Bring on the Dancing Regans

I have of late lost all my mirth. It was only a few seasons ago that if I ever needed a laugh all I had to do was wander over to Hampden for the Peat and Smith show, sit back and watch them throwing pancakes and pouring bags of soot over each other. Things have changed there now. Since Celtic annexed the SFA it is no longer a thing of joy but yet another deadly hurdle to be overcome as to get to Stewart Regan one has to manoeuvre past Peter Lawwell’s office. Lawwell had Peat and Smith’s rooms combined to create his own and used Peat’s drinks cabinet to give Reagan somewhere to sit. Nothing is said or done within the corridors of power of Scottish football without Lawwell casting a malignant eye over it first. I had cause to visit yesterday afternoon and wasn’t looking forward to it. Lawwell had been quiet recently, preferring to work in the shadows rather than in everyone’s face, naked, wielding a horse whip. To tell you the truth, I preferred his old ways. At least you knew where you were when he had he Scottish football media lined up for a whipping after a Celtic defeat – play down the game and make up some awful lie about Rangers to take the result off the front or back pages and you were safe. At least until the next bad performance and with Lennon at the helm, these came fast and furious and all the time, the press took their punishment like docile sheep while Lawwell sweated lest the swivel-eyed Irishman pull the plug on the money.

These days though, Lawwell has let others do his dirty work for him and things in Scotland have become darker, more sinister. No joy, see? At least when Peat was around you could be guaranteed an occasional laugh as someone walked into a wall or fell off a ladder.

So there I was, in my stocking soles having taken off my light loafers as an aid to sneaking past Lawwell’s door without being heard but as I was creeping down the corridor I caught a glimpse of Reagan in Lawwell’s office which dismayed me as it was Reagan I was here to interview. Lawwell had him on his knees in front of his desk, wearing a leather mask with a chain leading from the mouth piece to a set of handcuffs which held Reagan’s hands together as if in prayer.
‘So remind me,’ barked Lawwell, taking a slice at Reagan’s back with his whip. ‘If a Celtic player gets away with an elbow in the face of an opponent without the referee noticing, what do we do? That’s right, brush it under the carpet. Don’t you worry about it appearing on television, with a culturally anti-Rangers BBC at work you need never fret about that. No, our agents in Pacific Quay will only highlight incidents when it involves a Rangers player. So what must we never do? That’s right, we must never come into my office complaining about us being too obvious again – you got that?’ and he booted him in the face, sending him sprawling across the floor.

I didn’t hang around. I was out of there in a twinkling and onto a bus into town hoping that Lawwell wouldn’t check CCTV images today. I had plans for the evening and they didn’t involve being called to Parkhead or Hampden to be flayed. My plans were to have a pleasant night at the Royal Concert Hall in the presence of Echo and the Bunnymen. I’d been invited there by Pat Nevin who as you will recall, came to the conclusion that he was an intellectual because he’d once seen this band at the Queen Margaret Union. He’d also invited Tom Devine.

Devine had been quiet since I found him weeping in my bedroom after the old firm game, a combination of being stalked by ghosts, missing my wife and Celtic being humped like bitches by Rangers had taken its toll on him and he’d had a little breakdown. Since then he’s been relatively quiet although he’s still found time to drink a pint of port and plough into Janette Findlay any time she bends over, which is often.

We wrested him from her in the evening, just in time as Findlay vomited over the pillows before passing out and off we went, the three of us gaily whistling into town to hear the majesty of one of the 80s finest bands.

A few hours later we were out on our arses, having been thrown out by security after Devine over indulged at the bar and broke free, finding his way backstage where he galloped Ian McCulloch’s wife in front of the entire band. I don’t know how McCulloch reacted to this but I do hope it didn’t put him off his performance that night.

As we walked down Buchanan Street, fuming at Devine who didn't seem to think he'd done anything wrong, Nevin suggested we go for a pint in the Horseshoe Bar but I reminded him he wasn't a student anymore although you wouldn't know it from the way he dresses and I stormed off in a huff just as a BBC Scotland car drew over and picked up Devine for another BBC special on sectarianism. 'But he's bloody steaming!' I exclaimed but the BBC didn't care, as long as he could burp out the usual Protestant bating platitudes then it was all one to them.

When I got home I just had time to shoo off Alex Mosson who was rummaging through my drawers; I got him with a broom this time and hoped that would put him off burgling me again for a good while and then I settled down with my laptop to write something arse bitingly awful on Twitter in the hope that I could get a rise from Rangers fans. Job done I sat back with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook and bottle of hand cream and pondered the day I'd just had. It hadn't been too dark for a change, perhaps things are looking up?

Behind Dead Eyes

Crickets and dead-eyed men. At the beginning of this season I wondered what fresh madness would seek me out and it turned out to be crickets and dead-eyed men. At least I know what I’m dealing with, unlike other seasons. The crickets herald the presence of some mysterious creature of the night the Scottish media refer to in hushed tones as Spring Heeled Jack who has taken to breaking up anti-Rangers conspiracies and punishing most of BBC Scotland while he’s doing it. The dead-eyed men, well Albertz claimed they’re warnings of things to come if this Offensive Behaviour at Football Bill is brought into being.

I was all for it at first, witness my idiot antics at the Justice Committee when the Scottish Executive sought out the expert opinions of, well me and Pat Nevin. Queen Margaret Pat had told his one anecdote about a Rangers Chelsea match and I chuntered on in the usual oafish manner until that bastard Stuart Waiton started flicking my ears and whispering loud enough for just me to hear that I was a dangerous moron.

Then I changed my mind and I was against the Bill. This was after a night with the Green Brigade in the Brazen Head where everyone showed the barman their IDs before settling down to tell me how it was a terrible Bill which might bring parity to the old firm in the eyes of the law. The fact that there was potential to greatly reduce the freedoms of all in Scotland didn’t seem to bother them, just that they’d now be in the spotlight and not just the Rangers fans. So I immediately went home and spunked a congratulatory column for the Times, praising the Green Brigade, that group of religious and political extremists who brought us Poppygate and other outrages based on their current freedom to sing offensive songs in support of murdering Irish terrorist groups. No wonder they didn’t like the sound of this bill, they were getting away with everything up until now while only the Rangers fans were being demonised by a vested interest political media complex.

Then I was faced with a difficult situation: the Rangers fans appeared at Ibrox with banners protesting against the bill and since I’d spoken up for the Green Brigade, it was only natural I should praise the Blue Order too, wasn’t it? This is obviously what a lot of people thought I should do which prompted the phone call from Peter Lawwell reminding me that he had a nice empty dungeon waiting for me in Parkhead if I dared even think about it. Then I got a visit from Jorg Albertz.

I was sitting on my own in the Chip, considering how best to ignore the good intentions of the Rangers fans when I heard a cough from the table to my left. I looked and there was no one there but when I turned back to my appletini Albertz was sitting beside me to my right. He smiled, ‘Hello Spiers. I think you and I need to take a walk.’

