous questions but then nothing much had made sense for the past few weeks, from Jorg Albertz catching me lurking outside the boardroom at Parkhead, blowing smoke in my face and saying, ‘you’re not what I’m looking for’ which I haven’t had said to me since rough trade night at Kelvingrove Park.

‘You notice the tortoise is wearing a Rangers scarf so you flip it onto its back and leave it lying there, baking in the sun,’ continued Hateley.
‘Look, I haven’t a clue what you’re on about Hateley, what desert? What tortoise and why is it wearing a scarf in the desert?’
Hateley studied my eyes on his screen and wrote something in his note pad and as he did, Ray Wilkins entered the room and whispered something in his ear. Hateley thought about this and stared at me as Wilkins left.
‘Did Walter Smith hand you something when you left Silence?’
‘Now that you mention it, he did – why, what has this got to do with anything and what about the tortoise, eh? What about the tortoise?’
‘Forget the tortoise, what did Walter give you?’
‘It was a piece of paper but I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned it there but I still have it in my corduroy trouser pocket.’
‘Let’s see it then,’ whispered Hateley, pushing his screen aside and leaning across the table towards me.
‘So we’re finished with the tortoise then?’

Things had been becoming stranger and stranger in Scotland of late so being interrogated by Mark Hateley at Murray Park after being bound, gagged, hooded and bundled into a van in full view of everyone in Ashton Lane on a busy Sunday night didn’t seem out of the ordinary. I’m just surprised no one noticed my kidnapping and thought to call the police although I was later told that Neil Lennon had been staggering around outside Jintys, groaning loudly with his arms stretched out in front of him – now I know this is because his head was recently stitched onto a Frankenstein’s monster of a body after a training ground accident but the trendy westenders of Ashton Lane didn’t notice anything different about his behaviour and just thought they were in for another drunken Lennon fight and were taking bets on how long it’d take before he pished himself. Ashton Lane was busy that night and fights were breaking out all over the place as Celtic fans came to terms with losing to Rangers in the only way they know how. The Chip was like a morgue, a big green and white morgue that sells Fursternberg on draught, and the usual chirruping of media types was replaced by a deep lowing sound, unique to when Celtic get too big for their boots, think they’re going to walk all over Rangers and then receive a good shagging on the park. So when Souness approached me and asked me to join him for succulent lamb downstairs I didn’t think twice and next thing you know I’m strapped to a chair at Murray Park being asked by Mark Hateley about tortoises. I really wish someone at some point would let me know what was going on around here.

The Red King Hypothesis

I haven't seen the Traynor in a while now but the last thing he said to me was 'remember, your memories and perceptions aren't always real'.
How curious.  I thought about this when I was in the Chip restaurant with Graeme Souness and we were approached by some thug who turned out to be related to Jack McConnell of all people - Bridget's brother or something like that.  He came up to the table and spat in Souness's dinner and called him an 'orange bastard'.  I thought to myself, this can't be real; Celtic fans aren't sectarian and I'd stake my career as a crusading anti-bigotry campaigner (I can't really call myself a sports journalist these days as I rarely write about it, instead concentrating on my great war against sectarianism in Scottish society or as I like to put it, Rangers) on it but it was true nonetheless and Souness slowly rose to his feet and calmly whispered to the thug, 'I'll give you an opportunity to apologise for that.'
The background chatter died out as everyone in the place strained to hear what was being said.
'I'll no' be apologising to a bigoted hun bastard like you,' guffawed the thug without a hint of irony as he looked back at his table full of cretins who from their faces could tell that their friend had gone too far.
'I'll give you one more opportunity to apologise for spitting in my plate and if you don't then at least I'll give you a fair chance by knocking you out using only my thumbs but then, and here's the rub, when you're lying unconscious, I'm going to break the little finger on your right hand so that when you're looking at the plaster cast in hospital or years from now as the finger aches in the cold winter nights, it'll remind you that I offered you two opportunities to apologise and you didn't take them.'
The thug then tried to head butt Souness but the old Ranger was too quick and moved to the side before smashing his elbow into the side of the thug's head, knocking him unconscious and leaving him pole axed on the ground.  Then Souness bent over him and as promised, broke one of the thug's little fingers with a sickening crack which sent everyone in the restaurant running for the door.
As we walked down Ashton Lane, I said to Souness, 'I thought you were going to knock him out using only your thumbs?'
'Yes,' he replied, turning to me and smiling a sneaky smile and in that moment I saw the mischief in the smile of a tiger.
'I did say that.  I lied.  I also told you we were going for a simple meal to discuss football.  I lied about that too.'
And as he said it, Robert Fleck jumped me from behind and put a hood over my head and I felt myself being bundled into the back of a van and driven off.
The end game had begun.

