L'Enfer C'est Les Autres

It's over, thank god.  The most bitter and hate filled season in Scottish football has come to an end and did I contribute towards it?  Did I half.  It was a strange ending in many ways and as ever, finished up with bloodshed and recriminations all round.  I was lying in a pool of my own blood if you remember after being shot by my own wife, brainwashed by Tom Devine obviously - Celtic Minded and brain washing, what are they like?  Anyway, as I lay there in quite some agony, nobody had noticed Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos abseiling in through the hole in the roof of Lawwell's secret headquarters made there earlier by Martin Bain when he revealed himself to have super powers before crashing out of the place to prevent Lawwell's missile hitting Ibrox.  He's gone now, poor Martin; shame really as I really quite fancied him.  No one noticed the commandos until Graham Roberts appeared behind Devine, put an arm around his neck and whoosh, they were gone, reeled back towards the hole and out of there.  The same happened to everyone and Souness left a parting gift - half a dozen phosphorous grenades which lit up the place and left me lying there wondering why no one had bothered to rescue me.

As the flames spread I worried that they'd reach me and my end wouldn't be a pleasant one but the smoke got to me first and I passed out and as I did, I remember  my thoughts turning, not to my loved ones or how society would miss such a splendid journalist such as myself but to the janitor at the Times of Scotland who'd probably now get my job full time since he'd been writing my reports and columns for months now.  Not that anyone had noticed as no one reads the bloody thing anymore anyway.

Remarkably I came to and the pain had gone.  I'd been awoken by the tock tock tock of footsteps on a hard floor in a place where there was no other noise and as the footsteps got closer I could see the hefty figure of the Traynor approaching, but I thought he was dead, shot by Stuart Cosgrove on a roof in St. Vincent Street?  Then again, by rights I should be dead so I kept quiet and watched how things were to proceed.
'You're awake then,' he stated rather than asked.  'About time too, typical of you to sleep in and miss everything - sums up your career really, eh?'
'What have I missed then and how come you're still alive?  I saw you dead last night,' I squeaked but the Traynor shook his head and gave me a look of pity which was a new one for him.
'That wasn't last night, you've been out for almost two weeks now.  Kind of.  In reality you've been out for much longer while a replicant of you blundered around Scotland causing bother.  There was one of me too, that's who you saw shot.  No Spiers, we've been held in stasis in Walter Smith's Silence since that last old firm game when you tried to jump the old fellow.  Didn't I tell you there was something not quite right?  Haven't there been enough hints that we weren't who we thought we were?'
'Replicants, eh?  More importantly, who won the league?' I asked.
'Rangers.'
'DAMMIT!  What are we going to do now?  You know what the punishment for Rangers winning the league is - Lawwell will have our hides!'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about Lawwell if I were you.  Well, not quite - he's in here with us.  And Kearney.  And McBride.  Reid escaped somehow during the great round up but here we are: you, me, Lawwell, Kearney and Paul McBride, all locked up at the bottom of the ocean while up there Rangers go from a position of great weakness to great strength and still win the double while Celtic celebrate coming second in some outbreak of mass lunacy.  We hear they won the Scottish Cup and hoisted Neil Lennon on their shoulders as if he knew anything about it, the chap's been drunk, unconscious, possessed, missing a head or just too plain sociopathic to notice anything that's happened this season.  Yet you still think he's a nice guy.'
'He is...' I tried to object but the Traynor cut me off.
'This is the end, Spiers; the most spiteful and nasty season in my memory is over and we're down here to answer for our roles in perpetuating it.  Every day new guilty parties arrive, delivered by Richard Gough in the Nautilus but we never see where they go - half the sports department of BBC Scotland arrived this morning but in spite of searching every inch of this complex that I can find, I've yet to see them.  I'm afraid we're stuck with Lawwell and his pals.  Hell is indeed other people and sometimes I think that is precisely where we are - who knows what Rangers are capable of with Jorg Albertz on their side?'
'So that's it?  After everything we've been through this season, Celtic win nothing and we fetch up locked away down here?'
'They won the Scottish Cup I told you.'
'Oh that doesn't count.  This is so unfair - what have I done to deserve this?'  I almost cried and then I thought about my role in cliping Rangers to UEFA and my constant championing of Celtic while vilifying Rangers which when you think about it is only what I've always done but things had changed now, the coward Murray was gone and a new leader has taken over the Rangers, things next season were going to be an awfully lot different and with Lawwell and his goons imprisoned in Silence who is going to carry out Celtic's next campaign of intimidation, mud-slinging and violence against anyone in Scotland who doesn't support Celtic?  Well I suppose John Reid escaped so that'll be who.  I just wish I could be around to witness it again and be his cheerleader,  I did think I suited those short skirts and pom poms.