We left the Chip and sauntered down to Byres Road where I noticed to my dismay, the dead-eyed men standing staring at the entrance to the Hillhead tube station. ‘Let’s join them,’ said Albertz and we stood by their sides and looked at the door to the underground. ‘What are we looking at?’ I asked but Albertz shooshed me and as he did, the dead-eyed men took our hands and suddenly we were surrounded by an eerie mist which briefly obscured our view and when it cleared it was night time. There were bagpipes playing in the distance and the sound of celebrating. Someone came out of the station holding up an early edition of the Daily Record, its headline cried out ‘Freedom! Scots vote yes.’

Then we were surrounded by mist again which eventually cleared to reveal a queue of football fans waiting to get into the subway but none of them were wearing colours. There were police keeping an eye on them and then one of the police spotted a Rangers scarf sticking out of a coat pocket. He strode over to the fan and pulled the scarf from him, waving it in his face and screaming. Then the fan was dragged out of the queue and bundled into a van and no one said a word in protest. Then the mist swirled around us again.

It dissipated and there was a mounted policeman in front of us only it looked much different to the type I’m used to seeing; the horse was covered in light armour as was the mounted policeman. I looked around Byres Road and noticed that Curlers the pub was boarded up, a poster nailed to the door saying ‘by order the Scottish Government’. More police came into view but they too were different, wearing full body armour, their faces hidden by the dark visors of their helmets as if they were riot police but no, they seemed to be just normal bobbies on the beat. We heard a scream and turned to see a woman having been knocked over by the police horse. There was a commotion as her partner complained but the mounted policeman snarled, ‘Jay walking is a crime, maybe she’ll stay on the pavement in future?’
‘Your bloody horse was in the way, how could she stay on the pavement?’ shouted someone else but the cop swung his horse’s hind around and knocked him to the ground and the two helmeted bobbies ran over and rained truncheon blows down on the man and the woman. As the mist appeared once more I noticed the road signs and posters stuck to the wall of the underground; the speed limit on Byres Road was 20, the signs said, ‘The Scottish Government: reducing speed for your health and safety.’

Then we were back. The pub was open again and a portly fellow walked past wearing a Celtic top. There was a policemen across the road wearing a normal tunic and a ridiculous hi-vis vest but he was smiling and giving directions. I turned to Albertz and gasped, ‘What in hell’s name was that?’
‘That was the future, Spiers. Well, one of many futures. The future depends, you see? Depends on the choice you and many others like you make very soon. Ask yourself this, what side are you on? The side of oppression or do you believe in freedom of speech? It’s that simple. This new bill can lead to abuse beyond your very limited imagination, that’s why I had to get the twins here to show you.’
I looked around for them but there was only one now. ‘What happened to the other one?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, I was about to tell you this. Taking someone into the future like that has a cost, Mayer paid that cost. He’s gone now. And his brother has a very good reason for hating you even more. I’d step carefully if I were you, Spiers.’
‘But I didn’t ask him to make that sacrifice.’
‘No, but you’re asking the Scottish people to sacrifice something far greater so you can lay the boot into the fans of one football team just because they represent something you and all the other culturally Marxist west end elite resent. Your mission to rid Scotland of the infinitesimal problem of sectarianism has a price. That price is freedom.’

Behind us someone shouted abuse at me, I turned to look down my nose at them and then when I looked around again, Albertz and Janowitz were gone, leaving me in a daze. I felt dizzy and was beginning to wonder if I was having a panic attack then someone told me to ‘step back onto the pavement sir.’ It was the policeman from across the road. I stepped up onto the kerb and sat down, my head in my hands.
‘Are you alright sir?’ asked the cop.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m alright. At least for now.’

It's Odd how they Match Your Own

I’ve been seeing the dead-eyed men everywhere recently. Switch on the television and there they are standing behind Alex Salmond on the six o’clock news. Go into town and they’re staring at Stephen House’s window at Pitt Street. Go home to my west end flat for a quick wank over my Martin O’Neil scrapbook and they’re sitting in my bedroom looking glum. It’s got so bad that even Professor Tom Devine came to me one night to confide in me about them.

He broke into my flat late on the Sunday after the first old firm game of the season and he was sitting in the dark sobbing on my sofa so I just assumed he’d been in the Chip crying into his pint with the rest of the Scottish media and had popped over looking for my wife who had gone missing in the summer. I reminded him that she hasn’t lived here for a while and I’m damned glad after she shot me in the belly in Lawwell’s mountain lair last season but he snorted and looked up and said, ‘I’m haunted, Spiers. Haunted I tell ye. Everywhere I go, I’m followed by two men only they’re not men, they flit in and out of sight like spooks and once I even threw a bottle of sherry at one but it passed straight through him, damn his eyes!’
‘Oh you mean Janowitz and Mayer?’ I asked, surprising him and for once I knew something he didn’t while he was in the dark. Literally. Crying.

I told him what Albertz had told me and he sniffed, said something about a self fulfilling prophecy and shuffled off but by the time he had gone I’d been completely put off having that wank I’d promised myself.

Spiers in Wonderland

Sunday night alone in my flat, naked except for a pink tutu (I’ll get to that later), I was struggling to write something sufficiently buffoonish for my Monday column in the Times before the janitor got there before me. I considered the following:

It was quite an amazing scene at Celtic Park on Saturday. This loud, boisterous, sometimes spotty and always militant group of the club's support known as the Green Brigade were in full flow. Neil Lennon, the Celtic manager, later referred to this chanting, drum-beating mob as "fantastic”, “brilliant” and “not at all creepy, all those youthful boys being led by rapey looking old men who should know better”. You almost forgot they were there because, for the opening 45 minutes, hardly a cheep came out of this singing section which was a worry for the Pacific Quay CSC boys over at BBC Scotland who in a panic, looked out some stock sound from old Celtic matches to add to their highlights package – can’t have Celtic Park shown in a bad light and all that . Then, a series of banners were unfurled, in a carefully-planned ploy that could hardly have been executed better. As each protesting banner was made visible the whole of Celtic Park rose and asked around if anyone could read and let them know what they said, causing quite a commotion.

Suddenly, at the beginning of the second half, having spent the half time period having their arses felt in the toilets by their leaders, their singing started again, and what an atmosphere it created. Great, booming, tribal chants were flung from one end of the stadium to the other, as otherwise dormant supporters were roused by the occasion. I know I was aroused, an erection rose in my corduroys that would have been embarrassingly noticeable were my penis not the length of a fun size Mars Bar.

It gave the Celtic-Caley Thistle match a theatrical backdrop, prompting Lennon's later comments that if it had gone on any longer he’d have got into his tights and pirouetted into the centre circle.

The Green Brigade were protesting about the proposed new legislation being created for the Offensive Behaviour at Football Bill. Their perception, in many ways correct, is that having feigned offence for years at the slightest cough from Rangers fans they are now worried that their constant bleating will come back and bite them on the arse and curb their rightful freedom of speech. A freedom of speech that only a few weeks ago I publicly proclaimed in front of a justice committee should be set aside to allow government sanctioned laying into the Huns. I would have got away with it too had it not been for Dr Stuart Waiton who ridiculed me mercilessly and has since sent me mocking texts and emails every night. I also suspect he turned up in the Chip on Saturday night and slipped me a roofy as I woke up on Sunday morning with no memory of my night out and wearing a tutu with no knickers. This freedom of speech business is a complicated area, mired as it has become in a trashy Old Firm game of moral ping-pong, but it is still worth exploring especially as I had no qualms about the freedoms of the Rangers fans but now that it seems the Scottish Executive is going to ignore all advice from eminent Roman Catholic historians, lawyers and media consultants to just target the Prods, it raises all sorts of interesting questions like, now that we’ve realised we can’t sing about the IRA killing and maiming women and children how can we turn the process around?

