The Pacific Quay Syndrome

Not only did I wake up with a tiny penis on Sunday but I also seem to have gone slightly deaf, a condition common to every journalist in Scotland without fail. There we were, all sitting reporting on a Celtic game, the Celtic fans whooping it up and supporting their football team by singing songs about ethnic cleansing and sectarian Irish murder gangs and not one of us heard a thing. I leaned over to Chick Young who's always the first to run bleating to BBC Sportsound if Rangers fans even fart but he said he didn't hear anything. Roddy Forsyth? Was sitting there with his fingers in his ears going 'la la la la la!' So no wonder he didn't hear it. I doubt the match observer heard anything as he was wearing ear muffs and BBC Scotland edited out the singing and replaced it with stock crowd noise.

They're really taking editing to a new level, the Pacific Quay CSC, why on Friday they held a Rangers bashing party in the editing suite and stitched up Ally McCoist good and proper before going to the Brazen Head to watch their work on the televisions there then it was down to the Chip for trebles and lines of coke all round. Chris McLaughlin wasn't invited of course and wouldn't have gone anyway, having decided to stay at the Quay and write some more about Celtic although how he could find anything else to write about his team on the BBC website I don't know but there he stayed.

The next day as I watched the BBC bhoys party continue into the Saturday - I asked them if they shouldn't all be at work to concentrate on the Rangers opening match of the season and was told that 'BBC Scotland don't do Rangers', I got a call on my mobile from McLaughlin. He was in tears and sounded petrified.
'I've just been roughed up by Chris Woods and Cammy Fraser,' he sobbed, a victim of Souness's Rangers 80s Squad Commandos by the sound of it.
'All I did was throw McCoist's reputation in the gutter while urinating and dancing an Irish jig on it, something we all used to do with impunity and now I've been forcibly removed from Ibrox with Rangers refusing to talk to the BBC - it's all my fault Spiers. Well, me and that fairy, Jimmy Cooke but he wasn't around to be manhandled by Graham Roberts in the press room, the coward!' He whined.
'Listen Chris, where are you and I'll meet you, I have to find out how you got yourself thrown out of Ibrox, I'd love to have that done to me,' and as I daydreamed about becoming a martyr for the Celtic cause and being lauded in republican pubs all over Glasgow I heard him splutter.
'Spiers! Spiers! I'm coughing up crickets!' cried McLaughlin and then the line went dead.

The Tiny Penis Rule

Tiny shafts of early morning sun dapple the hand woven Iranian rug in my bedroom and light up the dust as it gently settles on my bed.  I was stirring after a good night's sleep and couldn't wait to get to the Celtic game to celebrate my diversity with the other Celtic fans in the press box by humming along to those ancient hymns glorifying the Celtic family sung by their supporters in the away end.  I paused though, as before I'd opened my eyes fully I could hear Sylvester Stallone talking to Harrison Ford at the end of my bed.

'I mean I've been taking 'roids for forty years and I don't have a penis that size, would you look at it!' mumbled Stallone.

'I'm a pensioner and even I can raise a morning glory five times bigger than that, it's like a vagina only different,' replied Ford.

Then another voice I wasn't quite expecting,

'Can you even call that a penis?  I mean after Peter Lawwell's release party last week when he, Paul McBride, Peter Kearney and Tom Devine all got their wangers out to compare size, after seeing those chipolatas I never thought I'd see anything else quite so small but this beats them all - and it's supposed to be erect!'

It was little Jimmy Osmond!  I reached for my medication but it wasn't by the bed so I closed my eyes and went back to sleep and when I woke up they were gone.

How to Report Scotland

I had the pleasure today of watching one of Pacific Quay CSC’s geniuses in action as Chris McLaughlin invited me in to watch him put together a report on sectarianism.
‘It’s just to show there’s no hard feelings about that job application, Spiers’ he said, smiling to me as I was let through security by men in gas masks although why they’d need to wear those I don’t know.
‘Yes, we made sure security knew you were coming and to buzz me immediately upon your arrival, come on upstairs’ he rambled.
‘Yes, your first mistake in looking for a job with BBC Scotland was previously claiming you were a Rangers fan. Oh, I know you were only trying to establish your credentials as the only Rangers fan brave enough to hate Rangers because of what they’ve become in the eyes of my people but it was a foolish move destined to deny you ever working for us here in the Quay. Or Glasgow City Chambers for that matter. And increasingly the PF’s office. Or the Herald. The Record. The Sun. Jeez, you know Spiers, I’d never before thought just how far we’ve come since Catholics were the ones not getting the jobs – we’ve come full circle and wouldn’t you just think that having great grandparents who’d experienced such bigotry, we’d be less inclined to be so prejudiced ourselves? Ha! That’ll be the day! Come on in to the editing suite and I’ll show you how we lay into the Huns at Reporting Scotland, this is how we roll.’

