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?