For instance, it is true that the Green Brigade's songs about Ireland and Irish identity, which have been at the core of Celtic's foundation as a football club only in the past decade when vested interest groups realised there was political capital to made out of it, are to be outlawed. One of their banners said: "Police State - Don't Criminalise Us, Just Them (You Know Who We Mean)". Another said: "Our Songs Are Not Sectarian" although you can’t get much more sectarian than an Irish Republican murder gang who were wiping out communities of Protestants in Cork before anyone had even heard of ethnic cleansing. Further points were made about a collection of chants that the Green Brigade enjoy - one of them even being Ireland's national anthem, an odd choice for a bunch of Scots who’ve barely been five miles from Robroyston - but which the Scottish Parliament might be blundering its way towards outlawing if you believe the shrill paranoid rumours spreading from Peter Lawwell’s office. The most contentious of the chants found among the Celtic support – as well as that of Rangers - is about the IRA. This is where it comes right down to the nub, and where, in truth, a zero tolerance policy probably needs to be deployed. I don’t know why I mentioned Rangers in that sentence but there you go, I’m obsessed with ‘em.

It doesn't sound very convincing these days to argue that, when Celtic fans chant about the IRA, they are in fact referring to an Irish liberation movement of nearly 100 years ago, rather than the terror group of recent times. This is a semantic we can do without. Something pointed out to me on Rangers internet message boards – what, you didn’t think I had the intelligence to think of this one myself?

The very same line of argument was tried a few years ago by some Rangers hardliners over their use of the word "Fenian". Anyone steeped in west of Scotland, Byres Road, middle class, dinner party society disingenuously claims to know that the word is a pejorative term for a Catholic and this was the very basis of my obsessive assault on Rangers some eight or so years ago, but some Rangers fans tried to get round this, saying: "No, no ... in fact we are merely referring to the 19th century political movement in Ireland” when they’re really just talking about Scottish Celtic fans who are devoted to an insidious foreign cause which resulted in the deaths of thousands of British citizens.

That argument disintegrated somewhat when thousands of fans at Ibrox would refer to Martin O'Neill, then the Celtic manager, as a "sad Fenian bastard", when plainly O'Neill was alive in the here and now, and not in the 19th century. And when the Celtic fans sang something similar to Walter Smith claiming he was a “sad Orange bastard”? Well that didn’t happen, nothing to see here, move along now.

In fact, on Saturday at Celtic Park, if you ignore all the chants in support of the IRA then there wasn't a single IRA chant to be heard from the Green Brigade..

It is the one refrain in their repertoire they need to junk, however fleeting it might be at Celtic Park especially if, like me, you listen to Celtic fans’ singing with your fingers in your ears and humming loudly. The Green Brigade, like the Blue Order at Ibrox, is to be encouraged. They are loud and brash and they provide Celtic games with a vivid percussion of pubescent noise that gets not only my blood going but that of most of the Scottish footballing media. There is also an argument that, all across the world, many football clubs' supporters express a cultural or political stance that should not be deemed to be illegal (except of course, Rangers). If these were outlawed then, never mind Celtic, the supporters of Real Madrid and Barcelona would be in deep trouble and we don’t want that – no, the only people we really wanted to see in trouble were the Rangers fans but this proposed new law seems to be going in the wrong direction: both ways!

Where most decent people want to draw a line, and be less libertarian, is where it comes to outright prejudice, principally involving race or religion. Where a football crowd starts to hurl bile in either of these spheres, I'm all for supporters being carted off to the Gulags and shot in the head. But over a club's cultural roots - which many Celtic fans feel strongly - I don't see how it can be muzzled as easily as Elaine C Smith. So remember, Celtic fans singing about blowing up children is cultural, Rangers fans even if they were to sing All Things Bright and Beautiful, is prejudiced.

The Scottish Government needs to be very careful as it meanders towards drawing up this Bill (and this might shock you considering it is the polar opposite of what I said on live broadcast from Holyrood where I was advocating introducing Orwellian thought crimes and demanding that the Rangers fans be punished for what they think). The Green Brigade may have a point: Celtic and Rangers fans could face court charges over offences that are laughable and we can’t have that, we only want Rangers fans facing court charges that are laughable. If I were Roseanna Cunningham, and I would dearly love to be – her taste in pretty dresses is rather quaint and what I wouldn’t give to wear a pair of her bloomers under my corduroys one day, the Government's minister for community safety and laying into the Prods, I would tred very warily indeed.

Once complete I read it over in my head, lips moving as I did but it just didn’t seem right so instead I got out the Martin O’Neil scrapbook and had a wank, jizzing onto a piece of A4 paper which I faxed to the Times and remarkably, they printed it! It seems I can come up with any old toss these days and it’ll still make it past shoogly old Magnus Linklater.

Days of Wonder

In these, the days of wonder, it isn’t unusual to see strange things happening. Monsters and demons roam the streets and alleys of Glasgow, pioneering journalists are trapped inside haunted paintings and now the Daily Record have done what we all thought impossible, they have united Rangers and Celtic fans in condemnation of their latest attempt to stir up tensions before an old firm game.

I had a look at the back page upon my return from Penrith after Devine dropped me off on Byres Road before he and Nevin drove off to Pacific Quay wearing their green and white scarves, Irish tricolours draped around their shoulders, to take up their posts as impartial pundits for BBC Scotland. Nevin had been taught a lesson and would never again speak out about sectarian singing from the Celtic fans after he was forced to endure the sight of Devine riding Gillian Bowditch like Red Rum on speed and so he was welcomed back to the fold. Meanwhile I gawped in amazement at the Record’s most recent outrage and couldn’t believe anyone of any moral responsibility could approve this headline. It seems Celtic had already released a poorly composed and grammatically incorrect statement which had me wondering if John Reid wasn’t still lurking in the dungeons and basements underneath Parkhead while Rangers under Whyte had reverted to Murrayesque type and maintained a dignified silence.

All the while, my nemesis, Dr Stuart Waiton had released another press statement which to my horror spoke more sense in a few paragraphs than I’ve managed to write in my entire career. I really must see if something can be done about Waiton, perhaps if Celtic win today then I’ll take advantage of Lawwell’s good spirits and request a hit and if Celtic lose then no doubt Lawwell will be looking for someone to blame so if I can be around him at the right time then maybe I’ll be able to suggest Waiton? It’s a dangerous approach though, as who knows at whom Lawwell will lash out if Rangers pummel Celtic? Everyone knows that Keevins doesn’t shelter in a bullet proof sound studio for no reason in old firm aftermaths when his team don’t do well.

