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.