Call me Ishmael

McGillivan was dribbling now, so worked up telling us about his great campaign to put Rangers to the sword that he had quite forgotten the rules of super villain exposition and was spending too much time explaining how much of a genius he is.
‘So dismayed that the Rangers fans had come up with a satirical song which in eight words ridiculed our obsession with Ireland so succinctly I vowed to not rest until I had added verses which would take the song from the realms of clever mocking to rancid racism – it took me five minutes. I know, it’s hardly a classic but there’s enough in there to get the liberal elite shaking in their Boden slippers and foaming over their Byres Road lattes. All I had to do then was mobilise the Celtic Internet Mafia who got to work emailing absolutely everyone to tell them how offended they were and before you could say begorrah, I had single handedly created a new offence: anti-Irish racism!  Rangers fans were bewildered, how had their jolly little chant become an international incident? Me! It was all me, Spiers! Move over Ozymandias, Phil McGillivan is the new King of Kings! I was Muiredhach Tireach. The spirits of Fidach, Foltchain and Eochaidh Muighmheadoin filled my body and I vowed that no longer would I be plain old Phil McGillivan and from that moment on, bathed in the glow of a divine destiny, I re-christened myself Phil MacGiollaBhain and adopted the mantle of journalist – gone was the disgraced social worker, gone was the pathetic lone ranter on Celtic websites; born was MacGiollaBhain, the man who would bring down Rangers!’
‘And what then?’ interrupted McBride, causing McGillivan to splutter and turn angrily, eyes blazing, hand reaching for his carving knife.
‘Eh? What do you mean?’ he almost shrieked at McBride, spittle spraying from his overwrought mouth.
‘You bring down Rangers, what then?’ asked McBride again.
‘Well it’s not just the accusations of bigotry and racism – smearing the Rangers name won’t do it alone. No, we needed a war on more than one front – we had to keep them busy putting out the flames of sectarianism while our men in Lloyds squeezed them for cash, leaving Walter Smith with a threadbare squad to give Neil Lennon room to win the league which in turn would send Rangers spiralling into more debt from where our Lloyds men would allow them no wriggle room. Soon the Rangers would be out of business – denigrated as the greatest evil in Scottish society, pursued by a compliant media scared of Lawwell and Reid, attacked by politicians in thrall of Kearney’s Media Office and eventually, the public who after such an onslaught would believe every bad word said about Rangers, would turn against them. If all our plans come to fruition in this, the most important and bitter battle ever fought over a game of football then Rangers, that white whale of legend, that great obsession of the Celtic Minded, would belong to the pages of history. And even then it wouldn’t be long before our people in Education had those pages removed from the books. And burned.’
‘And what then?’ asked McBride.
‘Well then we don’t have to worry about being downtrodden ever again.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then Celtic win every trophy going for the rest of time.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then we can take this country back!’
‘And what then?’ asked McBride.
‘Eh?’ said I.
‘Ninky nonk,’ squeaked Mad Joe O’Rourke.
‘Now we’re getting to the bottom of things,’ said McBride, putting a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it and as he did so, McGillivan’s face changed from ego-maniacal glee to suspicion.
‘Hold on, since when did Paul McBride QC smoke?’ and as he said it, McBride looked at me, blew smoke in my face and walked towards the entrance of the cave and gazed out towards the sea. McGillivan and O’Rourke followed him, watching his every move, carving knives at the ready and with a sigh, I followed them.
‘Yes McBride, when did Pansy Paul start smoking?’ I asked, trying to get a better look at his face which strangely, seemed a little blurred which at the time I put down to the gloom.
‘So Rangers cease to exist, what then McGillivan?’ asked McBride as he stood at the mouth of the cave, rain lashing against his face, cigarette glowing as he paused to take a pull at his cigarette.
‘Who would you hate then? Your hatred of Rangers as you freely admit, is your obsession. Kill Rangers and what do you have left, who would you hate?’
‘Erm…’ croaked McGillivan.
‘Makka pakka,’ growled O’Rourke.
And then as if a fog had lifted from around McBride, I saw that it wasn’t McBride after all and McGillivan noticed too.
‘You’re not McBride!’ he screamed, ‘who are you?’
So I introduced them.
‘Phil, meet a man who is the master of auto-suggestion and hypnosis, meet Jorg Albertz Demon Hunter.’