Oh well, Reid believed in the green half of Glasgow, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.  It eluded us this season, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...  And one fine morning -

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The Final Betrayal

‘What the fuck happened?’ asked Lawwell, gazing dejectedly at the bank of fuzzy screens while the other bank showed the sun breaking through the clouds at Ibrox Stadium, the grand structure still standing.

‘Seems like we didn’t need Mr Whyte to give away his secret today as Martin had it all under control. You didn’t know he could fly, eh Kearney? I’m sure if you did you would’ve flown out there after him to stop him preventing your outrage. That’s why Master Mason works in secret, you lot are just too vindictive.
‘No, we didn’t need Master Mason, Bain got there in time to erect an Einstein Rosen Bridge – wormhole to you, Lawwell, and that transported your missile to another dimension. An alternative reality if you like, one just like ours but instead of landing in that dimension’s Ibrox, it landed in Celtic Park instead. I guess somewhere out there in the ether, in this strange and wonderful universe of ours there are people wondering how a Celtic-made missile has obliterated their own ground. I guess the alternative Peter Lawwell will be wondering why he’s being put in jail for mass murder when he knows nothing about it. It’s enough to give you a sore head if you think about it too much, eh old sport?’ and he smiled and re-packed his pipe with tobacco.
‘But what about Bain?’ I asked, thinking that he looked quite sexy in the red and blue superman outfit.
‘Bain knew the cost of his loyalty,’ said Findlay. ‘To open the Einstein Rosen Bridge he knew he had to go with it. We don’t know if his super powers will allow him to survive the blast but he’s in that reality and I like to think he’s happy in the knowledge that he saved Rangers. What he thinks of his new reality’s Celtic reduced to ashes we can only wonder.’

‘We’ll get you yet, Findlay,’ growled Lawwell. ‘We might not have taken you out completely today but the world’s news stations are all over us today, disgusted that Celtic are victims in an ongoing campaign of sectarian intimidation. I’ll soon be releasing a statement calling you Scotland’s Shame yet again, my poodles in the press will push the agenda and we’ll squeeze you till your pips squeak, mark my words, we’ll still get you. And Spiers?’ He looked at me and my bowels collapsed.
‘Spiers, we have something for you.’
Electric doors slid open and out of the light walked my wife. I put on a good show of looking delighted to see her but then she lifted a hand and in it was a pistol, she pointed it at me and pulled the trigger.

I didn’t hear the bang but I came to on the floor with a terrible pain in my belly – the bitch had shot me! She’d obviously been brain washed by Devine and now she’d shot me! Donald Findlay didn’t seem to show me any sympathy.
‘Donald! What are we going to do now?’ I pleaded.
Findlay took another puff and said, ‘Now we wait.’
‘Wait for what ?’ I cried in agony.
‘We wait for Sunday, see who wins the league of course,’ he said and winked at me and just as I was passing out from the pain, my head began to swirl and I couldn't make out reality from my dreams and in the distance I could hear a horse galloping and through the mist of consciousness I swear I could see a white unicorn.

Einstein Rosen-Bridge

Lawwell had barely told us that he’d launched a missile on Ibrox five minutes before when there was a flash of light and a great crunching noise from above. It had been so sudden that we’d all flinched and by the time we’d recovered to look around to see what had caused it, Bain was gone leaving behind his clothes which lay in a smoking pile on the floor and a gaping hole in the ceiling where something with great strength had burrowed out of this place.
‘Where the fuck has he gone?’ wondered Devine, aloud.
Findlay puffed on his pipe and giggled, ‘You don’t know what Martin’s capable of, switch to your flight monitors and watch to see what Rangers have in their armoury.’
Lawwell nodded and half the screens on the great bank of monitors switched to the view ahead of the missile as it careered through the sky towards Glasgow, the other half showed Ibrox sitting peacefully in the rain, outside the main stand entrance played two small boys while a mother pushing a pram smiled indulgently.
‘He’s not going to make it, whispered Cosgrove to Findlay.
‘Make what?’ screamed Lawwell.
‘Just keep watching old sport,’ said Findlay, puffing away.
‘There’s Stirling, not long now boys!’ shouted Kearney, an erection rising in his trousers.
‘Where is he?’ asked Cosgrove.
‘This thing can really travel, eh Peter? Look, there’s Glasgow. Say goodbye to your precious football club you disgusting bigoted Orange bastards,’ slurred Devine without a trace of irony.
The screen showed the city of Glasgow in the distance but coming up fast. I looked to the Ibrox screens and there entering the main doors was Craig Whyte, he paused as if he knew we were watching him, looked to the sky and seemed to listen then the screen took some interference, there was a flash where Whyte once stood and he was gone.
‘What the fuck happened to Whyte?’ asked Lawwell.
Findlay turned to me and winked.
‘Just in case,’ was all he said before going back to puffing furiously at his pipe.
‘Lawwell! What’s that in front of the missile?’ exclaimed Kearney, pointing to the monitors and we all watched in amazement as what looked like the superhero, Master Mason flew towards the missile, raising a fist to punch it. But Master Mason had neglected to put on his mask in his hurry to get up there and the face full of determination to protect Rangers from this final outrage from Celtic was that of Craig Whyte.

