Casting the Runes

It’s always in the dark. In the dark they come, the nightmares. In the summer when I was incarcerated in Walter Smith’s underwater lair, Silence, it was crickets and I soon found out that these dreams were a premonition of the terror to come as Spring Heeled Jack fell upon the Scottish media, BBC Scotland and myself in particular and every time he struck, there were crickets.

Now in the dark I dream of the cave. Not a premonition as I’ve been to the cave. The Traynor took me there on the island. It was always dark there too as we soon learned to sleep by day in order to stay alert at night when the darkness crept out of the jungle and even the circle of fires on the beach was no defence against Lawwell after he’d gone native.

The Traynor had taken me deep into the interior and into a cave, dank and dripping and black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. The Traynor fired up a torch and led me deeper and deeper into that awful place until we could go no further and he held up the torch and showed me the runes.
‘Can you read runes, Spiers?’ he asked.
‘I can hardly read my own match reports,’ I told him and he grunted.
‘Who can? Well something tells me these runes are important. I can’t tell you why, it’s just a sense I have, I can almost smell their relevance.’
‘No, that’s me you can smell.’
‘You think I can’t tell the difference between your weather beaten corduroy and body odour and the malignancy of these ancient carvings? Look at ‘em, dug deep into the wall; hundreds of years before Christ. Imagine who put them here. What maritime disaster brought the rune writers this far south? And what foul message do they contain?’ Then he paused and I thought he was pondering his own questions until I noticed the feather dart sticking out his neck and he keeled over.
‘Spiers? I know you’re in there!’
It was Lawwell and he’d blow piped the Traynor which meant it was the machete for me so I was off in a twinkling, skipping on my tip toes through the cave in the dark, the only source of light left burning beside the unconscious body of the Traynor back at the wall. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to avoid Lawwell and made it back to the beach in one piece unlike Mark Daly who sat by the fire, shivering having been ravaged by Lawwell as soon as the sun went down. Chris McLaughlin was holding Daly in his arms and caressing his male pattern baldness and curiously, eyeing up his neck but there was no consoling him, even when I tried to tell them of my close shave in the cave.

Since then the runes have come back to me in my dreams. I’ve written them down as best I can and am taking them to an expert to decipher. Perhaps they’ll tell me something of the warning which concerned the Traynor before he was struck down? My only problem is, the expert. It’s Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.

Why We Fought

And so it begins. The only time of the year that sees the monster Lawwell quaking in his boots, if he’s wearing any considering how he’s taken to going naked since our time on the island. The only time of the year when a hush falls over Celtic Park and everyone steps carefully lest the dreaded word is spoken: poppy.

Okay, so it’s a tad early this year but it seems to be appearing on the lapels of some people so Lawwell called in a select few and told us, ‘This is a task of supreme importance so I’ve chosen only the most loathsome of the Scottish press; only the most insidious journalists who are willing to risk their reputation and moral standing…’
I looked around, there was only me.
‘In order to come to the aid of the Celtic party at this, our most crisis ridden time of the year.’ He was clothed when he began but I noticed that once talking, he began to strip off his Hugo Boss grey Schutzstaffel suit until he was standing in his shirt and nothing else.
‘Of course our policy of pandering to the extremists among our support means no member of the Celtic family can be seen wearing a poppy but we also don’t need a repeat of last season’s vilification when the Green Brigade broke free of their reins and embarrassed us nationally for the second time running.’
I looked at his cock and trembled as his speech seemed to be exciting him.
‘So Spiers, your task is this, I want you to begin to ridicule the wearing of the poppy, make it seem it’s perfectly normal to object to wearing one and perhaps people won’t think it’s just the preserve of the Irish republican Catholic mindset peculiar to Celtic.’
‘Yes sir,’ I said, making my excuses and leaving quickly, citing eagerness to get to work on my latest project and start tweeting something appalling before Lawwell in his excitement does to me what he did to Mark Daly on the island.