And I sat and observed as he instructed the technician to insert a pic of Ibrox here as the main picture during the introduction, then some fuzzy Youtube footage of half a dozen Rangers fans singing the Billy Boys from some random game years ago, some more Rangers fans to be shown every time we mention the word sectarianism and now, a shot of Celtic fans looking all solemn and earnest with a positive banner that shows they could never be guilty of such terrible behaviour. All in all, the piece screamed, Rangers Bad/Celtic Good. Job done.
I watched McLaughlin as he sat back with an air of self satisfaction around him and I wondered aloud why he was never to be seen carousing with the Reporting Scotland Bhoys at the Chip.
‘Not trendy enough for that lot, I don’t wear sandals and three quarter length trousers. Didn’t go to St. Al’s either,’ he confessed.
And because you’re an ugly runt of a cunt too, I’d wager, I thought to myself. No wonder, he spends all his days holed up in here, dreaming up new ways to demonise Rangers and their fans, this zealot makes me look like Simple Simon.
‘You should get out more, Chris,’ was all I said as I left the Quay feeling slightly uneasy and depressed. What was happening to me, was I disturbed that someone else was battering into Protestants to a bigger audience than I could ever dream of and all at their own expense too? That’s the beauty of it, most Scots are paying for hysterics like Chris McLaughlin to tell them over their dinners how bigoted and disgusting they are with nothing but their own prejudices as evidence. If only News International were funded by the public then perhaps I’d feel more at ease and be more secure knowing I can lay into the Orange bastards with impunity and a gold plated pension to boot.
I was thinking all this and more when I eventually arrived at the bottom of Byres Road and gazing up that west end wonder as the sun set behind it, I felt a shiver and decided to not bother with Ashton Lane tonight. I must have been coming down with a cold or something. As I walked home I barely noticed the dry husks of dead crickets in the gutters.

Section 18

I’ve been looking for a new job recently. Not as many might wish, that I am in danger of being sacked from the Times – no, that’s not going to happen, not with shaky old Magnus Linklater still at the helm and I’ll get back to the reasons why the old bluffer puts up with my astonishing lack of original talent, football knowledge and self awareness, never mind the golf outings while missing exclusives, adventuring so much that the janitor and cleaners take it in turns to write my reports on occasions and of course, my personal hygiene. First though, I need to record my encounters during some casual job hunting as the way News International is going, you never know what might happen.
So I was interviewed for a job with the Guardian. Asked if I could handle a weekly gardening column I told them that the closest I’d got to horticulture was lurking in Kelvingrove Park of a night looking for rough trade but how about I use the column as a forum for my thoughts on how vile Rangers fans are? The panel looked at each other in bewilderment and asked if a television review piece would be best suited to my talents and I replied that I don’t own a television but I could report on Rangers fans’ singing during live matches from the television in Tennents bar on Byres Road. That got a collective sigh from the panel who in exasperation asked me if food was my thing and I said yes, I could review restaurants with a fourteen paragraph story dobbing Rangers to UEFA with only the final paragraph mentioning how the succulent lamb tasted at the Chip between lines of coke with the Pacific Quay CSC. That’s when they said the interview as over and that they weren’t even going to thank me for my time, calling for Matt Dickinson to explain himself with his recommendations.

Talking of Pacific Quay CSC otherwise known as BBC Scotland, I was given an application form for a job there but didn’t get very far. I got to section 2 after my name and address and it asked simply, ‘Are you a Roman Catholic? If yes go to section 3, if no go to section 17.
Section 17 asked, ‘Are you at least a Celtic supporter? If yes go to section 3, if no go to section 18.’
I went to section 18 where it told me, ‘Thank you for interest in BBC Scotland but unfortunately we have no vacancies at this time.’
So no luck on the jobs front this week but no matter, there was still time to pursue my current employment and saunter along to Parkhead where I chanced upon Lawwell, back in his glory wearing a pristine Wehrmacht uniform and brandishing a cosh at Pansy Paul for being so stupid as to allow his thoughts on songs sung and words used by the Celtic support to get into the public forum where it could be used by the mainstream media.
‘Do you know how long I’ve spent kicking the arses of every editor in Scotland to make sure your opinions didn’t make it into the papers? How many free VIP days at Parkhead I’ve had to promise to dolts who in the old days I’d have had across the rack instead? Damn this resurgent Rangers under Whyte, it’s not bad enough they have an owner willing to take the fight to us now but you have to go and score an own goal of spectacular proportions – what, were you promised a shot at someone’s arse for that little interview?’
I left him to his ranting and Pansy Paul to his cowering although from where I was standing he seemed to be enjoying the horsewhip when it appeared. So I sloped off and caught a bus back to the west end and considered old doddery Magnus Linklater and how he came to employ me in spite of all my faults.