Whyte didn’t get the chance to punch the missile though because just as the camera screamed in on him, there was a blur of blue and red and Martin Bain, his red cape billowing behind him appeared in front of Whyte, raised his hands and produced a flash of light and then the screens went blank.

Apocalypse Pending

‘The tide is turning gentlemen, the national press are onto us – I can control those pathetic insects in the Scottish media but when it gets as big as this and hits London then it’s outwith my purview. Damned Green Brigade, we turned a blind eye to them singing sectarian songs, even excused them by claiming their filth was political and it was to be in exchange for them launching a campaign of intimidation against their own club that would be blamed on Rangers thus turning the whole of Britain against them. The problem is though, they’ve gone too far; didn’t know when to stop. Last night they attacked the police, treated the whole country to their IRA songs and then sent some more packages to Neil Lennon again this morning. That’s the thing about opening a can of worms, if you spill it then you’re going to need a whole bigger can to get them all back in.
‘Gentlemen, I want you to see my big can.’
Lawwell chuckled and two panels in the wall behind us separated to reveal the biggest screen in the room and it showed a missile being fuelled.
‘Lawwell you maniac,’ exclaimed Findlay. ‘Where do you think that’s going?’
‘Oh Donald, I think you know where we’re putting it, just be glad you came sneaking around here instead of sitting in the Blue Room drinking tea with your friends. It wasn’t our first choice of course, we had Dominik Diamond ready to drive a truck laden with explosives through the gates of Ibrox but he shat it at the last minute and told us he’d take care of Rangers in his own personal way and promptly ran off to hide in shame for a few more years. So we had to change plan and this is it…’
‘The Inquisition 5!’ shouted Peter Kearney, appearing from a door behind us.
‘Aimed straight at your field of dreams and about to put paid to this season. Let’s see you win the league now!’ cried Tom Devine, twirling round in a swivel chair, previously unnoticed to our left. He spilled a half pint of port over himself but it was still an impressive move.
‘You’d do anything to stop Rangers win this year, wouldn’t you Lawwell?’ muttered Findlay, taking a pipe from his pocket and stuffing it with tobacco.
‘What if we just gave it to you, eh? What if we just lose to Kilmarnock on Sunday then you don’t need to launch that thing and devastate Ibrox?’
‘Oh Donald,’ tutted Lawwell. ‘ The Inquisition 5 is big enough to devastate your ground but believe me, it is small enough to leave the surrounding area standing – we just want rid of you, not to create any lasting damage to Scottish society as a whole’
‘Well you could’ve fooled us,’ interrupted Cosgrove. ‘All season you’ve been so intent on winning a damned sporting event that you’ve caused immeasurable damage to this country – we’re a laughing stock all over the world thanks to you and your behaviour…’
‘Silence!’ screamed Lawwell, producing his riding crop and whipping it across Cosgrove’s face.
‘But Peter,’ offered Findlay, taking a pull at his pipe. ‘Surely this has gone too far, even by Celtic’s standards? You’re just about to launch a missile at a heavily populated area and don’t expect innocents to suffer? Come on man, it’s time to give it up, time to just start getting on with life in harmony with each other – Rangers have no truck with you and your people, we just want to play football.
‘Honestly Findlay, ‘just about to launch a missile’? I’m not some comic book serial villain, did you honestly expect me to tell you my plans if there was any way you possibly affect the outcome? No, I launched the missile five minutes ago.’

