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.