Return of the Hellblazer

I helped Lennon to his feet after the attack by the mechanised McCoists and noting the damage done to him, pointed out that he had a screw loose.
‘Don’t you start, too’ he gasped and wandered off leaving me to continue sneaking around the corridors of Parkhead. I couldn’t help myself, I knew what horrors lurked in the pits of Lawwell’s underground bunker but I just had to get down there and find out what was happening. It was at this point that I discovered the Scottish media being gang-garotted, Lawwell pacing up and down behind them as they choked, shouting at them.
‘Diouf will be the man responsible for all of the violence tonight! There will be no mention whatsoever of anything said to the black Rangers players by Celtic staff! I want it reported that Neil Lennon now has a bodyguard to let the world know that he’s the victim in all of this!  Chuck in something about the Sash being sectarian Greechan, that's always useful for the future!  I want it reported that a suspect package has been intercepted by the police on its way to Neil Lennon and don’t worry, if there isn’t one then I’ll make sure there is by the morning! Bullets! I want bullets sent to him, oh yes, and reported! Erm, death threats painted on walls in Belfast… Anything else?’ he paused and looked behind him where the foul cloaked figures of Wormwood and Screwtape sat, wreathed in mist and stinking of sulphur – a bit like me in the office at the Times.‘You must concentrate on events on the park – Rangers had three men sent off, we did not,’ hissed Wormwood. ‘Do this and no one need worry about our behaviour off-field.’
‘Good! Yes, do what the demon says!’ screamed Lawwell and as his minions squeezed the chicken wire tighter around their necks, the cream of Scottish journalism wondered what they’d done to deserve such treatment.
‘They’re here,’ rasped Screwtape, sniffing the air. ‘Salmond and House are here.’
And with that, Lawwell let the press go file their reports and took off to the Parkhead board room, me skulking behind them, skipping from shadow to shadow and making a decent fist of remaining unnoticed. Being a sneak sure has its advantages. Once they entered the boardroom though, I could go no further but stood outside listening and heard Lawwell kicking over chairs and laying into Salmond with his horsewhip then when Stephen House objected, he too took a slice across the face, sat back and asked Lawwell what exactly he wanted. It was at this point I felt a tap on my shoulder and nearly soiled myself.
‘Hello Spiers,’ smiled Jorg Albertz, demon hunter as he blew cigarette smoke in my face.

Juvenal Behaviour

Even after two buckets of whisky, the Traynor could still keep up with the Stasi van, even with me clinging onto his back. We followed it through Partick but instead of heading down the Clydeside expressway towards Parkhead, it went through the Clyde tunnel and kept going until it pulled up at Ibrox, the men in black opening the back doors and bundling Stewart Regan in the main door and up the marble staircase. That was the last we saw as there was no way I could just wander into Ibrox Stadium without setting off Martin Bain’s patented Arsehole Alarm – the damned thing has made my life a misery; oh yes, he switches it off on match days but if I try to ask any questions during after match press conferences he switches it back on and everyone laughs at me and pokes me with sticks. There are no such problems over at Parkhead where the place is usually in such chaos that any fool can wander in and out, a policy from the old days when it was trusted to the usual gang of low lifes hanging around the car park to act as security.

So they weren’t Lawwell’s Stasi after all? So who were they and what did Rangers want of Stewart Regan who is generally considered to be Lawwell’s puppet within the SFA? We were just pondering this when a helicopter took off from within Ibrox and disappeared into the skies. The Traynor, looking up, sighed and said he was bored with this now and if I wanted a lift back to the west end then I’d better cling on. I told him to go without me and caught a taxi over to Parkhead, passing burning buildings and overturned cars on the way which only served to remind me that only hours earlier, an old firm match had played out here.
It wasn’t long before I was inside Celtic Park and roaming around unquestioned, listening to the sound of far off screams coming from Lawwell’s underground bunker. I didn’t know it at the time but this was his torture of the football press to make sure they were going to toe the party line on the night’s events; it was going on longer than usual so this was obviously a big one and no wonder, Celtic were wide open to accusations of racism which would be devastating to them considering their ongoing campaign to have 'anti-Irish racism' recognised as being real rather than just something made up by Peter Kearney to justify laying into the Protestants again. As more and more of the Celtic backroom staff passed me carrying burning torches and wearing white sheets, I began to feel something I hadn’t felt in my entire life: uncomfortable with something Celtic were up to.  I would have to do something about this and quick so I pulled out my iPhone and promptly tweeted something stupid. That would sort it out.
I was just feeling the reassuring return of smugness and moral superiority when I heard a moaning from behind me and turned to see Neil Lennon stumbling towards me. Since his head was stuck on a Frankenstein’s horror of a body after his training ground accident, he’s not really been the same. Oh I notice it because I’ve been close to him for so long and have seen him naked more times than I can say but the transformation seems to have fooled everyone else because such is Celtic's behaviour these days, who’s going to notice another monster roaming around Parkhead?
I was just about to greet him with the usual girlish giggle when out of the shadows pounced three Ally McCoists. Younger, fitter Allys with curly mullets, they wrestled Lennon to the floor and bitch slapped him for so long that I was amazed no one appeared to try and stop it, then one of the screws holding on Lennon’s head came loose, the Allys stopped and walked calmly away, one of them tweaking my nose on the way past. This could mean only one thing, Walter Smith had let loose the mechanised Ally McCoists from his Newton Mearns warehouse. This was worrying, between the Rangers kidnap of Stewart Regan and the deployment of the McCoist robots, it meant that Rangers are again taking seriously the threat from Celtic. All that was needed now was a strongly worded condemnation of Celtic’s antics by Martin Bain. I didn’t have to wait too long.