So, plan in mind, I changed into my match day outfit of green corduroy suit and light loafers, wrapped a pink scarf around my neck and skipped down to Ashton Lane for a few sneaky schnifters with the Pacific Quay CSC before they went into work to be paid to lay into Rangers. I joined them for a while in the studios, marvelling at the myriad ways they subliminally promoted Celtic while denigrating Rangers until something caught my eye, just behind a few of the editing staff who were drinking gin and looking shifty; it was a painting, not the same as the one in Devine’s cottage but of a house nonetheless and I can’t be sure but I think the top floor window was in darkness when I arrived. Not anymore.  Then just as BBC Scotland headquarters began to ring to the sound of the sports staff singing Boys of the Old Brigade, Chris McLaughlin screamed as crickets began to crawl out from his backpack.

I took a deep breath and left for Ibrox, wondering what fresh madness today would bring.

The Cabinet of Jorg Albertz

‘How do you suppose we know much of what goes on within the Celtic institution and its many agencies? We haven’t defeated them for three seasons by chance you know,’ smirked Albertz as he led me up the stairs, not one of which was level, jutting out at all sorts of strange angles which made climbing them a real effort.

We reached the top and Albertz lit some candles with his lighter and outside in that cottage room, unseen by Nevin, Devine or Bowditch, a light went on in the top floor of a painted house.
‘Meet Janowitz and Mayer,’ said Albertz, stepping aside to introduce me to – oh my God! I turned and ran for the door but it slammed shut in front of me and I turned in horror, corduroys squeaking as standing beside Albertz, staring at me, were the two dead eyed men from the Edinburgh express. Albertz laughed, ‘Ha! I see they had quite an impression on you! You should’ve seen your face Spiers, ha ha ha!’ and yet the two grey men stood as impassive as ever, those black eyes burrowing into my very soul.
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘Not who but rather what are they. Wraiths, Spiers, warnings. Born of Berlin during the fall of Weimar, they appear to warn of impending oppression; they are Die Zwielichthelden. Curious, isn’t it, how they seem very interested in you? You wouldn’t be involved in helping push through aggressive freedom inhibiting legislation designed in secret to repress the human rights of a great section of society, would you? Legislation that could sometime in the future be used to say, oppress people? Legislation towards which the Scottish people sleepwalked while being lulled into a false sense of its urgency by a vested interest media and political complex? No? Then you have nothing to worry about from these twilight men, nothing at all.’

But this worried me, he knew I was lying as I stood there trembling in my corduroys, shaking my head like an imbecile as the dead eyed men regarded me with a chilly concern.
‘How do I get out of here?’ I asked and Albertz laughed.
‘You only have to walk out the front door of course.’ So I looked at his burning blue eyes, his smile which hid a thousand mysteries, and then I glanced at his two friends and shivered, shrugged my shoulders, turned and ran down the stairs across the room, opened the door and I was out onto the path, careering downhill, black branches whipping my face until suddenly I stumbled and I was back in the cottage.

‘Fucking hell,’ shouted Devine when I landed on him as he drove Gillian Bowditch around the carpet horse artillery style. She shrieked as we collapsed in a bundle and then she shouted, ‘Oh good another one. Hop on handsome, your wee pal over there was too shy’ and I turned and noticed Nevin curled up in a ball in the corner, sobbing.
‘That’ll teach the little prick for speaking out about Celtic,’ sneered Devine. ‘This is your punishment, you little arsehole! See Spiers, we always get our man, now get round the front of Gillian and let me take a rest for a bit.’

And that’s how I prepared for the big Rangers Celtic match, all the while aware that in the strange painting above the fireplace, a light glittered, dimmed and then went out.

Fearful Symmetry

Candles cast monstrous shadows across a room which already seemed bent out of shape; walls leaning in towards me as if making an angry point, a ceiling which seemed to change direction with the flickering of the half light and everything at odd angles. It was an expressionist nightmare and I was sitting in the middle of it, inside a painted house which hung, framed in the cottage of Professor Tom Devine and all I could think of was why Devine was admitting to many of the sinister machinations of his church and football team which before we could only suspect.

The answer was simple of course which is probably why it didn’t come to me immediately. He was obviously feeling secure enough in his company to show a little bit of bravado and not the usual wine fuelled, Protestant conspiracy bravado we usually see when he’s wheeled out by BBC Scotland at any opportunity to bleat about sectarianism being nothing more than anti-Catholic behaviour. He didn’t know or didn’t care that I was trapped inside his hellish painting, looking out and hearing everything he said. Didn’t care is my guess since it’s not as if I’m not consistently on-side with his message and the only times I put a spanner in the works of his, Kearneys and Lawwell’s big plans are either by accident or through the manipulation of my innocent actions by dastards like Souness and Donald Findlay.

But how to get out of here, how to remove myself from this strange place? That is what I wondered now as outside, Nevin stoked the fire while Devine knocked the top off his fourth bottle of the evening and considered phoning Gillian Bowditch and getting her down here to lift her pretty dresses for him to maul the meat underneath while forcing Nevin to watch and learn. Bowditch cackled at the suggestion and said she’d be there in three hours after she’d finished her latest assault on the indigenous people of Scotland for the Sunday Times Scottish edition. It makes me wonder, how a once respected institution such as the Times could fetch up in the gutter, pursuing a tribal agenda and attacking the majority of the people who make up the country and yet still be bought by those very same people and then I remembered the Celtic Syndrome; how all it takes is one Celtic Minded person to achieve power and then it’s farewell to impartiality and hello an organisation full of Celtic fans. This bothered me and not for the obvious illiberal reasons but because I foolishly came out as once being a Rangers fan doing myself no favours as it stops me from gaining a foothold within the BBC which has been my dream since I witnessed the wonderful way they kick around Rangers with impunity.

Bowditch arrived and was topless, straddling Devine before Nevin had even hung up her coat. Time moved differently inside the picture and three hours seemed like minutes to me as I sat in the candle light and endured Nevin’s screams as he was forced to observe how to take a line of coke from the tits of a screeching slattern while removing her underskirts, stockings and boots without spilling your drink. Then I heard footsteps from behind me as if someone was coming down a flight of stairs. Of course, I hadn’t even thought about exploring the rest of the house – lack of imagination, you see? I stood up, startled and backed towards the darkest corner in an attempt to hide myself in the gloom. The footsteps continued down the stairs as I crouched and willed myself invisible from whatever horror walked through the door. A stair creaked under the weight of the mysterious presence coming my way and then the steps halted and a door opened with a groan; slowly as if it hadn’t moved in a hundred years, dust falling from it as a gentle breeze blew down the stairs and into the room sending the candle flames into a dance that threw monstrous black shapes across undulating walls. I was losing my mind, surely I would wake up soon and this would all be a dream – for pity’s sake, who ends up trapped in a painting, worried to death by an encroaching phantom while a Dickensian monster gallops an obscene bigoted harpy in front of a sobbing man/boy from Easterhouse?

But this was no dream and as the door swung open a dark shape entered the room bringing with it, not light or illumination but only more darkness, shadows reaching out from his feet and remaining forever on the floor as if painted there. The figure walked to the window and grunted in amusement at the vile scene outside and then turned to me and said, ‘Hello Spiers, you should’ve come upstairs, we’ve been waiting for you’ and I gazed into the eyes of the tiger, lights burning in its eyes and recognised the only person I know who could be comfortable living in such a hellish place. It was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.

