Lies, Damned Lies

‘Of course the statistics lacked detail and were so small as to be almost insignificant when compared to the overall number of assaults in the country. They even paled against racist assaults; homophobic assaults too and that was only the ones committed by Barking Phil Tartaglia,’ this was Donald Findlay. I could tell even though my eyes were still closed from being knocked unconscious by Souness on Byres Road as I’d joined in with the West End Liberal Elite celebrating their diversity by singing IRA songs.

‘We had our suspicions that the Organisation had advance knowledge of the contents of the report considering Barking broke into the First Minister’s office to verbally thrash him and threaten to withdraw the Catholic vote if he didn’t release the religious hate crimes figures pronto and while he was at it, why not hand over a state sanctioned license to indulge in his own prejudices against the gays. Why would he be in such a hurry if he hadn’t been tipped off about the contents? Who would do such a thing remains in the realms of conjecture.’
‘I’d like five minutes alone with Kennny MacAskill. Just me, him and an electricity supply, I’d soon find out,’ interrupted Souness.
‘Yes, quite,’ reflected Findlay, packing his pipe. ‘No, we must deal with fact here, Graeme, not supposition. We don’t want to fetch up like our separated brethren, shrieking about myth, lies, hearsay, paranoia and skewed statistics until the Scottish people get tired of their constant whining and begin to resent them thus creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. Hmm… Is that what they’re after, I wonder? Eh Spiers, is that what they’re after?’ Damn, he’d noticed I was awake. I shouldn’t have let my mind wonder onto Martin O’Neil, the ensuing bulge in my corduroys gave the game away.

‘Where am I?’ I asked.
‘Why, 221b of course. There’ll be no underground dungeons or gulags here you know,’ replied Findlay, lighting a stick on the open fire and lifting it to his pipe.
‘I heard what you were saying when you thought I was out cold,’ I whimpered. ‘And you’re wrong, you know – the statistics prove beyond a doubt that Catholics are being persecuted in this country.’
‘The statistics prove nothing,’ puffed Findlay. ‘They can be read many ways for instance, they could just as well prove that Catholics are more than punching above their weight as 17% of the country’s population indulge in 37% of all religiously aggravated crimes but you don’t hear us bleating about it. No, we’d rather work diligently towards creating a more peaceful society with people of all religions and none working and living together as one while old Barking Phil and his friends in the political/media complex are quite content to create division and resentment. For goodness sake, they even wheeled out Joan McAlpine this week and how she managed to keep her head out from between Tom Devine’s thighs long enough to pen a piece for the Scotsman I’ll never know. Wonders will never cease, eh Graeme?’ and he looked at Souness who got up from his seat and spat in the fire.
‘I’m telling you Donald, let me get the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos back together and I’ll soon put an end to all this nonsense.’
‘Sorry old friend, this is a time for cool heads, not running around the country bumping other peoples together. No, we must allow Tartaglia, McAlpine, uncle Tom Cobbly and anyone else who wants to come out and attack us in the press to get on with it, we can’t be seen to be denying anyone their freedom of speech even if it means hearing things we’d much rather not hear.’
At this I thought he was having a dig at me and said so but Findlay just laughed and Souness spat in the fire again and glared at me.
‘Yes, you, Spiers. I suppose you’ve been wondering why we asked you here?’
‘Asked me here my foot, you knocked me unconscious and dragged me!’ I squealed and Findlay chuckled.
‘If you say so old sport. So since you are wondering why we asked you here, now that you’re awake we can get on with it. I hear you have runes you wish translated? Runes from your little island where you all had the most splendid vacation with our friend Lawwell? Well I have just the man who can tell you what they say.’
‘Well I was intending to ask Jorg Albertz,’ I stuttered, amazed at how Findlay always seemed to know everything.
‘I know. That’s why you’re here now, Jorg is with us in this room.’
I took a look around the room and there was only Findlay, Souness and me and I was just about to ask another damn fool question when I noticed the painting above the fire. It was an old house sitting in the darkness, wreathed in fog and most importantly, it had one window illuminated and as I gazed at it, the light from the window went off. Then it came back on and all those feelings of horror from the last time I was put in the picture came flooding back, I felt dizzy, my gorge rising and just as I thought I was going to pass out I heard a voice say, ‘alright squire, how you doing?’ and there was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter standing before me, mist swirling around his feet and he wasn’t alone; behind him stood another man. I heard Findlay chortle behind me and Souness shifted in his chair. ‘Spiers,’ said Findlay. ‘We believe you’ve met Mo Johnston.’