Home & Abroad

My bedroom was as I left it before being taken into outer space for the Celtic AGM, sparsely but tastefully furnished.  I fell into bed and switched off the bedside lamp and all was black and I lay there feeling the comfort of the bed and the relief of being off that hellish island sweep over me like the waves had swept over me only a day ago.  I considered trying to piece together everything that had happened now that I was safe and could allow myself the leisure of devoting part of my mind to anything except survival.  On the island there was no slacking for one moment; once Lawwell upped that ante if you didn't pay attention for a second then you were next on the funeral pyre.  Or over the cliffs.  Or washed up in the morning with the tide before anyone had noticed you were missing.  I couldn't think of all that then though, it was dark and warm and I was in bed with the lights out and I couldn't keep my eye lids from closing and feeling the sweet release of sleep at last.  Then I noticed all was not dark after all; a light was on in my walk-in cupboard.  A perfect rectangle of white framed the door in the corner and two faded triangles of light stretched across the ceiling.  I hadn't noticed this before when all was dark and I was settling down to relax for the first time in two weeks.  I tried to take no notice of it, to consider it an oversight and conclude that I'd left the light on before and in my weariness, hadn't noticed it.  But I couldn't.  My eye lids no longer drooped and my dreams drew back from my consciousness once more until I was wide awake, staring at the light from the cupboard door.  Then I saw the shadow of a shape scurry past the door from inside the cupboard and briefly, the light peeping out disappeared and that was it, I was sitting up in bed feeling the old sensation of fear crawling up my back as my scalp froze and the only sound in the room was my heart beating like the jungle drums on the island when Lawwell had his blood lust up.

But this was ridiculous, I was imagining things, surely?  But then stranger things had happened recently.  If someone had asked me if it was possible that Lawwell would terrorise the Scottish footballing press by holding them on a deserted island for two weeks, horribly murdering any who didn't immediately support his increasingly insane and wild plans for the remainder of the season, then I'd have scoffed at them.  If anyone had posited that BBC Scotland was institutionally biased against Rangers, I'd have tweeted that they were stupid to think so.  If anyone had suggested that I suspected Spring Heeled Jack was hiding in my walk-in cupboard right now then I'd have guffawed and asked for a line of what they're having but here I was, getting ready to bolt for the door and not come back to my flat until the sun was up.  And that's precisely what I did.

I visited Matt McGlone on the southside and asked to sleep on his sofa and he even went so far as to give me his bed as he was staying up all night putting together a fake Rangers cash flow spreadsheet which he planned to distribute to create more interest in the Rangers tax case.  I can't believe how obsessed the Celtic fans are just now with this whole HMRC thing but I suppose it keeps their minds off their team's dire performances at home and in Europe and if they're speculating about Rangers then at least they're not moping about the current rumours doing the rounds about Neil Lennon and his night time activities.  So let them get on with it is what I say, as long as it's laying into the Rangers then who's going to complain - the BBC?

Talking of which, the Craig Whyte documentary aired while we were away and Rangers responded by baring their teeth and withdrawing all co-operation from that venerable old institution.  I watched it in McGlone's flat the next morning as he had it on Sky+, something I'll need to invest in myself as those old Betamax tapes of mine are beginning to really play up, and I couldn't believe how poor it was.  I'll never say this in public of course but I'm really regretting appearing on it now.  Mark Daly seems to be an award winning journalist but there was no sign of why in this piece of nonsense.  Full of conjecture, supposition, innuendo, ifs, buts and maybes, I almost couldn't sit through it without feeling nauseous at the constant stream of close ups of Daly nodding in agreement or arching an eyebrow at some latest suggestion that Whyte isn't all he seems.  I almost felt sorry for Whyte, if he hadn't bought Rangers then he'd be left alone to the solitary and private life he so obviously desires yet those hypocrites in the BBC won't allow that as he chose Rangers, anathema to all of them and one day, if I ever have the balls I'll ask them why Whyte and why not Desmond who has more skeletons rattling around his closet than even Lawwell.  Well, I won't, the answer's obvious and I'll get to it in a moment.  As the programme went on I marvelled at Daly as he stood in front of buildings in Monaco and Cleveland, Ohio talking to camera in that slow, dramatically effete voice (which proves that Daly is more suited behind a typewriter than in front of a microphone) when stock footage or photos could have saved cash strapped, redundancy worried BBC Scotland a few quid.  Two hundred thousand it cost to make this rubbish which irks me especially as I'd work for the BBC for a fraction of that if only they'd let me but no, I had to go and claim I was a Rangers supporter so there's no way in now for me.

