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.