For Your Ears Only

Having hosed Barking Phil Tartaglia off Lorraine Davidson, the janitor spent the rest of the day mopping up the mess so it was up to me to write my own column this week and I’ve got to tell you, it was making me nervous. I hadn’t written a word in ages you see so I decided it was time to get back to basics which is to say, come up with some real down and dirty Celtic extremist appeasing, Rangers bating, nonsense. So I took a tour of all my usual haunts: Heraghtys, Brazen Head, Jintys to hang with the Republican Girls who teased me about my hair and finally, to the Chip with the Young Bhoys of BBC Scotland who at first hailed me but after a while, returned to their old ways of teasing me and forcing me to take a line off a young web editor’s cock. Suitably high on illicit drugs and murky Celtic Minded ideas and paranoia, I went home and after a brief pause to have a tantric wank over my Martin O’Neil scrapbook, I wrote my column. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Job done and feeling beyond satisfied with myself, I changed from my corduroys into another set of corduroys and toodled off back to the Chip hoping the Pacific Quay CSC would still be there. Of course they were, hooting and guffawing that their team nabbed another three points in a game anyone wearing green feared they were going to lose. Of course the referee made sure that didn’t happen and red carded an Inverness player for breathing close to Samaras, the Greek beauty going down as if stabbed in the neck just to make it easy on the ref as he knew he was under orders from Lawwell not to make it look too suspicious lest anyone begin asking difficult questions about his role at the SFA since Celtic annexed Hampden after being invited in by Stewart Regan.

I had a few appletinis and was enjoying the night as the BBC Bhoys began singing examples of the type of songs currently causing Celtic problems. I sat at the bar and listened as the IRA songs flowed until the barman could no longer allow it and he approached the ring leader and told him to cut it out as the songs were offensive. Now was my time, I thought so I interrupted and told the barman, ‘Listen here, my good man, it’s their social, cultural and political right to be allowed the freedom of speech to sing these songs you know.’
‘You should’ve thought about that before going after the Rangers fans then stinky,’ said the barman. ‘You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that? And anyway, this is a public bar and it’s here for the enjoyment of everyone, not just you and your rabble so cut it out.’
So we took it out onto Ashton Lane and continued our loud, tribal chants as I’d quite joined in by now and our noise attracted the denizens of Jintys who came outside and sang along and before you know it, Neil Lennon himself staggered out, moaning and stumbling, his gums beginning to rot now with blackened teeth falling out and rancid thick ooze dripping from his chin. Of course nobody noticed that Lennnon was now a zombie and he was hailed by all and hoist on shoulders and carried off onto Byres Road to continue the sing song there. I’d taken a step back and was marvelling as they celebrated their diversity by singing songs about murderers and ethnic cleansers when I felt something cold on my temple. I stopped, suddenly frozen with fear as my eyes darted to the side and followed the line of the long black silencer, along the barrel of the Walther to the strong and steady hand and arm stretching out from the shadows of a doorway.
‘Alright loser,’ said Graeme Souness, winking. ‘You’re coming with me,’ and he brought the gun down on my head and everything went black.

The Curse of the Republican Reptiles

Fascinating weekend as Celtic went on the warpath, releasing Barking Phil Tartaglia to their poodles at the Scottish Sunday Times. Barking got a bit carried away and took Lorraine Davidson over a table before being hosed off by the janitor who was miffed at having to take time off writing my Monday column. Davidson didn’t mind though, Roman Catholic or Labour Party, usually both, they can ride her any old way and she’ll always forgive them; it’s in her nature.

So with Tartaglia assaulting the inkies, Lawwell took to the pitch to sort out ESPN, striding the Inverness ground like a colossus, laying waste the trackside microphones to ensure the petulant singing of IRA songs by a majority of the Celtic fans wouldn’t be heard at least through the media. You’ll notice I say majority of Celtic fans. Of course we all know it’s a majority of them but you try putting that in print and surviving the weekend as Lawwell locks and loads and comes after you with a bazooka. So the entire Scottish press accepted the three line whip from Celtic Park and what started off as offensive singing from the Celtic support, became illicit singing from a minority of the Celtic support. As the days went on, even this wasn’t good enough for Lawwell as he frothed and foamed in the dungeons under Parkhead and before you know it, we’re reporting illicit singing from a minority of the Green Brigade. Yes, you read that right, a minority of the Green Brigade. As if anyone who is a member of that lunatic fringe has any common sense and wouldn’t be singing along with gusto to every sectarian song they can remember from those secret indoctrination lessons from rapey older men they have to endure before being allowed to become members. Lawwell was walking a tight rope though, as he was the one who encouraged the Green Brigade by giving them their own section at Parkhead and tacitly supported their every chirp about the IRA by turning a deaf ear and blind eye to their behaviour.