The Silence of the Lambs II

We got out the taxi near Ashton Lane, the Traynor fancying a bit of sport and suggesting we hit the Chip to rile the Pacific Quay CSC who'd no doubt be in there whooping it up (their noses) and glorying in their job being made easier by Celtic winning and three Rangers players being sent off. He was right, they were all there, queueing at the bar but mostly hanging around the toilets, ranting at each other, nobody listening to a word anyone else was saying and talking too loudly about how they were really sticking it to the Huns these days. The fact that most of them were Protestant didn't seem to strike them as odd during these rants.

They went quiet though once they spotted the Traynor and their crowd parted as we approached the bar and the Traynor ordered a bucket of whisky for himself and a small sherry for me and as we stood there drinking, the Traynor shooting evil looks at anyone who dared glance in his direction, one of the BBC Bhoys came over and cautiously asked me how I was doing.
'Fine thankee, yourself?' I replied, cocking a snook at the audacity of this upstart - he was one of the juniors and had no right approaching the likes of me: Jack McConnell appointed sectarian crusader and award winning journalist.
'I'm fine thanks Graham. Listen, we were wondering how you are going to approach tonight's developments because I've got to tell you, we have no problem glossing over Lennon's racism and blaming everything on Diouf but we're a bit worried that this in turn might leave us open to accusations of racism and that just wouldn't do within the BBC.'
'I wouldn't worry about it young shaver,' sneered I. 'BBC Scotland has carte blanche to do what it likes as long as it's laying into the Rangers. If that means coming down on the side of an insidious church then fine, if that means condoning racism then that's fine too. Just stick to what you do best and you'll be alright.'
The Traynor finished his bucket and demanded another one then leaned over towards me and growled, 'Giving 'em enough rope, eh Spiers?'
'Eh? What are you on about? I meant what I said,' I squeaked and the Traynor sighed and tipped another bucket of whisky down his throat told me he was bored in here and we should go somewhere with a bit more life about it. So we were walking down Byres Road, heading for Partick which was giving me no end of the fear since that's where the Rangers fans would be and they're never pleased to see me, no matter how much I pretend in print that they're always cheerfully disposed towards me on match days. It was while we were strolling down there that we noticed Stewart Regan of the SFA on the other side of the road and just as we were about to corner him for a statement, a black van drew up, men in black uniforms, their faces hidden with balaclavas got out and grabbed him and bundled him into the back of the van before speeding off.

'Come on Spiers, we're following them - hop on my back and hold tight!' shouted the Traynor and before I had time to say Lawwell's Stasi, we were gallumphing across the city in pursuit of what promised to be a terrific story.

The Silence of the Lambs

'We're through the looking glass here Spiers,' grumbled the Traynor as we splashed through the tunnels which linked Celtic Park to Glasgow City Chambers. I'd discovered these by accident a short time ago while hiding from Lawwell in a cleaners cupboard when Jorg Albertz and I had a close call after Peter Kearney in his Torquemada guise had attacked us for some unknown reason but then again, Kearney doesn't usually need an excuse for attacking Protestants and no matter how much I try to persuade people otherwise, I am still one of them. So when Wednesday's old firm match ended in violence and recriminations and Lawwell's Stasi gathered everyone from the press box and led them to the underground bunker, I knew it wouldn't end well for the Scottish media. I whispered to my new ally, the Traynor that I knew a way out and we slipped away quietly, leaving everyone else to their fate. We later found out that every journalist was garotted to the point of death before submitting their reports and as a consequence, yet again Rangers got the blame for everything. This in spite of Lennon and Mjallby running around the tunnel at half time like a couple of rednecks who'd just spotted an uppity darky making eyes at the plantation owner's wife; all that was missing were a couple of burning torches and a noose. They really were the most astonishing scenes and as the world witnessed Diouf, Edu and Bartley turning in horror at what they'd just been called by the Aryan Mjallby, I wondered to myself just how would Lawwell talk his way out of this one.

Of course I should have known better. He didn't have to do much, even before his men had the chicken wire around their necks, the Scottish football press were already concentrating on attacking Rangers, Diouf in particular and ignoring the constant racist slurs hurled from the Celtic bench towards the Rangers players. This put me in a tricky position, being a fully paid up member of the Byres Road Liberal Elite, I should really speak out against this outrage but this is Celtic we're talking about - everyone knows politics, morals, family, indeed everything, goes out the window when it comes to Celtic. It's practically carved on the soul of every young Roman Catholic at birth, you will defend Celtic no matter what. But like I say, I'm a Baptist so it put me in a bit of a quandary.

The Traynor was with me not because of any moral objections to Celtic's behaviour but because he's a sociopath. At least having him with me meant that I'd be a little more safe from physical harm than usual and so it was as we escaped from the wrath of Lawwell, splashing through the secret tunnel and emerging at the City Chambers and out onto George Square where we caught a taxi to the west end and safety, or so I thought.