In the Picture

‘Uncle’ Tom Devine had brought firewood, meat and cases of the finest wines known to humanity and knew where to stock them all as after all, it was his cottage. I’d borrowed the key from him for our visit under the impression that he wouldn’t have the brass neck to join us after stealing my wife, sailing her half way around Scotland to escape Richard Gough with his Rangers 90s Squad Marines who kindly volunteered to help me, and then returning with her to shoot me in the belly at Lawwell’s secret headquarters under the summit of Schiehallion. It’s all there in my memoirs from last season if you care to look but anyway, our delightful weekend in the country took a turn for the better until the second day of Devine’s visit when I overheard he and Nevin whispering in the kitchen before coming through to tell me that they were going into Penrith to buy Wellingtons. Fine, I thought, I could do with the peace to catch up on Twitter and post some new buffoonery that’ll have them laughing in the press rooms. With me, not at me, I hope. So off they went, leaving me alone in that strange old cottage with its air of melancholy and fug of woodsmoke.

I sat with my laptop but couldn’t face Twitter since Phil McGillivan was stalking me again. He mentioned something about succulent lamb bhuna which could have been funny had it not been tweeted with such thinly veiled malice so I called him a sad and vulnerable man and logged out before he could come at me with something equally brilliant and witty, as if he could. As I sat in front of the wood burning fire, I pondered the bold Phil and sensed that there was something nagging at me in the back of my mind. Images of a cave on the seashore flitted around my mind’s eye until I could picture him having a wank which slightly turned me on so I looked around the room for something to take my mind off him.

It came to me quite by accident. Some piece of dry log sparked out of the fireplace and fizzed on the antique and threadbare rug, a little puff of smoke rising above the fire surround and gathering blue and hazy in front of an old oil painting. Something didn’t seem quite right with this painting; it was of an old house at the top of a hill, a path leading up to it, bare trees frozen in silhouette against an ominous sky by its side. There was something about it, something odd that I couldn’t take my eyes off it until I could do nothing but sit and stare, captivated by its hypnotic mystery. Outside the sound of rain and wind segued into one huge white noise, seeping through the cracks under the doors and windows into the cottage, surrounding me with a nightmarish hum as the picture dragged me into its world, barren and hellish and hardly welcoming. I sat and gazed at the house in the painting until I noticed there was a light on in the top right window which I hadn’t seen before. Had I missed it? Had it just switched on? Then a voice said, ‘Come in,’ and I found myself walking up the path, sleeves snagging on the reaching branches of the trees, not Autumn bare but scorched and twisted. I kept walking until I came to the door of the house as it opened and I entered.  ‘Sit down,’ said the voice and I did, I sat on a beaten old leather armchair and waited, quite unperturbed at where I found myself.

Then I heard a door open from outside the window of my new home and the voice inside the painted house told me to have a look outside so I got up and walked to the window and there were Nevin and Devine, arguing in front of the fireplace above which the strange picture sat on the wall, a solitary and new light glowing from a window that had been dark for a hundred years.

They had been arguing from the look of it and Devine was in the middle of one of his rants while Pat winced and stuttered, failing to get a word in edgeways.  ‘He is not alone in referring to it as the North of Ireland,’ droned Devine. ‘It's a phrase both Bishop Joe Devine and Cardinal Keith O'Brien are on record as having used to refer to Northern Ireland. This disingenuous phrase is almost exclusively used by the Celtic Minded with extreme republican tendencies, that it is becoming more widespread in Scotland I can only put down to the education of children in our denominational schools. So why is the phrase encouraged in our community? Well the answer to that is the same answer to BIG QUESTION #2: there are Roman Catholic schools in England and Wales so why are there no sectarian problems there? And as we all know, Catholic schools in England and Wales don’t obsess about Irish republicanism, usually of the violent kind and they certainly don’t suppress integration. You know it depresses me sometimes. If only our obsession with the old country took in the arts, history other than that of perceived oppression and struggle, anything except the bloody IRA. There’ll be no Lake Isle of Innisfree heard in class these days when the teachers would rather talk about Bobby Sands,’ and he opened a bottle of Margaux and downed it one obscene glug and continued.

‘BIG QUESTION #1 incidentally is about the Act of Succession which is just a huge smokescreen. Separate schooling according to faith affects every man jack of us in Scotland; it encourages division and tribalism, promotes superstition as fact, indoctrinates unsuspecting children from a young and impressionable age and has no place in a forward thinking, modern society. The Act of Succession affects a few old titled Catholic upper class English families with daughters who wouldn't know the Act of Succession if it ran down the street and grabbed them by the tits.’
‘So why do we constantly bring it up then?’ asked Nevin.
‘To put them on the backfoot and create a smokescreen so that they can’t bring up our schools without us whining about not being allowed Catholics on the throne. The argument has become so muddled of late that most Celtic fans now believe that we’re not allowed to have a Catholic Prime Minister. Of course we don’t say anything to discourage them in this belief; anything to deflect from our own failings is always welcome.’
‘Wow, I didn’t know all this,’ sighed wee Pat. ‘Thanks for the lessons Professor, perhaps now I’ll have more to argue during sectarian debates than my two anecdotes about a Rangers,’ and at that they left the room, leaving me more in the picture now than I’ve ever been.

Nevin & I

Hurricane Katia had arrived early and the rain lashed our faces as we scrambled through the mud from the car to the cottage before struggling with the door and eventually getting inside, soaked through to find that there was no electricity. I was fine as I could sit in the corner and heat myself with the smug glow of my own self importance. Pat however had only a seething sense of his own inadequacy and so sat and shivered until I could sort out the fuel and wood situation – luckily I’d brought the unsold copies of my Paul LeGuen opus which allowed us an unending source of fuel for the fire. Now with light and heat we decided a few drinks were in order and so took off for an evening at the Crow.

We sat at the end of the bar, Pat nursing a sense of grievance not unusual in his tribe while I cocked a snook at the various local types who came through the premises – you know, farmers, milkmen, travelling tinkers… Then suddenly the pub door blew open and a hulking great figure stood silhouetted against the storm until it snuffled into the bar, a wriggling eel clasped between its teeth. It was the Traynor.

Missing since our imprisonment in Walter Smith’s underwater lair, Silence, we’d wondered where he’d gone. Some suggested he’d drowned in an escape attempt but I knew better, that he’d just tired of being locked up with such stultifying idiots in Kearney and McBride. Oh, and me. Who was to know though, that he’d fetch up poaching in Penrith?
‘Poaching is a fine way to live, Spiers’ he growled. ‘You should know that, isn’t your piece in this morning’s Times poached from other journalists and various lunatic ramblings on the internet? Christ, you should just credit your pieces these days to Matt McGlone – I could almost smell the Heraghtys drip trays when I read that today. What are you doing here anyway, I thought I was getting peace from you morons until you turned up?’
‘Oh Pat and I had our arses felt in Edinburgh and not in the good way so we’re taking a breather from the city for a while,’ I said as the Traynor leaned over the bar and poured himself an ale.
‘Yeah? Well don’t think you two idiots can come down here and ruin my new life. I’ll be watching you, especially you Spiers, prancing like a tit’ and with that he downed his pint and left, disappearing into the howling black night.
‘Well that was a turn up for the books,’ said Nevin. ‘Have I ever told you my story about when Rangers played Chelsea and…’
‘Yes!’ I shouted and we trudged back to the cottage, heads down against the wind, faces stinging from the rain.