Then as if these events didn’t astonish enough, Lawwell wheeled out Neil Lennon to appeal to the Green Brigade. The problem here is that since his accidental shooting last week, Lennon’s been a zombie and has been seen staggering around Ashton Lane late at night, moaning and grabbing at people, black tar oozeing from his mouth. Nobody noticed any change in him though so Lawwell felt secure in unchaining him from the wall and having him groan to the press who reported everything he said with the aid of an interpreter supplied by Lawwell who kept an eye on proceedings while holding a cocked schmeiser. The Scottish press, compliant as ever, rolled over like puppy dogs and proclaimed Lennon a great peace maker and champion of progressive and intelligent thought.  One charming young journalist even went so far as to offer to blow him there and then but I was shouted down and told I was enough of a laughing stock. Meanwhile Tom English sat at the back of the room and scribbled something in his note pad. I leaned over and had a sneaky peak and noticed it was a note to himself to look up the date that Lennon had called the Rangers support and management bench ‘Orange bastards’ and to look up any footage of Lennon pumping his chest and accepting the plaudits from the Celtic support that ‘like me and you, he’s a provo too’. I didn’t like the look of this one bit and told English so but as usual, he stared at me, shook his head and walked off without saying a word. Then there were a few moments of excitement as Jonathan Sutherland of BBC Scotland was dragged from the press pack, nailed to a desk and had his feet blow torched. We got the message and everyone trotted off like sheep to keep digging to bury ever deeper, the stories of the Celtic fans and their majority support for a murderous Irish Republican terrorist organisation.

Also over the weekend, some games of football were played but no one noticed.

The Resurrection Man

Lawwell slept soundly in the drivers seat of his car while I lay in the back, exhausted from digging a grave and filling it in again. At least the hard work kept me warm but it was beginning to wear off now and as the sun glanced over the horizon and the birdsong began, I shivered and wished corduroy was just a little warmer and then pondered whether or not I should switch to tweed. I was just considering this when Lawwell woke up with a cry of ‘Mother!’ then shuffled in his seat, noticed me in the rear view mirror and let me know in no uncertain terms if I breathed a word of how he’d just woken up, it’d be me being buried next, ‘and not in a magical grave yard, got that?’

We got out of the car and stomped about for a bit as daylight spread across the sky and then we walked cautiously towards the cemetery. A low mist hung over the place but it didn’t seem as eerie as hit had in the darkness the night before. Then we reached Lennon’s grave and we both stood and gawped at what we saw there. The grave was disturbed, like someone had climbed out of it and muddy footprints headed off in the other direction and disappeared in the field behind the graveyard wall.

‘Well, it’s worked but he’s gone. I didn’t see or hear anything, did you?’ I asked Lawwell but he didn’t seem too perturbed.
‘Are you not bothered that Neil Lennon’s a zombie and is probably staggering towards Ashton Lane as we speak?’ I asked but Lawwell just shrugged.
‘Who’s going to notice any difference?’ he asked and turned and walked back towards the car.

Lennon Sematary

The clouds bruised a deep purple as darkness fell over the moors as I sat in a car with Peter Lawwell with the quite dead Neil Lennon in the boot. We were waiting for complete darkness before sneaking into an abandoned cemetery which Lawwell insisted would sort out the Lennon problem leaving no-one any the wiser.
‘Run this past me again, please?’ I asked, bewildered at the chain of events that brought us here and how quickly my life can a turn for the worse thanks to a newspaper column that although not written by me, ticked all the boxes and could just as well have been.

A piece about Celtic being investigated by UEFA for sectarian chanting? Bring up Rangers as often as possible although a similar piece about Rangers last season didn’t mention Celtic once – check. Equate the chanting with the word ‘political’ to make it sound less contentious and distance the charge from sectarianism – check. Mention ‘whataboutery’ – check. Frankly I’m amazed that I get away with the whataboutery argument – it’s a good way to silence any arguments whenever people question what I have to say about Celtic and their own problems whenever I’m getting all self-righteous about Rangers fans, I just say there’s no place here for whataboutery and you’ll notice, I never answer the question. Ever.

So when I first read my piece I didn’t fret too much as I thought the janitor had done well under the circumstances as the story was growing wings and going nationwide and if there’s one thing Lawwell can’t do, that is control the national press. Oh he might have all of the Scottish media by the balls, either through their own desire to help the cause as they’re as Celtic Minded as he is or they’re scared of him – one word from him and Lawwell would bring Kearney into it and next thing you know, your name is mud as someone somewhere accuses you of anti-Catholic bigotry, sometimes a Bishop but mostly just Kearney himself. They can’t do that with the nationals you see so I shouldn’t have been so sure of myself when I was summoned to Parkhead; I should’ve known Lawwell wanted someone’s hide and mine was as good as any.