Schiehallion

I stood atop the barren and snow cursed mountain and wondered how I was going to get back to the west end from here. I’d already considered the desolation and decided that Donald Findlay’s claims of Peter Lawwell having a secret mountain top hideout were just a load of paranoid bunkum, nothing survived up here without layers of fur and goretex which we were all wearing save for Stuart Cosgrove who persisted in dressing up as a bat. Our little mountaineering party consisted of Cosgrove, Findlay, Martin Bain and yours truly, the greatest pioneering journalist in Scotland according to Celtic Quick News and who am I to doubt their wisdom?
Things had been going fine for me since the exorcism of Neil Lennon: I’d somehow slipped away from that one with plaudits from Richard Gough and Jorg Alberz Demon Hunter but had to watch myself save the psychotic Lawwell considered my involvement there as collaboration; my pieces were still appearing in the Times thanks to the janitor and cleaning staff at Queen Street who were writing them – who was going to notice since no one reads the damn thing these days anyway? And I’d got wind that my wife was back in Glasgow which was interesting not because I wanted her back, no I was content to wank over my Martin O’Neil scrapbook but I did have a debt of honour to revenge myself against the drunken old goat, Tom Devine and I should’ve known he was back in town considering he’d been wheeled out by BBC Scotland for the election to sit and burp port sodden platitudes about sectarianism much to the amusement to fellow panellists who wondered why he was talking about a completely different topic from the rest of them during an election. So when Donald Findlay told me to meet him on a rooftop on St. Vincent Street I thought he was going to give me the opportunity to boot Devine a few times in the balls and didn’t think for one moment that Tam Cowan would launch me over the edge. Thanks to Cosgrove though I survived and after the cool headed murder of that beast, the Traynor, we got together with Findlay and Bain and set off in a small convoy to a mountain just north of Aberfeldy. The last time I was up this way was a wedding when Keith Jackson mistook me for a bridesmaid or so he says, and rogered me a good ‘un in the honeymoon suite but that’s another story.

This story though is concerned with Peter Lawwell and how he’d retired with John Reid to a supposed secret base atop Schiehallion to launch the Final Solution, whatever that was but knowing Lawwell’s Nazi tendencies, it wasn’t going to be an apology for employing Neil Lennon and the gift of an olive branch to all of Scottish society who wasn’t Celtic Minded. I was just considering this while watching Cosgrove struggle to take a leak by a rocky outcrop when something moved in the distance and I was just about to bring it to Findlay’s attention when I realised that my companions were standing with their hands in the air looking at me in consternation. I’d been the only one not to notice Lawwell’s arctic stormtroopers rise from their positions in the snow and level their rifles at us.

A lift that appeared out of nowhere was the first thing that amazed us and it took us deep underground into a space age headquarters similar in style to Jack McConnell’s moorland media centre – I suppose, no one saw McConnell build that monstrosity so who was going to notice Lawwell put this thing together?
We were escorted down a tunnel and into the Eye, an enormous room where a dozen men sat around monitors watching CCTV images from all over Scotland – so this was how Lawwell knew everything that was going on. Worryingly though, several of the screens showed images from inside Ibrox Stadium.
‘Did you know?’ I asked Bain.
‘Think we’d have allowed Celtic to get away with this if we did?’ retorted Bain.
‘Why yes, I think I do.’ I replied only to be interrupted by everyone standing to attention as in walked a man resplendent in brown shirt with death’s head insignia cufflinks and jackboots.
‘Welcome to Schiehallion gentlemen,’ said Peter Lawwell.

The Final Problem

I remember ludicrously, thinking that the moon looked beautiful as I slid down the rain wet rooftop and hurtling over the edge of the Victorian grandeur of some St. Vincent Street building. I was too tired to struggle anymore and had accepted my fate, the ground rushing up to greet me when I felt a hand grab my ankle and my plunge slowed to a halt feet from some mean looking iron railings and then I was heading away from the spikes and back up towards the roof. Stuart Cosgrove dressed head to toe in black leather and latex like some sort of bat-man steadied me and held a finger up to his mouth for me to be quiet and then pushed my head down with me briefly thinking he was looking for a blow job and I was just looking for the zip on that remarkable outfit when I realised he was hiding us from the Traynor who grunted on his way past as we hid in the shadows.