We dried out in front of a roaring fire – we’d rather taken to burning books, it seemed to fit the times in which we are living back home in Scotland. Then we retired to bed, separate rooms which Pat insisted upon having been brought up a Catholic and not being used to integration but I got scared and crept into his bed in the middle of the night and we lay uncomfortably together until we were awoken by an almighty crash from downstairs.
‘It’s the Traynor, it’s got to be,’ I squealed.
‘Oh my god, he’s come to slit our throats, we’re doomed. By the way, have I ever told you that story about Rangers supporters during a friendly against Chelsea?’ whispered Nevin.
‘Yes!’ I rasped. ‘We don’t have time for that now, he’s coming up the stairs, offer yourself to him.’ Nevin stared at me in horror but there was no time for argument now as the bedroom door was being forced. I began to groan in fear, huddled tight against Nevin.
‘We mean no harm,’ I moaned as the door at last opened and we saw the grotesque frame of a drunken and evil monster standing in front of us.
‘Tom Devine, you terrible cunt!’ I cried, almost with relief.

The Celtic Syndrome

There’s an odd affliction which affects people of a Celtic persuasion and that is that they seem to put their obsession with their club and their equal if not greater obsession with their hatred of Rangers, before anything even careers and by extension the well being of their families. This is at its most telling when otherwise rational people risk their jobs and futures in order to misappropriate and then leak documents not intended for the public eye as long as they pertain to anything bleak about Rangers. So we have Celtic supporters within HMRC illegally firing out emails about the Rangers tax issues and now we have Celtic supporters in legal circles risking everything to pilfer the Martin Bain legal case documents and stick them in the public domain. It’s called the Celtic Syndrome and is the same disease which has seen the almost Gramscian slow march through the institutions of Scottish Catholics who bleat about inequality while refusing to employ or promote anyone who doesn’t attend Parkhead every second Saturday. We can see this in action most prominently at Glasgow City Council where it’s almost a Celtic closed shop and increasingly at BBC Scotland where arse numbing left leaning liberalism has been compounded by an eye bulging obsession with Celtic resulting in the fancy new headquarters on the Clyde being known now as Pacific Quay CSC.


I was telling all of this to Pat Nevin as we drove south for a delightful weekend in the country to recharge our batteries and escape the humiliation of our appearance at the Holyrood Justice Committee where we were mocked by Dr Stuart Waiton who, as a social scientist had a grasp of Scottish society that a couple of wet, anecdote dependent sports pundits could only dream of. What’s worse is that not content with showing us up during the debate, he’s now taken to phoning me in the middle of the night and calling me a prick so I took Pat and his two stories, got in the Jag and took off for the Lake District after procuring keys to a cottage there.

Thought Crime

So there I was, dressed as a leprechaun, sweating my arse off, frightened half to death after an assassination attempt by the Scottish Government and to top it all off, on my way in I was cornered by Cardinal Keith O’Brien who handed me a tiny device to stick in my ear so he could relay messages to me during the committee meeting then he winked and told me I was doing a fine job and to toddle off and stick it to the Huns. I put the device in my left ear, my right ear already holding the listening device given to me by Souness as he dropped me off at the gates of Holyrood.

On my way in I was accosted by Jeanette Findlay who stank of stale booze and whose petticoats were looking a little too crusty for my liking. She’d lost her wig in an argument with a hefty fellow sitting close to her who was known only as Kingpin and without it she looked suspiciously like any old common or garden dyke. She shrieked at me as I passed and I winced then she tried to grope me while whispering in my ear, ‘You look ridiculous Spiers, what are you doing dressed like that – is this anti-Irish racism at its most base level?’
‘You’re not looking so great yourself, Jeanette,’ says I, acting all nonchalant but inside I was trying to breath through my elbows such was the stink.
‘Keep walking. Ignore her,’ said a voice in my left ear.
‘Anti-Irish racism? Ha! The harlot’s obsessed. Ignore her and keep walking,’ chortled a voice in my right ear which sounded like Donald Findlay. This was obviously going to become confusing.

The next hour passed in a blur. If I didn’t know who Dr Stuart Waiton was before the meeting, I certainly knew who he was by the end of it as he sat there tearing Pat Nevin to ribbons while I shrunk into my seat and hoped he wouldn’t pick on me but there’s no hiding when you’re dressed like a leprechaun and it wasn’t long before I was a ‘west end dinner party’ campaigner and a ‘Guardian reading’ loser. In my right ear I could hear Donald Findlay laughing with every insult and in my left Cardinal O’Brien was roaring for me to say something back but I was like a deer caught in the headlights: frightened, alone, dressed like a dick; I had nothing in my armoury capable of defending my position against Waiton’s onslaught so I sat and fumed inwardly, vowing to do some research next time and not just rely on prejudice against Rangers which to be fair is usually all that is needed during Sectarian Summits, at least it was in the good old days of Jumping Jack McConnell. Christine Grahame did her best to bail me out, handing the table over to some little squirt who waffled and stuttered but time and again it came back to Waiton and every time he opened his mouth, everything he said was measured and calm and seemed to make sense.
‘Don’t let him confuse you’ screamed O’Brien in my left ear but it was too late, in spite of the man ridiculing me in a live debate, I was warming to him and I felt my eyes wander onto his thighs and I was imagining he and I on a bed of pink clouds, eating Turkish Delight and smearing each other in cream and then before I knew what I was doing I had said that I thought some thoughts should be criminalised.

It just came out. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even realise I was speaking, so wrapped up in my sordid little chocolate fantasy with Waiton who sat looking astonished at a liberal blowing it so eloquently and in front of so many witnesses. And live on the internet to boot.

I could hardly hear anything to my right as Donald Findlay laughed so hard he could be heard by Graham Walker who sat nonplussed beside me and to my left soppy little Easterhouse Pat Nevin looked at me strangely as he could hear Keith O’Brien lose it in my left ear.

And that was it for me. I can’t remember what happened during the rest of the meeting as all I could do was go over in my head what I’d just said: ‘I think some thoughts should be criminalised.’ How could I be so stupid? To speak my mind and let everyone know I was an idiot and an illiberal one at that. I’d never again be invited to west end dinner parties which is basically what Waiton whispered to me behind Walker’s back when the cameras weren’t on us and Findlay must have heard it too as my right ear exploded in laughter yet again.