So even although I think Neil Lennon is a remarkable person, I was glad the bullet missed me and hit him and I’ve got to be careful how I word this as no one wants the police turning up at their door, Paul McBride behind them in is wig and pink bow tie, pointing and shouting, ‘that’s him officers, he’s the man who mentioned killing Neil Lennon on the internet’.
Lawwell had stood behind me, shaking his head and not looking too worried. ‘We’ve been here before, Spiers so you can stop sobbing. Here, help me get him in a car; we’re going to the moors.’
And I thought at that, that we were going to roll him up in a rug and bury him but no, Lawwell had another plan.
‘It worked with Phil McGillivan you see,’ he told me as he drove us out of Glasgow. ‘When we found out we’d been tricked by Jorg Albertz into killing him outside his cave on the Ayrshire coast. At first we didn’t know what to do but Father Wormwood who you’ll recall helped us briefly last season, suggested a place where we could restore him; a magical place, an old cemetery where if you bury someone there in the light of the moon then they’ll be brought back to life. Well it worked for McGillivan although it seemed to have an adverse affect on his sanity – already clinging onto it by threads, his death and resurrection seemed to snap him entirely and his blogs haven’t been quite the same since. In saying that, he still somehow keeps the fans happy as they’re just as nutty as he is and that’s without being buried dead and then pulled out alive.’

And that’s how I fetched up in a cemetery with a shovel, burying Neil Lennon by the light of the moon while Lawwell leaned against a gravestone and puffed at a cigar, telling me how he’d recruited Neil Doncaster. ‘Sodomy is a wonderful thing, Spiers. Once you’ve done that to a person, things can never be quite the same again,’ and as he said that I dug deeper and more quickly and began to wonder if I’d ever get back to the west end from here.

The Sound of Pips Being Squeezed

Lawwell was sweating as he held the horse whip under the chin of the boy from the Herald. He’d administered such a thrashing that his body glistened and steamed in the heat of the dungeon underneath Celtic Park. Lawwell had been naked when he began, a habit picked up on the island but the boy from the Herald, and he was only a boy, the experienced old inkies refusing to take the job and sending out a cub reporter, well he was naked now, his clothes having been stripped from his back from the blows of the whip.

‘You understand now, don’t you boy?’ panted Lawwell, breathing like a race horse and the boy nodded, wincing in the process.
‘Now, we’re going to gift your something from our back burner; something we’ve been saving up for a rainy day, a Tory tweeting about the UVF and just to make sure you do the right thing, here’s a spokesman from Nil By Mouth to help you,’ and he nodded towards the man in the Republic of Ireland replica football shirt who was manacled to the wall, his face a mask of blood and snot.
‘Now be off with you and when I look at the Herald in the morning, I want to see this taking the place of any stories you had in mind that may have included the words Celtic, investigation and UEFA, got that?’

The two broken men were led away to do their work and Lawwell showered and climbed into his Wehrmacht combat uniform and motioned for me to join him upstairs in Parkhead proper. He seemed calm now as he sat down behind his great iron desk and he allowed me to sit in the soft chair in front of it, designed to force anyone sitting in it to look up to him. As I sat down it rasped like a fart and I shifted uncomfortably as I noticed Lawwell smirk – I’d heard of this chair, it farted every time anyone sat in it, a favourite joke of Lawwells, especially when he has the First Minister in.

‘Spiers,’ he began, looking me in the eye. ‘I didn’t get where I am today by allowing pip squeaks like you to write what they want about Celtic Football Club so I have something for you,’ and he reached into his desk drawer. Now I’ve been around Lawwell long enough to know when I’m being lulled into a sense of false security and realised that if he wasn’t luring me into a trap, he’d have had me on the floor and not his Salmond chair so I was up and already pounding towards the door by the time he’d pulled his Luger from the drawer and I was out the door just as he let off two rounds one of which stuck in the door, the other going through the thin wall and hitting a passer-by who fell to floor and jerked once before going still. I stopped, appalled at what had just happened – Lawwell had accidentally shot Neil Lennon!

The Sound of Bowels Collapsing

You’ve got to take your hat off to Peter Lawwell, he moves fast and decisively whenever thunder clouds rumble on the horizon of Celtic’s reputation. Take this weekend for example, someone from Strathclyde Police broke ranks and reported Celtic fans for offensive chanting at the Rennes games and before you could say horse-whip, Lawwell had swept over the Scottish media in a wave of blackmail, inducements and violence.

