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.