I eventually came out of the fog of my dismay towards the end of the meeting when someone mentioned segregated schooling and Grahame paused the meeting and the fellow who’d brought it up disappeared with his seat into the floor, there was a scream and then the seat came back up empty.
‘What happened to the live feed?’ asked both Findlay and O’Brien almost at the same time.
‘Someone mentioned Catholic schools’ I whispered only to get strange looks from everyone and I noticed Christine Grahame’s finger reaching for a button on her desk but upon seeing it was me and that I hadn’t said it loud enough to be captured by the microphones she stopped, told us the meeting was over and for us to pick up our complimentary Celtic scarves and badges on the way out. As she did I felt my chair wobble but it stayed where it was. That was a close one, there was obviously going to be no room for even the mention of segregated schooling at this sectarianism debate.

‘You did well son, gave us all a good laugh. Didn’t Graeme tell you you’d like Stuart Waiton?’ said Donald Findlay in my right ear as I filed out the chamber and then he guffawed and the link went dead.
‘You fucking dolt!’ came O’Brien in my left ear. ‘If you’re the best we have in this debate then we might as well give up on Operation Gramsci right now. Fucking pompous idiot…’ and with that his link disappeared and as I left the scene of my greatest embarrassment yet, dressed as a leprechaun, scared half to death, publicly humiliated and ignored at the end even by a port sodden and black toothed Jeanette Findlay, I thought, well that’s the last time I get invited over to play poker on Jason Allardyce’s arse at Keith O’Brien’s gaff then.

The Road to Holyrood

As I sat on the Justice Committee, sweat soaking through my pants, face like a beetroot, neck burning with embarrassment at not only having been shown up as an idiot in front of people I once thought my peers but turns out are my intellectual superiors (except Pat Nevin of course who thinks that because he once saw Echo and the Bunnymen at the Queen Margaret Union that this makes him an intellectual), I wondered if I’d have been able to concentrate my argument more effectively and not blurt out nonsense like ‘I think some thoughts should be criminalised’ if I hadn’t been dressed as a leprechaun.

I wouldn’t have been dressed as a leprechaun had a black van not run us off the road on the way to Holyrood. They came at us from a side street as we made our rickety way down the cobbles of the Royal Mile, Souness driving, whistling away happily as if he knew something about the Justice Committee that I didn’t until the van rammed into our side and forced us off the road and through a shop window. Two men dressed in black and wearing crash helmets jumped out the van and ran towards us waving pick-axe handles as I fell from the passenger seat, ripping my corduroys on the jagged end of the broken car door and buried myself under some clothes scattered by our collision with the shop. Souness however stood fast and as the first thug swung his pick-axe, Souness ducked, stuck his palm under the guy’s chin and punched him once in the chest just as the other thug came up behind him, lunging with his weapon only for Souness to spin to the side as the thug’s blow came down on his friend’s helmet while Souness kicked and broke his shin sending him screaming into a pile of fairy dresses until Souness shut him up by kneeling on him, forcing off his helmet and punching his face until he went quiet.
‘Who the devil were they?’ I bleated.
‘Could be anyone Spiers, you wouldn’t believe the amount of people who don’t want you showing your face at this committee.’ I blushed at this, thinking that the power of my great contribution to the sectarian debate might make things difficult for them.
‘Yes,’ said Souness. ‘It could be someone from Celtic or Nil by Mouth but my money’s on the Scottish Government.’
‘Eh?’ I yelped. ‘What do you mean? Not at all, they’ll be glad to have me there, fighting their side. Surely these guys are Rangers supporting, Protestant bigots trying to silence the truth about sectarianism?’
‘Look at me, Spiers. What do you see? A Rangers supporting, Rangers legend. If Rangers wanted you silenced, do you think I’d be ruffling my moustache trying to get you down there? Now behave yourself and for goodness sake, put some clothes on.’
I looked at myself and my corduroys were in tatters from the crash and from my crawling through glass. A crowd was gathering outside now, peering in to see what had happened so we were up against time to get out of there before someone called the police although Souness seemed to think the police were already here, lying silent among the tutus.
‘What will I wear?’ I was almost hysterical now, looking around at all the mannequins sprawled across the shop floor and seeing nothing but fairy outfits – we were in a fancy dress shop! Then just as I was eyeing up the fairy queen in extra large, Souness threw a costume into my arms and grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down to Holyrood and that’s how I fetched up looking like a complete moron in front of the world at the Justice Committee and that was without even considering the fact that I was dressed as a leprechaun.

Shadows and Fog, Smoke and Mirrors

There are invariably problems in consorting with Victorian stereotypes and Dickensian caricatures, the main one is that you will often find yourself running, screaming from some awful scene, usually in the fog. The lesser known is that occasionally you will be laid low with some old and forgotten disease. And so it was that after I was spirited off the Edinburgh Express by agents of Donald Findlay, I was bed ridden for weeks with the ague or scrofula or something. Suffice to say, I lay soaking in bed, babbling and swatting imaginary mice from my sleeves while being waited upon by Findlay’s housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, lent to us by Findlay while he roomed with his brother at his club. Every now and then I’d peer out from behind the curtains of unconsciousness and hear about Peter Lawwell accusing Rangers of lying about a £9million transfer bid or the Scottish media stoking the flames of sectarianism with bare faced lies about a jury trial involving Neil Lennon but so ludicrous were these two claims that I simply put them down to my fevered imaginings.
‘No, it’s true,’ said Graeme Souness as he swung upside down from the ceiling. I had woken in the final stages of my condition the day before and witnessed Souness punching holes in the ceiling and then doing pull-ups from the exposed beam and wondered how he came to be here with me when I was sure I’d seen him dead on the train and now here he was stretching his legs in typical Sounessian style as I finally began my recovery.
‘It’s all true,’ he continued, swinging away. ‘Not one newspaper or television news outlet reported all of the facts on the Lennon case, instead all of them focussed on their own disingenuous outrage and gave an inordinate amount of space and time to your friend McBride to spout paranoid nonsense. I’m glad you’ve been out of it Spiers, else you might have been tempted to weigh in with your own tuppance worth.’
‘Didn’t the janitor at the Times manage to get anything out in my absence then?’ I asked but he shook his head. ‘I don’t read your paper. I’m surprised anyone still does so over-run is it with chattering west end middle-class socialists in thrall to Kearney’s department.’
‘And what about you, I thought you were dead after the BBC Scotland assassins jumped you from behind.’
‘It takes more than a satchel wearing, humous munching, coke snorting, Chip drinking, bigoted Celtic wimp to take out me, Spiers – you should know that by now. No, they caught me by surprise and I spent time recovering here with you while Donald cleared up the mess created by our little stooshy on the train. Did you see him then?’
‘See who?’ I asked with a start.
‘Spring Heeled Jack of course. Findlay reported that more crickets had been found on the body of the Pacific Quay CSC assassin you contrived to defeat while I wasn’t looking.’
‘While you were unconscious, seemingly dead,’ I corrected.
‘Not unconscious, just having a rest,’ he glared at me.
‘Well yes, I did see something or rather, two men with black eyes who followed me and were there when the blood started flowing but they didn’t participate and were gone by the time it was all finished. Had they something to do with Spring Heeled Jack?’
For all we know they were Spring Heeled Jack. He’s a mystery beyond even our organisations' ken. No one’s seen him and lived to tell the tale. We say ‘him’ when it could be more than one person such is his easy movement from dealing with a BBC editor in Govan to attacking a Sun journalist in Queen Street within minutes of each other. I’ll say one thing for him though, he has the Scottish media complex treading more carefully so although we can’t condone his actions, they are reaping dividends for us. But no, I don’t think your dead-eyed men were Jack or else you wouldn’t be here to tell the tale now, would you?’
I thought about this then when I couldn’t for the life of me work out what he meant and those troubling old thoughts that perhaps I’m not as clever as I like to think I am came creeping back, I put it from my mind and wondered aloud where we might be.
‘A safe house, top floor of a townhouse on Lady Stair’s Close. One of Findlay’s friends has given us lodgings here for our recovery. Well, I’m recovered, how about you, young shaver?’ And he swept himself off the beam and landed perfectly on the floor and waved thank you to an imaginary audience.
‘I feel quite normal. A bit smelly not having washed but…’
‘So nothing unusual then? Good, let’s be having you. You have somewhere important to be me old fellow me lad,’ and he winked at me and pulled me from my sick bed.
‘Where are we going then?’ I asked, changing from my corduroy nightshirt and into my corduroy jacket and matching slacks.
‘It’s the Justice Committee today Spiers, I hope you’re on top of your game because you’re sitting on it. We have a special friend waiting for you there, we think you’ll enjoy his company.’
‘It’s not Professor Steve Bruce is it?’ I asked, excited at meeting this elusive figure at last.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Steve wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of anything to do with sectarianism in this country – he deals in facts, not shrill Celtic Minded scaremongering. No, your meeting with him is yet to come. Today you’ll be discussing the most pressing social matter in Scotland with another gentleman, a Dr. Stuart Waiton. You’ll like him, he thinks just like you and is on your side.’
And as we descended the narrow stairs and onto the High Street I’m sure I could hear Souness sniggering.