Which leads me to this whole institutionalised bias of which Whyte speaks.  Well, everyone knows it's true but the BBC in its usual way, denies it.  I suppose if the denials are coming from someone senior in the BBC then he might consider he's telling the truth, after all it's not as if there is a charter within Pacific Quay which states that Rangers fans are verbotten and Protestants frowned upon but what they fail to see is that the bias stems from the personalities of their employees, Rangers haters to a man (and woman) who due to the Celtic Syndrome, feel it is their duty to denigrate Rangers and protect Celtic at all costs even if that cost is the truth.  They also think it's a hoot and haven't I been witness to a few of their parties as they boast  of their subliminal messages in news reports and online articles.  So no, the BBC isn't officially biased against Rangers but their staff certainly are and as long as the current crop remain in situ then nothing will change as those bigots are never going to allow a Rangers sympathising individual anywhere near the place, even a Rangers hating Baptist is only allowed in as a guest, never a paid employee (thanks to Section 18).

I told McGlone all of this and he snorted, asking me if this was the case then how come he's never had a job with them?  I thanked him for the bed for the night and told him that they might be Celtic Minded to a man but they weren't morons and there's your answer.  He threw a slipper at me as I ducked out the door and left him to publishing his crazy spreadsheet on some Celtic internet forum.

Back at my flat I approached the bedroom with caution, peeking around the door and seeing with a sigh of relief that the cupboard light was off.  I must have been imagining things last night after all.  That's what comes of jumping at shadows on a deserted island as a naked Lawwell stalks the night with a blowpipe and machete; I was becoming paranoid.  I eyed up my bed and the Martin O'Neil scrapbook sitting on the bedside table and considered a quick wank before taking off for work but first I decided on one glance inside the cupboard, just to make sure you understand.

The swarm of crickets engulfed me the moment I opened the door.  They were in my mouth, crawling in my ears, tangled in my hair, clinging to my corduroy and I ran screaming from the room, tumbling down the stoop and onto the west end pavement where I sobbed as the last of them flew off towards Byres Road.  I vowed there and then that I was going to take no more of this, that Spring Heeled Jack was not going to victimise me anymore.  It was time to get to the bottom of this mystery, to find out who was worse, according to Donald Findlay, than Jack Irvine.

The Circle of Fires

I didn’t dwell much on what Duffy had said, no one did but then the next night we heard the howling again. There wasn’t quite an uprising against Lawwell but there were murmurs as some questioned whether or not he had deliberately tried to fool us or if he’d just served up Chic Young by accident. As the howling continued, the murmurs became louder and it took Lawwell appearing from his tent, naked as usual and shaven headed now to calm things. He held the conch and in the flickering light from the circle of fires he asked us if we wanted him to return to the jungle and catch the other beast that had discovered our presence on the island. ‘Other beast?’ asked Mark Daly from the BBC fire.
‘Yes, other fucking beast. Do you want to make something of it Daly?’ growled Lawwell and Daly retreated behind Chris McLaughlin who interestingly had taken to only coming out at night since we fetched up here. Lawwell stood in silence for a moment, glaring at Daly before raising his horse whip and pointing it straight at him, turning to his body guard and saying simply, ‘him’.