Of course I wasn’t going to report anything and neither would anyone else on the Times (a newspaper some wag suggested had a superfluous ‘e’ in the title) where they don’t wear poppies at this time of the year as there’s no room on their lapels for all the white feathers. The Herald? Don’t make me laugh, they were all down at Whitehill School with the Green Brigade complaining about the proposed new legislation threatening their God given right to sing songs about terrorist organisations before realising there were more Rangers fans there than there were of their own and scampering down the street like skelped dogs. The red top journos were all hanging from meat hooks in the bowels of Parkhead so they weren’t in a position to do anything and the Scotland on Sunday decided to put on a show of parity by reporting it but gone was the outrage and demands for something to be done (even suggestions in some cases as the Scottish football press donned their Celtic scarves and put ideas into the heads of UEFA) that accompanied similar pieces about Rangers and instead we had a thinly veiled accusation that there was nothing to the story but we better report in anyway lest anyone suspect anything, Celtic had no case to answer and we should all move onto the convenient anti-Rangers story which any old inky worth his salt would recognise as the real nothing piece, the smoke screen so to speak.

Another story which should have been doing the rounds but wasn’t thanks again to Lawwell’s iron fist, was Stewart Regan’s misjudged joke about the number 11 on Armistice Day. You can say many things about Lawwell but at least when he takes over the SFA, he looks after his own. For anyone of responsibility be drawn to a social media like Twitter in the first place indicates that they're not right for the job. I get away with it because since no-one reads the Times in Scotland anymore, if I didn’t use it then I wouldn’t be able to get the message out there. Then again Regan’s been compromised from day one considering how he was head-hunted by Celtic, appeased Celtic by throwing Dallas to the wolves and then invited Lawwell and Celtic to blitzkrieg into the SFA and annexe the place with Hampden now echoing to the sound of jackboots marching up and down the corridors.

His comments were hardly offensive, we've all said worse, I know I have but his 'joke' was inane, unfunny, uncalled for considering the sensitivity surrounding the day (hey, 9/11 - there's another opportunity for a joke, Regan old boy) and had the faint whiff of nudge nudge to his pal Lawwell.

All of this was going through my mind when I bowled up to work today to wink at the post boys and make sure they’d got my column for tomorrow which I’d just had passed by Lawwell but as I handed it over, the subby told me they already had my piece, it had been approved and was being printed as we spoke – I’d been fraped b’gawd! It turned out it was actually the janitor who’d heard I was down at Celtic Park and figured I’d be hanging up with the rest of ‘em and so wrote my column for me as he does when I’m off adventuring or being held captive somewhere so who can blame him? Not being important enough to warrant a cry of stop the presses, I loafed off home and bit my nails, wondering what I was going to be saying to get me into trouble this time.

The Sound of Tables Turning

Warning lights flashed and sirens sounded throughout the BBC Scotland headquarters at Pacific Quay giving me quite a start. I had broken in there in the middle of the night in an effort to locate the painting where once before I’d noticed a light going on and figured that now I needed to locate the mysterious Jorg Albertz, this was the place for me. Unfortunately for me, I chose a night when news began to break of UEFA investigating Celtic fans over discriminatory chanting hence the sirens summoning the Pacific Quay CSC from their beds in order to bury the news.

I was hiding under a table as the skeleton staff began the fire fight and at last one of them answered the Parkhead hotline which had been ringing off the desk in the centre of the room. It was Lawwell and I could hear his screams from under the table.
‘If there’s even one sniff of this story on the BBC news then not only will you never have a seat at Parkhead again, I’ll flay your fucking hides. Christ, the amount of work I’ve put in over the year to head off any poppy scandal and now this happens. Get that stupid looking cunt McLaughlin over here now; I don’t care what time it is!’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ quivered the poor part timer who’d answered the phone, I’m not even a Celtic fan, I’m not qualified for this…’ but before he could continue, security turned up, truncheoned him to the ground and dragged him off.
‘Daft prick,’ said his colleague. ‘I told him never to mention that. Although how he sneaked through the employment process without them finding out, I don’t know. I suppose anyone would think a guy with a name like Declan O’Flaherty would be one of us, eh?’ and he left the room giving me a chance to get out from under the table, nab the painting and flee the building in all the confusion. On the way out I passed the massed ranks of a panicked Young Bhoys of the BBC, still out their nuts, as they queued at the security doors to get in, shovels sticking out their backpacks in preparation for burying another Celtic bad news story.

Painting under my arm and job done, I felt rather smug with myself as I whistled across the bridge heading back to the west end and then my own mobile phone started to ring – was this Lawwell summoning me? No, it was Tom Devine. This was puzzling as Devine wasn’t known to be conscious around these hours, the buckets of port having taken their toll usually around 2am.