On a season such as this one where the real life events have been as crazy as any that might be alluded to in an imaginary diary should one exist, I should’ve understood that when Donald Findlay sent me a telegram saying that Tom Devine was back in town with my wife that I was being led into a trap. Shorn of the coward Murray, Rangers were on the offensive again and all over the city, enemies of the club were being reined in. As ever, I thought I was untouchable but hanging around a rooftop at midnight on a wet moonlit night only to be pushed off by an unseen hand can really steady the thought process.
‘I can see what you’re thinking Spiers,’ whispered Cosgrove. ‘It wasn’t Findlay or any of his agents – no, Lawwell got wind of this and sent King Bastard here to dispose of you as too many people are at last linking you to secret moves to bring down Rangers once and for all. Traynor’s just passed, the Piddler’s over on another rooftop cleaning the shit out of his trousers and the Joker, Tam Cowan is the one who pushed you off the roof. Lucky I was here to catch you, eh?’
‘So you’re here to take me to see Findlay? He has news of my wife apparently.’
‘Forget your wife, she belongs to Devine now. No, our task is the most important ever undertaken in the name of a sport – Lawwell senses the end game is near and is threatening to destroy Rangers once and for all. We don’t know exactly what he plans but he has three days to do it or they win the league and Lawwell could find himself out of a job.’
‘But where do I come in?’ I asked, a little too loudly because the Traynor stopped in his tracks, sniffed the air and turned towards us and growled.
‘Oh well,’ sighed Cosgrove. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this,’ and as the Traynor bounded towards us, Cosgrove pulled a gun from his utility belt and shot him in the chest.
The Traynor gasped and fell to his knees.
‘I can’t believe you just did that, what happened to Rangers sitting back and taking it? What happened to Celtic doing what they liked and Rangers maintaining a dignified silence? What, what, what…’

Lightning lit up the rooftops illuminating the Traynor as he sat in the pouring rain, water dripping from his nose as he looked at his fatal wound.
‘Spiers, come here,’ he gasped. I walked over to him and kneeled down, feeling sorry for the beast. He looked at me and beckoned me closer.
‘I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,’ he began. ‘Lawwell’s attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve seen c-beams glitter off the Gallowgate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.’
And he closed his eyes and as he did, something fell from his hand. I picked it up, it was a paper unicorn with my name written on it. Strange, Walter Smith gave me something similar in Silence when he held me and the Traynor there. I opened up the paper unicorn to find that it had written on it co-ordinates and one other word apart from my name: Schiehallion.

There are no Ghosts in the Morning

It took just over a day; Albertz ran out of cigarettes two hours before it finished and became a bit grumpy towards the end, Lawwell and Gough sat impassively watching proceedings and I squirmed in my corduroys having soiled them three times - twice in fright and once just because I couldn't hold it in any longer. Eventually though the great Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter had exorcised seventeen demons from Neil Lennon leaving Scottish football and society as a whole a much safer place.


'But why Albertz, why did you help them?' I asked later as Lawwell called for his Stasi who bundled Lennon's exhausted figure into a black van.
'Because Rangers take their social responsibility seriously, Spiers. I thought even you might have noticed by now that there's only one team goes on the offensive in Glasgow and it ain't us. We remain silent in the face of constant Celtic onslaughts because we know that to respond or to act in kind would be not only dragging ourselves down to their level but to allow the lunatics in our support the same carte blanche to act terribly in the same way Celtic's pandering to their own maniacs allows them to justify their own awful behaviour. Consider Paul McBride and his snide attacks and think about a similar QC on the Rangers side who has remained dignified and silent in spite of being hung out to dry for less than Celtic players and ex-managers get away with on a regular basis, indeed Findlay works studiously behind the scenes to keep a lid on this whole thing of ours while McBride spends half his life in the Polo Lounge and the other half attacking Protestants. What about Lawwell? While Martin Bain is constantly not just keeping his powder dry but throwing buckets of water over it, Lawwell practically dances around the gunpowder room smoking cigars and playing with sparklers. The batman? The media and police consider him a criminal when it's really Stuart Cosgrove keeping in place Celtic Minded grotesques such as the Piddler Hugh MacDonald, Chic Young and the Traynor. Kearney? His life's mission it to instigate a new Holy Inquisition in Scotland while our own Master Mason works diligently for charity. And don't get me started on Tom Devine who is wheeled out by BBC Scotland to drunkenly accuse the whole of Scotland of being vicious anti-Catholic bigots while Professor Steve Bruce who is a positive voice of reason is ignored, no vilified for daring to go against the party line and suggest that it's the sectarianism industry that's sprung up in this country and run by people with vested interests and secret agendas that is truly Scotland's Shame. So that's why I exorcised Neil Lennon, Spiers; because we work for the good of all people while Celtic have only their own narrow minded cause to pursue.'
'There must be some other reason though, surely?' I asked, certain that I was missing something.
'Of course,' butted in Gough. 'We need to keep Lennon safe and in a job because with him as manager that lot will never win the league.'