Lawwell didn’t go into the jungle that night and the howling continued until the first glimpses of sunlight appeared beyond the hills and then it stopped. The fires in the circle went out one by one except the BBC fire which the Pacific Quay CSC boys kept burning. All except McLaughlin who’d disappeared into the darkness of the jungle edge which was surprisingly bold for him considering the howling that had just stopped. I decided that since it was light and since the BBC had the best fire that it might be wise of me to ingratiate myself with them through McLaughlin so I loafed over to the jungle edge to look for Chris but he was nowhere to be seen. I stayed a little longer, emboldened by the increasing daylight and was kicking ferns when I heard a noise from the bushes. ‘Psssssst.’ I looked round and saw nothing. I stood stock still and heard only the breeze rustling the leaves so put the noise down to my imagination and turned to move on and then I heard it again only more this time.
‘Psssst, Spiers!’ Christ, it was the beast and it knew my name! I peered into the foliage and fingers reached out of the grasses and parted them and two fierce eyes glowered at me. It was the Traynor.
‘Well what were you expecting,’ he asked. ‘Elaine C Smith?’

The Conch and the Beast

We were awoken every morning by the hooning of Lawwell blowing on the conch. He’d discovered that not only was the pink shell a symbol of leadership but if you chopped the end off it you could use it as a horn to gather the survivors of the Celtic AGM crash around you. And if they didn’t come when he blew the conch he still had his trusty horse whip to change their minds.

The conch wasn’t the only symbol on the island. Lawwell had stuck a severed pig’s head on a stick and placed it at the edge of our camp in order he claimed, to scare off the beast who lived in the dark beyond our boundary. No one but Lawwell had seen this beast but some of us had heard snuffling in the foliage and once, as the sun set, we all heard an inhuman howling from the jungle which set everyone on edge and I doubt anyone slept properly that night. The next day Lawwell came out of his makeshift tent, naked and covered in green dye, vowing to go on his own to hunt the beast for all our goods. All he wanted in return was our complete subservience. Well since most of the survivors were Scottish journalists, he had this anyway but you know how Lawwell is; nothing is ever enough, no distance too far, no act too awful to further the cause of Celtic.

The day passed slowly and I lazed on the sand listening to the waves while the BBC boys stayed huddled around the fire they’d made on the first day and had kept burning constantly fearing that it might run out and bring the beast into the camp. They whispered and argued with each other and seemed to be planning something but anytime I got close enough to hear, they clammed up and eyed me suspiciously until I took the hint and went back to the sea. As the sun set and darkness encroached, all the other little parties gathered on the beach and built their own fires, the boys from the Mail here, the Express there, STV close to the woods and me, the sole representative of the Times hopping from fire to fire looking for companionship and finding none, being shoo-ed away by everyone who had heat and light so I joined the lads from the Sun and the Daily Record who huddled together under a tree because they didn’t know how to make a fire.

A scream in the distance had all our eyes popping as we strained to see into the blackness of the jungle, eager to know what caused such a horrible noise. Then the howling started up but from a different direction than the scream. Then the hooning of the conch which could only be Lawwell. That did it for me and I ran into the circle of fires and dared anyone to shift me but they were all too busy shaking in horror at what might come out of the night to notice me. Then a figure strode out of the dusk, dragging something behind it and waving the conch in the air in triumph – it was Lawwell. ‘I have the beast’ he shouted and threw a muddied and bloodied figure into the circle of fires and without hesitation the assembled hacks of the Scottish media laid into it with their sticks and rocks, screaming and tearing at it as someone started hammering on drums and we all descended into a base, animalistic frenzy of blood lust until what was left was a gory mess which floated pleasingly into the sea once we were finished with it and afterwards Lawwell accepted our plaudits and oaths of loyalty as he stood naked with the conch raised high above his head, the moonlight glistening on the blood which covered his body. It wasn’t until later that Gerry Duffy sidled up to me and said, ‘that was Chic Young. That was murder.’

Lord of the Lies

Lawwell held the conch and refused to let anyone take it from him and since the rules of the island stated that you can only speak up while holding the conch, no-one else got a say in how we ran our little community on the remote desert island. So Lawwell was in charge and the Scottish media sat back and let him do what he liked – no change there then.

We’d fetched up on the island after the remarkable crash and burn of the Celtic AGM when the Inquisition 5 burned up on re-entry from its visit to the stars in an effort to ensure Celtic’s failings were seen to be not of this earth. Of course I was on it when it came down, thanks to Souness and his interfering. He just had to get on board the Inquisition to find out the truth of what was being said as obviously he couldn’t rely on the spin put on proceedings by the Celtic obsessed fans with typewriters in the press. Me included.