‘You’re back in, Spiers,’ grunted Devine.
‘Not that I’m not pleased to hear that,’ I replied snootily, ‘but what happened to the golden boy, Gerry Hassan?’
‘Poor Gerry. He bumped into someone at the bar shortly after you left. Spilled the man’s martini and got shot on the leg for his troubles.’
‘It was Souness, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course it was, excuse me Spiers. Not so fast you silly slut… That’s better. Now, Spiers, back to you.’
‘What was going on there?’ I asked, wondering about the interruption.
‘Oh I’ve got Joan McAlpine here – left a bit Joan, aaaaaah…’
‘Listen Tom, call me back later when you’re not being pleasured, there’s a good man,’ and I hung up on him. Things were looking up then. Now all I had to do was get into the office and ensure nothing of the UEFA investigation got into the Times and I could look forward to a quiet weekend off.

Of course there’s no such thing as a quiet weekend off when Peter Lawwell is on the war path.

The Adventure of the Black Fingernails

Tom Devine took a lengthy pull at his pint of port, burped then vomited a little on his shirt. ‘So Maurice Johnston is Spring Heeled Jack?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And he rescued you and Jorg Albertz from St. Mirin’s Cathedral?’
‘Yes.’
‘Slaughtering the Pacific Quay CSC in the process?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who it transpires are vampires?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Bishop Tartaglia thought they were angels?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they’re not, they’re vampires?’
‘Look, I see where you’re going with this but…’
‘No you don’t. So, Maurice Johnston killed them all?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you witnessed this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw it happen?’
‘Well no, Albertz told me to keep my eyes shut, but I heard it!’
‘I see. Albertz, infamous demon hunter, magician, conman…. He told you to close your eyes while ahem, Maurice Johnston laid waste the gathered hordes of the vampires of BBC Scotland?’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but I saw it, well I heard it – I did open my eyes at the end and saw Johnston floating, holding a golden sword and then the crickets swarmed through the place and everything disappeared and I woke up in my bed at home. Believe me Tom, I know it sounds ridiculous but is it any more preposterous than some of the other things we’ve witnessed the past few seasons? Any more ludicrous than underwater headquarters or mountain top lairs, pirates, werewolves, Peter Lawwell running the SFA?’
‘Excuse me Spiers…’ whispered Devine as he stood up and put away his cock, Colette Douglas Home appearing from under the table.
‘Ow was that then guvnor?’ she cackled and danced off to the other side of the pub to pull up her petticoats and flash her suspenders at some other poor chap.

‘Now, where were we?’ asked Devine, finishing his drink and holding up the goblet for the barman to see and replenish. I took a deep breath and let it all blurt out, ‘we were discussing my replacement! Now, just because no one reads me anymore doesn’t mean that I’m not getting the message out there – haven’t you heard of Twitter? Don’t you ever tune in to Radio Clyde?’
‘Twit what? Radio Clyde? Don’t be stupid. I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it, Spiers; you’re yesterday’s news. Even David Leggat’s getting bored exposing your inadequacies such is the amount of ammunition you’re giving him. No, it’s over, you’re just going to have to get used to it. Gerry here is on the up and up, never misses an opportunity to lay into the huns and he has a blog! Do you have a blog?’
‘Well I do actually but I don’t write it, at least I don’t recall writing it but it appears every now and then so someone’s writing it…’
‘More piffle. Hassan, make sure the barman gets my drink in and pay the slut for me, there’s a good boy.’

Gerry Hassan. He’d hardly been on my radar, hardly on anyone’s radar but now here he was, taking my place in the Organisation. He had been sitting with us, taking notes as I explained what happened in Paisley and I didn’t like him one bit. His face looked like a plastecine Mr Potato Head toy put together by a blind child and then hit on the back of the head with a frying pan, a pair of pretentious glasses stuck on the front so we could work out where his eyes should be. He smelled off, like he’d spent all day scratching his arse without washing his hands and his clothing sense was awful; shabby, threadbare, stained with spilled Guinness from Heraghtys. No, I wouldn’t allow it, this imposter couldn’t just appear and take my place!
‘He’s friends with Phil McGillivan you know,’ murmered Devine so that Hassan couldn’t hear.
‘Impossible! I saw him dead on the shore near Dunure. Last I saw of him, Mad Joe O’Rourke was gnawing at his shins.’
‘So who’s writing his blog and stirring up all sorts of trouble for Rangers then? A ghost?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him!’ I cried and having had enough, I got up and left, leaving Devine and Hassan laughing behind me and as I reached the door I could hear Devine retching and the splash of vomit on the floor. I didn’t turn back and stepped out into the fog, determined to find out how McGillivan had come back from the dead and whether or not Jorg Albertz had pulled the wool over my eyes with the Mo Johnston thing. As I wandered down Byres Road, mist swirling at my feet, I thought I could hear a giggle from a doorway, like Donald Findlay’s chuckle but when I looked round there was nothing there.