So I left that flat of horror in Hyndland with Gough's words ringing in my ears, vowing to somehow use them against Rangers the next time I was on Twitter - my only way of communicating my messages these days considering no one buys the Times anymore or reads on-line thanks to the paywall. I headed home, pausing only to pour a bucket of water over my stalker Brian McNally who sleeps rough on my doorstep and settled down in bed with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook to knock one off when suddenly I had a thought, an original thought for a change and not one given to me by some swivel-eyed Celtic supporter at the Brazen Head and it got me wondering that Peter Lawwell had something else up his sleeve, that he allowed Albertz and Gough free rein to interfere in Celtic affairs which wasn't like him. Looking back on things now, I wish that original thought had just stayed away because foolishly I pursued it and here I am caught up in the greatest outrage ever perpetrated by Celtic against Scottish football. But yet again I'm getting ahead of myself.

We are Legion

Lennon sat in the middle of the pentacle and hissed, his tongue darting out like a snake from between his rows of razor sharp teeth, and all the while he looked at us like a lion might regard an antelope and I'll tell you, I didn't feel safe at all even although Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter's magic pentacles drawn on the floor were supposed to contain Lennon and the demons within that were possessing him.

'I suppose I'd better get on with it then,' said Albertz, suddenly sounding quite chirpy.
So while I sat on the floor beside Lawwell and Gough, Albertz stood and faced Lennon and lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke in Lennon's face.
'Why don't you fuck off back to where you came from? You don't belong here,' spat Albertz, talking to the demons but causing Lawwell to shift uneasily, storing this in his memory, considering if he could get Gerry Duffy to run with it in the Sun the day before a big Rangers match as an example of anti-Irish racism.
'I name you, demons!' shouted Albertz, warming to his task. 'I name you Wormwood and Screwtape, now fuck off back to hell and leave us alone.'
Lennon collapsed writhing to the floor as black tar oozed from his mouth, nose and ears, his eyes bulged and his back arched as if in agony. All he had to do next was to kick over some bottles and anyone would've thought it was match day and Celtic were losing.
'Wormwood and Screwtape! I name you, begone!' shouted Albertz, taking another pull at his cigarette and turning to us and winking. Then Lennon roared and red bile fountained from his mouth, hitting the ceiling and dropping back onto him as he rolled around inside the magic circle, then he was still.
'That's the thing about black magic,' said Albertz, smiling. 'Any cunt can do it.'
'Are we finished? Is he exorcised?' asked Gough.
'Yup. You can have Neil Lennon the man back now Lawwell, although I'm sure many won't notice the difference,' sneered Albertz but behind him Lennon was rising to his knees and was grinning at us, his eyes burning bright red, steam rising from his clothes. Then he bellowed like a deer and cackled, 'Oh Demon Hunter, did you really think there was only Wormwood and Screwtape in here? You didn't consider this mound of meat has been carrying other demons all this time? You didn't for one moment observe his behaviour over the years and consider there were already many of us in here? Oh dear, you're losing your touch Albertz and what makes me giggle is that you don't know any of our names so you won't rid this trash of us as you did so easily with those other two amateur denizens of the slums of hell.'

Now this really scared me but at the same time it explained a lot about Lennon and his behaviour but just as I was wondering if we'd survive this latest development Albertz just sighed and said, 'This'll take a while, lucky I brought a few packets of fags, eh?'

Riding with Moloch

As Richard Gough and Peter Lawwell outdid each other in the keeping cool under pressure stakes, I sat in the back sweating and keeping an eye on Jorg Albertz because I figured that I'd be fine as long as the Demon Hunter showed no sign of panic but when Neil Lennon stirred and his skull seemed to take on a life of its own, moving around under his skin as if something awful was trying to get out, and a drop of sweat ran down the back of Albertz's neck, well that's when I really began to worry.