I’m not sure if the AGM crashed and burned due to some mischief by Souness or if it happened under the weight of spectacular Celtic failure on the field crushing the hopes and dreams of the fans and small shareholders that no amount of snide digs at Rangers could disguise even if John Reid did try his hardest. I suppose there are only so many AGMs at which you can get away with that as the trophy cupboard remains bereft of the league title.

Once the space ship broke up on its return to earth and landed on some remote island, rumours began to circulate among the survivors that it was Lawwell who had sabotaged the re-entry in an attempt to distract from the results from the AGM. He shouldn’t have bothered as all the journalists present were already conspiring on how to spin it in Celtic’s favour. So you can imagine how bitter they all felt that they ended up living in such a barbaric manner, living hand to mouth, filthy lives while Lawwell refused to allow them a voice. Again, nothing much had changed. Save for the presence of the conch.

Andromeda

I stood and watched as the Inquisition 5 disappeared into the clouds, on its way to the stars. I wasn’t one of the unlucky ones thank God, who had been chosen to travel into space with Lawwell for the Celtic AGM. So I gazed at the wonder of all that work and expense to make sure that whatever is said at the AGM isn’t of this planet and considered how easily the Celtic support will lap up whatever extraterrestrial nonsense Celtic come out with. Then I picked up Pat Nevin and we went to Braehead to do some shopping.


While there, something extraordinary happened – I’d bought Pat an ice cream cone or as he insisted on calling it, a pokey hat (honestly, sometimes it’s difficult to know what he’s on about) and as he sat and munched at it, looking all cute with ice cream all over his chin, we were approached by a security guard who said he wasn’t comfortable with me taking pictures of wee Pat with my camera phone. I pointed to Nevin wearing his basque, suspenders and stockings and asked what could possibly be wrong with such an innocent sight but the security guard blushed and told me it just wasn’t right so we bolted before he called the police, me putting Pat’s dufflecoat back on him to cover any perceived embarrassment.
‘That reminded me of my time at Chelsea when we played Rangers in a friendly,’ began Pat but I stopped him, having heard it all before.

On the way out of the shopping centre we saw Chris Sutton in the car park, he was swinging punches at thin air and swearing at no one in particular.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Pat.
‘Precisely,’ I told him. ‘He used to be one of the blessed Martin O’Neill’s hod carriers, could give it out but couldn’t take it and would go down as if stabbed in the calf if you even looked at him. A bit of a fairy really but he’s got no relevance today except to publish a book no one will buy but will be used in the trashy papers to attack Rangers and attempt to deflect from the many failings of Celtic.’
‘Talking of Celtic Graham, are you not a little pissed off that they’re off into space without you?’
‘Not really, I’ve been up there with them before and barely escaped with my hide intact. I’ve got no intentions of putting myself in that position again; I’ll swim through blood first.’

And as I said it, a car backed out of its parking space and stopped in front of us, its passenger door opening as it did.
‘Get in Spiers. Fuck off Nevin,’ said Graham Souness leaving no scope for mistaking his intentions. ‘We’re going on a little journey, loser,’ and he winked at me.

And that’s how I fetched up at the Celtic AGM after all.

Live and Let Liewell

We sat outside a little bistro on the Boulevard Boramar by the port of Collioure just a few miles into France from the Spanish border, Souness with his back to the wall, one hand on the stem of a Martini and the other resting on his chest where he kept his Beretta holstered.  The ripples on the sea glittered from the last rays from the sun as it set behind a hill where a windmill sat lazily as smoke rose from just behind it.  This was where Souness had dumped the helicopter before stealing a bicycle and giving me a backy into the village, me squealing all the way and complaining about chaffing from my corduroys.

We were waiting for Souness's handler to appear with documents to get me back into the UK, my passport, tickets and a suitcase full of corduroy having been left at my hotel in Barcelona after our impromptu departure.  It wasn't long before the handler arrived and I don't know why I was surprised as I caught a glimpse in the distance of a jovial old fellow in mutton chop whiskers as he whistled down the boulevard swinging a cane. 