The Journalist who came in from the Cold

So here I was back in Glasgow having survived another season of madness and the fall out of yet another Rangers title win. The only reason there wasn´t a great round up of journalists and politicians by Lawwell after Celtic lost again was because he´d been rounded up himself and encarcerated with me, Pansy Paul McBride, Peter Kearney, the Traynor and yours truly in Walter Smith´s underground HQ, Silence. We´d spent a miserable month sniping at each other and wondering what was happening during the close season, Lawwell being particularly concerned at Neil Lennon being left alone with the transfer budget by himself, and pondering when we´d be let out, if ever.
We didn´t have long to wait and a few of us were transported in Richard Gough´s Nautilus to Glasgow where we taken blindfold to an underground car park where we were lined up in front of Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos who were standing in the shadows holding sten-guns and pick-axe handles. Across the other side of the car park stood the Celtic mob, similarly armed and holding one chap with a hood over his head - it became obvious that we were to be traded like some Cold War spies. I was just beginning to twitch with the excitement of being out of Silence and back in Glasgow, my Glasgow where I have a cosy flat full of pictures of Matt McGlone naked and my Martin O’Neil scrapbook, an Elton John collection to rival no other and a safe little job waiting for me thanks to Magnus Linklater. People often wonder why old Magnus allows me to get away with writing about football while not knowing anything about it, rubbishing Rangers to the point of legal action and obsessing about sectarianism in such a one sided manner it’d make Peter Kearney blush, well I’ll get to that soon enough but first I have to tell you of the exchange.

The headlights of one of the cars at the Celtic end were flashed and met by the flash of the full beam from a Rangers end Land Rover then I felt a push in my back and I was forced forward to walk towards the Celtic end with Lawwell, Kearney and Pansy Paul walking by my side. What four prisoners of Celtic are being exchanged to allow our release I wondered and was disappointed to notice just one man walking towards us. I couldn’t see his face at first, the car park was too dark and he walked in shadows which curiously shrouded him even when he passed a neon light. Then I heard a gasp from Kearney and McBride QC and a growl from Lawwell as they understood who it was who was being traded. I looked up too late and missed his face but I could hear the admiring welcome from Souness and his Commandos behind me. Damn, as ever, my lack of observational skills had seen me undone. This could have been the story of my career that didn’t depend on lies and subterfuge and I missed it because I was too busy fluttering my eyes at one of the Celtic Stasi.

I was bundled into the very car where my mystery prisoner had once been sitting and as I was driven home to begin again another malicious campaign against Rangers, I looked at my feet and on the floor of the car lay a dead cricket.

Weird Tales from the Journals of Graham Spiers

Four days ago
Popped into the Pacific Quay CSC to see what I´ve missed over the close season. Seems I missed a lot. Celtic fans rioted in Australia and many were arrested after spending more time on the park than their team. Of course there was no mention of any of this in the mainstream Scottish press never mind at the BBC. I mentioned this to Ian Small while we were having a threesome with Jackie Bird in a sound booth and he said of course nothing would be mentioned, it was Celtic fans, not Rangers fans for heaven´s sake! Later as we sat about worrying what would happen to the tape the sound engineer made of our spit roast session (Jackie wasn´t worried, apparently this had happened to her before and nothing had come of it), Small told me he was interviewing candidates for junior BBC Scotland posts that day; seven of the candidates were nominally Protestant, one a Jew and three were RCs, ´Guess which three are getting the jobs?´ he roared and collapsed laughing.

Five weeks ago
The Traynor continues to stalk the corridors and never ending rooms of Silence, sometimes he disappears all day but always returns to our room to sleep. He´s built a nest in the corner.

Two days ago
Visited my GP to discuss my cricket dreams.