Murder on the Glasgow/Edinburgh Express

The shriek of the train’s whistle woke me from a brief slumber and I smiled at how easy it was to snooze in the comfort of a first class carriage. I hadn’t been napping for long and took a look out of the window to work out where we might be but it was night and the fields and hedgerows that passed were but a dark blur. Then in the reflection of the window I noticed someone sitting opposite me, a few seats away; a black eyed gentleman and he was looking intently in my direction. I turned from the window and with a start realised that he was staring right at me. I caught his eye and he turned away but as he did, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye and another man, much like the first was now staring at me. I turned and looked straight at him but he averted his gaze only for me to notice that as he did, the first man turned and looked back at me. This was as ridiculous as it was unsettling as I looked from one to the other only for them to take it in turns to stare at me with those same dead, black eyes. I reluctantly gave up the comfort of first class and left the carriage to get away from these curious creatures and sat one carriage away and settled back and thought about boys in leather shorts but I must have dozed off again and when I awoke, there sitting in front of me again were the same two men.


I got up immediately this time and moved to the next carriage along but I had barely taken my seat when one of them sat in front of me and as I goggled at him, his friend sat down to my right, both staring expressionless, into my eyes. They were too close for comfort now and mindful of Souness’s warning, I sprang up and trotted down the aisle towards the next carriage. I looked behind me and there they were, following me, still staring, still emotionless. This was becoming serious, these men looked like they hated me and were sure to cause me harm if they were to find me alone but thankfully I was on a busy train although I noticed with growing alarm that the more I fled from carriage to carriage, the less busy they became until with a fright I noticed I was in the buffet carriage and the buffet was closed, the carriage empty. I turned to see if I had time to get out of there but those two monsters were right behind me and just as I felt absolute panic shiver down my spine and turn my legs to jelly, two men in moustaches and dressed in bed sheets jumped out from behind the buffet at me and held me against the window. As one of them held a curved blade to my throat and came in close to me to whisper
‘We’re the Scottish TUC, prepare to die,’ I could smell his breath.
‘Ugh, garlic,’ I gasped.
‘Ugh, mouldering cabbage and dog piss’ he replied but before he could do anything with his dagger a hand appeared from behind his head, grabbed his moustache and pulled him screaming away from me. It was Graeme Souness and he had the other one too, also by the moustache.
‘I don’t like your face furniture boys and surely there are other ways to support Palestinians without assaulting people who disagree with you?’ and he knocked their heads together until they collapsed in a heap in the corridor, Souness watching them fall, waiting till he was sure they wouldn’t get back up and then raising his head and winking at me. I am sure he was about to say ‘see you loser’ but he didn’t get the chance as two young men I recognised as two of the more excitable of the Pacific Quay CSC came up behind him and reigned blows down on his head with small iron bars. Souness’s reaction was instant and fast; he grabbed one of his assailants by the side of the head and pushed it into the wall then brought it back across his front and smashed the man’s face into the window, smearing snot and blood across the glass and sending a hair line crack into the corner. Souness was slowing though as all the while he was doing this, the second BBC bhoy was still bringing his cosh down on the old Ranger’s head until eventually he could hold on no more and collapsed to the floor and lay motionless on top of the other three men.

Souness’s assailant giggled as he looked down at his victim.
‘That was for 2-0 against Celtic in 1986,’ he sneered.
‘But you weren’t even born then’ I shrieked at him, appalled at the violence which yet again compromised everything I believed about the cuddly nature of Celtic fans.
‘No I wasn’t but my dad told me about it, we’re Celtic supporters Spiers, we bear grudges. Forever,’ he said as he dropped the iron bar and pulled a steak knife from his inside pocket and stepped over the bodies towards me. I turned to flee and nearly fainted from fright as there at the other end of the carriage were the two dead eyed men standing in the shadows, still as mist in a graveyard and staring straight at me with their evil black eyes. I sobbed and looked over my shoulder as the BBC bhoy approached, a vicious smile on his face, whispering
‘Nobody gets to listen to Professor Steve Bruce if BBC Scotland has anything to do with it, now come here and accept your fate Stinkerbell.’
In front of me lay pain, disfigurement and possibly death, behind me lay madness. I was stuck, with nothing left to say and nowhere to run. Souness on the floor bleeding from the ear couldn’t save me now. I fell to my knees and began to cry like a girl when suddenly the train entered a tunnel, its whistle blowing as shrill as Paul McBride when things aren’t going his way. The train lights flickered and then I heard a plink and they went out and I gasped as the BBC Scotland assassin stopped right in front of me, his arm raised about to bring his knife down on my head. He stood still, face frozen and there was a popping sound before blood shot from his neck, arterial spray swishing across my face and onto the window. He looked puzzled for a moment then brought his hand up to his neck and pulled something from the hole that had appeared there, his life squirting from him until eventually his legs buckled and he slumped to the ground in a puddle of his own gore. With his last breath he reached out his hand and opened his bloody clenched fist and wriggling in his palm was a blood clotted cricket.

After all that it didn’t dawn on me to look behind me for the dead eyed men but when I eventually realised I’d forgotten about them and looked around in panic, they had gone. The train whistle sounded again and something bright outside caught my attention. I looked out the blood caked window and saw Edinburgh Castle shining bright against the black sky, the neon lights and gory window affected to make it glow an ominous orange colour as I looked around the charnel house in which I stood and wondered how on earth I was going to get back to the west end from here.