And Close Your Eyes with Holy Dread

L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon
Drive thru your suburbs…

I kept my eyes shut as Albertz had suggested and listened to the screams of dying Pacific Quay vampires to a soundtrack of some song I swear I’d heard somewhere before.

Into your blues, into your blues, yeah
Into your blue-blue blues
Into your blues, oh, yeah!

‘Albertz, what’s happening? Where’s the music coming from?’ I cried, eyes still closed.
‘What music?’ shouted Albertz which struck me as odd.

I see your hair is burnin' hills are filled with fire
If they say I never loved you
You know they are a liar…

‘Oh you should see him move, Spiers. It’s beautiful. Like watching Nureyev at his peak only with a fucking great sword that lops off wings and heads. Keep your eyes shut though,’ shouted Albertz above the shrieks as metal sliced through meat and scraped off bone.
‘See who move?’ I called as I felt something wet hit my face and stick. I pulled it off and felt it soft and hairy in my hand, like a scalp.
‘It’s a scalp,’ said Albertz. ‘Thomas McGuigan’s I believe. No more covering up Chris Commons scandals for him by the looks of it.’

Drivin' down your freeways
Midnight alleys roam cops in cars, the topless bars
Never saw a woman...
So alone, so alone
So alone, so alone…

‘Albertz, you’ve got to tell me what’s happening? Who’s killing who? Where’s that infernal music coming from and more importantly, am I in any danger?’
‘Don’t open your eyes, Spiers, I’m warning you. It’s for your own good. This guy’s temperamental at the best of times, no one knows exactly whose side he’s on at any given moment but right now it seems he’s on our side. Fuck! You should’ve seen that one! Mark Daly’s head on a spike! Craig Whyte would have loved to have seen that! Oh my goodness, was that an elephant?’
‘Who? What guy? Elephants?’ I was becoming impatient now.
‘Well you lot call him Spring Heeled Jack for some reason, dunno where you got that one unless you thought the guy with the crickets was Jack Irvine?’
‘Well who else could it be?’ I asked as blood sprayed my face and the carnage continued with inhuman shrieks and the sound of talons tearing flesh and bared teeth being smashed by something blunt.

Motel money murder madness
Let's change the mood from glad to sadness…

And that was when I decided that I could keep my eyes shut no more. What with the sound of slaughter all around me, body parts and gore slapping off my face, noisy wings flapping above only to fall screeching to the ground and all the while, Albertz watched and gave an awe struck running commentary which made it sound like Spring Heeled Jack or whoever he was, was winning some glorious battle with the vampires of Pacific Quay CSC. So I opened my eyes and looked up.

He was beautiful. He seemed to hang in the air as if suspended by invisible wires and he held a sword in one hand and a spear in the other; now this was the vision of an angel. Albertz was right, his every move was like a dancer, carefully choreographed with light leaps and dazzling turns and as smooth as if he’d spent a life in zero gravity. In fact, his movement was like slow motion in real life as the BBC vampires lunged at him, clumsy and vulgar in their advances only for him to pirouette and lop off an arm or a wing or as in most cases, a head. His wondrously flowing blonde hair undulated in the air and his eyes burned golden with an intensity that could have made me weep with joy as I was taken back to those school days and remembered Coleridge, ‘Beware, beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair.’ No wonder Albertz didn’t want me to watch, he wanted this vision all to himself, the selfish bastard!

The slaughter was ending, the last of the vampires falling at the beautiful one’s feet. He turned and gazed at me and crickets came swarming out of the crypt, in the doors and through the windows. They swirled and rose through the air as one, raising up the dust of the bodies of the Pacific Quay CSC and as the dust cleared, I knew who he was. There was no call for a name such as Spring Heeled Jack; the Scottish media couldn’t have been more wrong there but what’s new in that? The music continued and I realised what had been staring me in the face all this time.

Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin'
Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin'
Got to keep on risin'
Mr. Mojo Risin', Mr. Mojo Risin'
Mojo Risin', gotta Mojo Risin'
Mr. Mojo Risin', gotta keep on risin'…

The Doors of Perception

I was tied to Jorg Albertz, both of us standing on the main alter of St. Mirin's Cathedral as Barking Phil Tartaglia raved about angels while all around him flew, not heavenly messengers but vampires.  Not any old vampires either but BBC Scotland vampires.  I recognised most of them, especially the leader, Chris McLaughlin who had manhandled us from the crypt and upstairs to be fed upon by the host.  They swooped in and out of the cloisters, leathery wings brushing against us as they disappeared into the shadows and out again, howling their blood lust at the thought of destroying another Rangers legend in Albertz - yes, this was BBC Scotland alright.