'Well met,' grinned Donald Findlay as he stood in front of us regarding me with the usual amusement and blocking my view of a nubile young man in tight speedos I'd been eyeing up on the beach.  'Garcon, creme pour moi, s'il vous plait et un autre Martini pour le thug,' said Findlay, sitting down beside us.  'Don't understand a word the blighters are saying, don't ye know but I can order a drink in any language in the world' and he giggled, twirling his cane between two fingers and glancing at Souness who remained stone faced, keeping a vigilant eye on anyone who came too close. 

'So what are we going to do with you then Spiers, eh?' said Findlay, suddenly serious.  'Who knows what Tartaglia would have done with you had he got you back to Scotland, handed you over to Lawwell I'd wager, hey Souness?  Hand him over to Lawwell?'

'I'd have thrown him into the sea half way home, let the fish eat him,' muttered Souness.

'Now Graeme, we all know what a blood thirsty lunatic you are, that's why we love you.  That's why you're the best agent we've ever had and why, Spiers, you're still alive today.  We're going to get you back into the country but we must be sure first that you're going to be thankful.  Thankful enough to help us out with a little piece of mischief we've been planning.'  And so he told me some of his plan, not all of it obviously as no one ever tells me the whole story, leaving me to work it out for myself which is difficult when you're as shallow as I am.  As he was speaking we could hear bells and horns from some kind of parade in the alleys behind us and just as Findlay had finished filling me in, a little line of musicians dressed in white appeared, tootling away on their instruments and behind them some villagers carried a little statue of the Virgin Mary. 

'Very pretty,' sighed Findlay, sitting back and enjoying the moment.  'You know, here I am, this supposed Protestant monster and yet I'm appreciating a little moment of Roman Catholicism in this picturesque setting.  Off they pop to their little church and it's all very nice, very nice indeed.  I only wish the Scottish people would feel the same way about our own little parades; it's only a demonstration of a culture after all, hardly different from what we've just seen here.  No need to get all offended and write to the government, the newspapers, whoever will listen, quoting their favourite word, 'triumphalism' every two sentences and demanding an end to all sorts of freedoms the parades are celebrating in the first place, just to get one over those 'Orange bastards'.  Without seeing the irony of course.'  He sighed again but sadly this time, not in appreciation of a pleasant moment during a relaxing evening in the sun.

'These are strange days, Spiers.  Not like the last two seasons when we battled demons and foul creatures of the dark, super powered freaks and ghosts.  This season it's different.  This season we battle the government.  Well, the Scottish Executive but those Brigadoon Parish Councillors do like to call themselves the government.  I like to call myself a national treasure but I doubt many would agree with me either, eh Souness?' and he roared with laughter on his own, sitting back and sipping his coffee and wiping tears of mirth from his cheek.

'There's just one thing,' I piped up.  'If I do this for you, how about calling off Spring Heeled Jack?  At least from me?  He's making life a misery for us just now.'

Findlay looked at Souness who met his eyes and shrugged.

'He's not who you think he is you know,' said Findlay.  'Oh I know all you clever dicks think it's Jack Irvine creeping around terrorising you with his crickets and fancy tricks.  It's not.'

'Who is it then?'

'Someone worse, much worse...'

For Souness Eyes Only

I should have known better than to visit the Cathedral of Santa Eulalia while Phil Tartaglia's men were looking for me but who would have known the Bishop of Paisley would have the will or the means to send assassins all the way to Barcelona just to take care of one discredited journalist who had the audacity to question his latest attack on the Scottish people via a thinly veiled threat to Salmond's Executive?

I was grabbed by the hair from behind and my neck jerked as I was dragged down the steps and into the boot of a car.  Then the car revved up and we shot off across the city with me in the dark and stifling heat, cursing my choice of corduroy over linen on such a day and wondering how I was going to get back to La Ramblas now.