Tar dribbled from Lennon's mouth and his sharpened teeth ground together and as we left the city centre and at last approached the west end, Albertz nudged me and motioned towards Lennon's hands which to my horror had seemed to grow talons: rough, grey things which sprouted from his fingers like twigs from a branch, with no discernable pattern but looking sharp enough to rip someone's face off. Then his head rolled to the side to face me and I shrieked as one eye opened, looked at me and then closed.
'What happened?' shouted Gough from the driver's seat.
'He looked at me, he opened his eye and looked at me!' I babbled as Albertz turned the head around and studied it as what looked like a knuckle stretched out of Lennon's forehead until the skin could strain no more and then it retreated back into the head leaving a red welt the only evidence it had happened.
'It's not good Captain,' said Albertz to Gough. 'You've got to speed it up or we're never going to get him to the safety of the magic circles in my flat. The demons will be awake in minutes.'
So Gough put the foot down and we raced past Byres Road and up Highburgh Road just as Lennon let out a growl and opened his eyes again for a few seconds before his head drooped once more as I strained to stop myself from soiling my pants.
'Cards on the table here chief,' shouted Albertz. 'Fuck the speed limit and fuck traffic lights, if we don't get out of this car now then we're all dead!'
And as he said it, Lennon opened his mouth in an obscene yawn - his razor sharp teeth bared and black with tar, his breath a yellow mist which caused us all to gag as Gough brought the car to a sudden halt.
'What the fuck?' cried a startled Albertz.
'Mummy!' screamed some coward sitting beside him which I realised was me.
'It's the police,' said Lawwell, looking in the mirror. 'They're behind us and the lights are at red.'
'Fuck the lights, fuck the police, if we don't move we're fucked!' roared Albertz as Lennon opened one burning eye that swivelled around before closing again.
'Sorry Jorg,' said Gough, keeping an eye in the rear view mirror and staying calm. 'If we cut a red then the cops will be onto us and how are we going to explain two ex-Rangers players, the Chief Executive of Celtic dressed as a Nazi and a discredited journalist in a car with an unconscious Neil Lennon? No, we wait. We have time, he's only stirring, not waking up.'
The car was silent save for the grinding of Lennon's teeth and the horrible noise coming from his arms and legs which sounded like bones twisting and breaking, muscle stretching and groaning. The car ticked over and the lights stayed at red. I looked at Albertz and he was really sweating now, his shirt soaked at the neck. I felt my corduroys dampen and hoped it too was sweat otherwise I'd be no better than Hugh MacDonald. Lennon's head turned again and eyes still shut, he lifted one hand and got it caught in the back of Lawwell's seat, one of the talons snagging in the material. I looked up at the lights and they were still at red, I turned and looked out the back and the police were sitting there behind us in their car, not interested in us. Not yet.

Lennon's hand raked the seat in front of him and came down on his own leg, piercing it and sending a jet of his blood squirting onto his face; his tongue flicked out, not a human tongue now but a black pointed tongue that licked up the blood from his chin and cheeks before disappearing back into that hideous maw.
'If you don't get moving Gough then I'm out, I'm sorry,' said Albertz.
I weighed this up - if Albertz was prepared to abandon the car then I sure as hell wasn't going to linger and I was just reaching for the door handle on my side when Lennon coughed and black vomit flew past Lawwell's shoulder and splattered the windscreen. Lawwell screamed at last, almost hysterically trying to get the bile off his pristine Wehrmacht jacket, Lennon's eyes opened and stayed open, I held onto the door handle and was just about to open the car door and throw myself out when the lights changed to amber and we took off, turning onto Clarence Drive with Albertz's flat on the corner of Lauderdale Gardens just ahead of us. We pulled in to the pavement and let the police car pass and then we were all out of the car, Gough and Albertz hauling Lennon behind them, his eyes still open but body thankfully unable to move. We bounded up the stairs, Albertz had the door open in a twinkling and we ran through the hall and into an empty room which had two magic circles painted onto the floorboards. Gough threw Lennon into one and Albertz got to work closing the circle with chalk at the one break in the pentacle and then we got into the other circle and he closed that one too just as Lennon woke up, stood unsteadily on his feet, looked at us, roared and pounced before being knocked on his arse by some unseen force.

'Fucking hell, that was close,' laughed Albertz then he sniffed and said, 'Is Hugh MacDonald in here, I'm sure I can smell shit?'

His Dark Materials

As Gough drove us slowly through the gridlocked Glasgow streets, Albertz told us what was going to happen once we arrived at his flat in the west end. It involved lots of black magic and humping Neil Lennon up some stairs and I must admit that my heart jumped on hearing that we'd be humping Neil Lennon but it turned out I'd just misheard the Demon Hunter. It's difficult to concentrate on what other people are saying when you're used to hearing only the sound of your own voice; this is why Radio Clyde is my spiritual home - I get to talk over callers to the show so that everyone can marvel at my superior wit and opinions and if any Rangers fans manage by subterfuge to get through to the panel then we simply cut them off and steer the topic of conversation back onto the main agenda which is laying the boot into Rangers.