Four weeks ago
Lawwell thrashed McBride QC today after Pansy Paul made a clumsy pass at him. The lack of sex must be getting to him for him to be so bold. Still, he seemed to enjoy the horse whipping as did Lawwell who´s missing his daily kicking around of the Scottish media.

One week ago
Chief Constable of Central Police, Kevin Smith put his head further above the parapet than ever before after releasing a press statement laying into Rangers fans for no apparent reason other than because he hates them. I recall a drunken conversation with him one night in the Brazen Head when he was still a Glasgow cop and he told me his superiors had stuck the knife into him when he was younger and had applied for Special Branch. Apparently his support of Celtic and Irish Republican causes had created concerns unlike these days when such a background would see you promoted well beyond your abilities.

Three weeks ago
I had the dream about crickets again last night, it´s beginning to concern me. This morning when I first woke up I gazed over at Peter Kearney and his head looked like a cricket´s head. He chirruped and hopped away, leaving me worried that the strange living conditions here in Silence are beginning to affect me. Wily old Walter Smith ensures the neon lighting down here is on 24 hours a day so we´re becoming a little confused about what is night and day. Maybe this is why the Traynor built a nest?

Two and a half weeks ago
The Traynor didn´t come back last night. He´d been searching Silence yet again, having spent the weeks looking for a way out or a light switch and that was the last we saw of him.

Two weeks ago
Pansy Paul McBride QC to give him his full name, made another clumsy pass, this time at Kearney. Next thing you know they were both rolling around inside the nest the Traynor had vacated. For all his prejudice against gays, it doesn´t seem to stop Kearney from wearing cut off denim shorts and baring his backside to Pansy Paul at the drop of a pink hat. Of course, locked away down here there isn´t a hope in hell of McBride´s parents finding out he´s a friend of Dorothy, his greatest fear.

Six weeks ago
Rangers have won the league again and I´m locked in Walter Smith´s deep sea headquarters with a bunch of lunatics. Everyone´s keeping out of Lawwell´s reach as he smuggled in his horse whip and is laying into anyone who mentions football. Except the Traynor of course as the Traynor, seemingly freed of any societal constraints, would have his hand off if he went near him with the whip.

One week three days ago
Lawwell insulted me this afternoon. He said, ´with all that water surrounding us, you´d think you´d find some of it to take a bath. You stink, Spiers!´ So I´ve been sulking for the past two hours and while doing this, I swear I saw a light in the darkness out one of the portholes.

Two days ago
Well the medication is beginning to work and I´m feeling quite embarrassed that I used to think Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone used to sit on the end of my bed of a morning, dispensing wisdom about how the Masons were responsible for all the world´s ills. I mean, come on, giving up Hollywood to sit in a west end tenement and whisper conspiracy theories about Rangers into the ears of a dashing young journalist? I find it quite funny now as do the Osmonds who joined me at Whitecraigs for eighteen holes, Jay and Little Jimmy found it hysterical and laughed so much they put Donnie off his stroke for his final put and he ended up chasing them down the Ayr Road with a seven iron.
As I relaxed in the bar later I chanced upon a few conversations which previously I´d have assumed were about me but on this medication, I don´t feel quite so paranoid anymore so when I overheard one fellow journalist to another say,
´You know he´s gay of course, don´t you?´
´But he´s married with children.'
'So was Oscar Wilde.'
Wow, to be mentioned in the same breath as Wilde, how kind.
Then another pair who didn´t see me lurking in the corner booth were overheard saying,
'A good journalist deals in news, he wouldn´t know news if it chased him down the street and bit him on the arse, all he deals in is conjecture, lies and ill informed opinion.'
'And he´s gay.'
'Not that there´s anything wrong with that.'
'Try telling that to the Diocese, Christ I wish they´d let us get on with being councillors and stop interfering so much with Labour policy, it´s becoming embarrassing especially when we shout about prejudice on their behalf only for them to pick on the poofters.'

Five days ago
I’m out. Silence is just an unpleasant memory now and I’m let loose once again to insult Rangers fans in the only medium I can which will ever be read since no one reads the Scottish Times anymore: Twitter! I casually mentioned the Ascent of Man which was a mistake because now all the staff at the Times are saying things like, ‘more like the scent of a man, a very unpleasant scent’. I walked into that one.

Yesterday
I woke up full of enthusiasm for the coming season and opened my curtains in a display of gay abandon when the sudden light illuminated dead crickets lying on the floor surrounding my bed. This doesn’t bode well for what lies ahead.