I shouldn't have worried too much as eventually the car screeched to a halt, the boot opened and as I squinted at the harsh invasion of sunlight, I was punched in the face and hauled out, groggy but still able to make out my own hotel just across the way from the cruiseship terminal where my unknown assailants seemed to be taking me.  There were two of them, holding me by an arm each and they didn't say a word during our whole stride through various gates and towards the helipad.  I groaned, they were taking me home for summary justice Roman Catholic Church style which meant being handed over to Lawwell and Kearney for torture either in the bowels of Parkhead or more likely, in Hampden now that Celtic had annexed the SFA.

I was dripping with sweat and was glad of getting out of the heat of the midday sun as we passed into the shadow of a terminal building and as we did, I could hear a scraping sound coming from the wall as we approached it.  There was a large round grill there, covering what could be air conditioning or something similar; the sound was coming from there and wasn't noticed by my assailants until a boot swooshed down the pipe and kicked out the grill and a figure all in black rolled out in front of us, raised a silenced Beretta and shot my captors off of me.  'Come on loser,' said Graeme Souness as he gripped me by the elbow and we ran towards the helicopter which was warming up on the pad.  When the pilot saw us running towards him he reached for a pistol of his own but Souness shot him on the run from a hundred yards and he fell from the vehicle, the cord from his earphones stretching out behind him, still attached to the dashboard as he hit the ground.  Souness took the headset from him and we bundled in, taking off before a gang of men running down the Sant Bertrand Wharf Terminal, purple robes flowing behind them could get within accurate shooting range.  I looked at Souness as we gained height and turned towards France and he was smiling.  He caught me gazing at him, stunned at how quickly events had transpired - why only half an hour ago I was taking in the bells and smells of the Santa Eulalia, all the troubles of Scotland behind me and now, here I was again in the hands of a complete maniac who isn't bothered in the slightest that we could've been killed.  I sat back in my seat and half closed my eyes and I could almost hear the swooping strings of some John Barry title theme.

Scottish Press Stays Silent as Celtic Fans sing Sectarian Songs

‘If I see one broken Celtic crest or Club in Crisis headline, I’ll feed you to Elaine C Smith,’ growled Lawwell as we hung upside down and naked in a butcher’s warehouse. ‘And not a mention of any of the singing from our fans today, got that?’

It had started off a normal day with hordes of the Scottish press travelling to Tynecastle, not because it was the first game there for Neil Lennon since some ned ruffled his hair and got a kicking and seven months in jail for it but just because it was the Celtic game and everyone in the media wanted to see their team. BBC Scotland were there mob handed with a special editing team to replace the IRA songs with stock crowd noise and surrounding shops sold out of cotton wool as the dirty inkies bought it all up to stuff into their ears so they could say with all honesty that they never heard a thing. Then we got the worst result possible when Hearts won two nil especially since I had a cheeky fiver on a one nil/Skacel double at sixty to one. By the end of the game Lawwell had us all rounded up and we were administered a sound thrashing while shivering in a refrigerated room in our underpants while Lawwell marched up and down wielding his horse whip and repeating our mantra that Neil Lennon still has the dressing room and since everyone saw him today in the daylight then we could put that other rumour to bed. What rumour? I thought. Have I missed another juicy piece of gossip by leaving press conferences early to meet Pansy Paul for a knees-up down the Polo Lounge? I made a mental note to investigate as we were cut down and handed our clothes and complimentary Celtic scarves on the way out.

The press bus was quiet on the way home as everyone sat at the back of the bus, leaving Chris McLaughlin on his own down the front, the crickets buzzing around his head. Chris had been handed his arse on a plate by McCoist yesterday when he yet again made Celtic the topic of a BBC interview while discussing a Rangers game. McCoist simply reminded him that Motherwell were Rangers’ nearest challengers as the sound of tiny legs rubbing together began to rise from Chris’s pants and he ended the interview early and fled Ibrox lest Spring Heeled Jack get him.

Spring Heeled Jack. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s not some figment of our imagination, a result of mass hysteria on the part of the Scottish footballing press. One begins to think like this when a decent amount of time has elapsed between the now and some traumatic event. In my case, it’d been a while since I’d been terrorised by Jack so I now doubted his existence.

I shouldn’t have.