It was while thinking all of this that I managed to miss most of Albertz's important instructions and only zoned back in when he mentioned that Lennon seemed to be stirring and that Gough had better get a move on.
'Can't do a damn thing about it Jorg, the traffic's awful,' said Gough from the driver's seat.
'You'd better be careful back there,' said Lawwell. 'You think Lennon's teeth are disgusting when you see him on television? They're fake, open his mouth and pull out his teeth and see what's underneath.'
I looked at Albertz who looked back at me and nodded for me to do it but I shook my head in horror so Albertz sighed and reached over and opened Lennon's mouth. Black drool oozed out and dribbled off his chin, Albertz nearly gagged and reached in and pulled out a set of fake, mossy teeth - if these were the good ones then I wasn't looking forward to what was underneath them.
'Well at least this set are clean,' said Albertz as he pulled back Lennon's lips to reveal two rows of razor sharp teeth.
'He filed them down himself, after he was possessed you understand,' explained Lawwell. 'It suited us at the time to employ a rabid maniac with a tendency towards violence - it appealed to our fans when we couldn't afford another big name manager after last year's Mowbray debacle but even our fans aren't that stupid and many of them saw right through our little ploy so we took to the schemes with the Celtic Irish Republican Road Show and reached out to the scum of the east end gutters. A promise here to get in the faces of referees and a commitment there to start a war with the perceived establishment of the SFA and we soon had them eating out of our hands. The only problem was, no one thought to tell Lennon. He took it all seriously and began dragging the good name of Celtic into the sewer. Of course he met John Reid there and under his tutelage the whole of Scottish football was disgraced in front of the world. We've gone too far though, Lennon's a danger not only to himself but to others now and when he starts to put my neck on the line then it's time for something to be done - this, gentlemen is why I'm going with you voluntarily, please don't think you have me a prisoner, no one has power over Peter Lawwell. No one.'
'Aye alright Peter,' sneered Albertz as he held onto Lennon's chin, pulling back an eyelid and checking how long we had to get to Hyndland.
'I hate to say this Captain, but if we don't get this thing to my flat in the next ten minutes then the demon inside him will awake and there'll be a blood bath in this car.'
And almost on cue, Lennon stirred and we heard a sound from his mouth like rusty needles scraping together as more black tar bubbled from his nostrils.

Kidnapped

It wasn't until we got to the end of the secret tunnel linking Celtic Park to the City Chambers that Jorg Albertz turned to me, pulled deeply on his cigarette, blew smoke in my face and reminded me of the last time we'd run for our lives through the dank and horrible place.

'Whatever happened to Master Mason? Remember he rescued us just as Peter Kearney was about to render us unto the Holy Inquisition?'
'Don't know Jorg, haven't seen him since that business in Kelvingrove Park - makes you wonder, eh?'
Richard Gough butted in, 'Keep it quiet you two, we're passing the Council Chamber now, too much noise and we'll have the Glasgow Labour Celtic Militia down on our heads and the last thing we need right now is a fight with men in cheap suits and emerald green ties.'
I looked over at Peter Lawwell who was with us if you remember, having been taken along with Neil Lennon after Albertz disabled the demon within Lennon to allow us to take him away for an exorcism, and Lawwell just smiled that lazy eyed psycho smile of his which usually indicated that someone was going to be given a thrashing with his horse whip but he wasn't in the company of the cowardly Scottish media now, or politicians wanting to keep their VIP days at Parkhead - no, he was with Richard Gough, ex-Captain of HMS the Walter Smith, now mysterious captain of the freebooting Nautilus; and Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter. Oh, and of course me, Graham Spiers, scourge of Rangers and defiant crusader against sectarianism (just as long as it's not Celtic fans).

We emerged onto George Square, the four of us pusing an unconscious Neil Lennon in a wheelbarrow, and Gough hailed a taxi. The driver looked at Lennon in the barrow and chortled,
'Pissed again? Jeez, does that man never learn? You'd think in the current climate he'd be lying low but no, he's out every night getting rat arsed and growling at people in pubs - I've helped him out my taxi three times already this week!'
'This isn't working,' said Gough. 'We can't leave so obvious a trail - Jorg, be a good fellow and steal us a car.'
Albertz sidled over to a nearby BMW and had it open in a twinkling and next thing you know we're haring across Glasgow, Gough driving with Lawwell beside him and me and Albertz in the back with Lennon sitting between us, out for the count.  Sometimes I think about the fankles I get myself into and consider if I'd be better just finding another job but then there aren't many out there for pompous sneaks with divinity degrees.