How had it come to this?  How had all those Senior Editorial Assistants or whatever self proclaimed titles they were giving themselves these days, gone from merely Celtic Minded bigots mischievously doing Lawwell's dirty work for him, to blood sucking vermin persuading Barking Phil that they were a force for good.  Or did Tartaglia know?  Was he like those senior executives at the BBC, disingenuously proclaiming these young turks' impartiality while knowing fine well they behave like a tax payer funded Celtic Supporters' Club?  It looked like I'd never find out as back to back with Albertz we were served up for supper.

Eventually the Pacific Quay vampires calmed down and settled in the blackness of the ceiling, hanging from beams and lurking among the cobwebs and shadows, the only evidence they were there being the occasional squeak from the dark.

Tartaglia approached us, his whip gone now, replaced by a red hood which he pulled over his head.

'Not another bloody Inquisition,' sighed Albertz.  'Tell you what, squire.  How about you allow me one last fag.  I'm sure Spiers here would like one too but not the kind I'm talking about, know what I mean?'

'Silence!' spat Tartaglia and made the sign of the cross which brought hissing above.  'Lord accept unto thy bosom these two unworthy sinners...'

As he continued, imploring God to forget all our little indiscretions and let us in anyway which I thought awfully magnanimous of him, Albertz turned to me and asked, 'Think you're going upstairs then?'

'Absolutely, why wouldn't I?' I stuttered.

'No reason.'

'What about you, surely with all your antics you'll be going straight to hell?'

'Not a chance of it, I'll be in heaven an hour before the Devil knows I'm dead.  Don't worry about me.  Anyway, it's not our time, Spiers.  I suggest you close your eyes and keep your mouth shut...'
'Eh?' I spluttered, not comprehending.
'In about five, four, three, two, one...'

And then there came a sound, faintly musical, like an off key, feedback heavy version of...  of the National Anthem!  The reaction from the BBC Scotland vampires was instant: they couldn't stand it and fell screaming from the ceilings, holding their ears, collapsing in heaps writhing on the floor and among the pews, retching in agony.  Then the noise ended and a beat began - someone was playing us more music, this was extraordinary.  I vaguely recognised the song and as the first line rang out through the cathedral, the vampires rolling in pain, Tartaglia with his hood off looking around in panic, Albertz grinning:

Well, I just got into town about an hour ago
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow.
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows.
Are you a lucky little lady in The City of Light
Or just another lost angel...City of Night...

And then all the lights went out and the screaming really started.

Stained by Blood from Angels' Wings

Albertz was easily found, lying at the bottom of the staircase, the only thing in this secret chamber. He was tied up and had tape wrapped around his head, covering his eyes and mouth which made for a disturbing sight but then again, I’ve seen worse at some of Paul McBride’s parties. I ran to him and putting my torch on the ground, I heaved at his bonds but they were too tight. I had a knife in my pocket so I searched for that but could hear that he was trying to speak so I peeled the edges of the tape until I had a hold of enough of it to begin to pull it from his head. His eyes appeared first, wide and angry, staring straight at me; then his mouth and as the tape came away, he gasped for air and spluttered, heaving great breaths and blowing grime from his nose until his chin was a mess of snot and saliva. I was just cutting through the rope when Albertz stopped breathing so heavily and sighed. I stopped moving and looked him straight in the eye but his gaze was now directed behind me which didn’t please me one little bit.
‘Is there someone behind me?’ I asked.
‘Uh huh,’ he nodded. I looked around and felt the stinging whip across my face of a lash. I collapsed back into the darkness and felt Albertz under me as I struggled to avoid more blows from the many tails of that awful instrument. My thrashing stopped as suddenly as it began and in the straining light of my torch which lay away to my side, I could see the robed figure of Barking Phil Tartaglia, out of breath and holding his whip.
‘Flagellation is for the pious. Are you worthy, Spiers?’
Before I could answer though, Albertz was up, his ropes falling from him, my cutting having been enough to allow him to wriggle free.
‘A honey trap is one thing, Tartaglia but it was your one chance,’ ranged Albertz. ‘You don’t have the first idea who you’re dealing with here.’
‘Oh but I do, Albertz – a practitioner of the black arts, a warlock, a conman, a magus. You are all of these things but one thing you cannot do is defeat the angels and we have angels on our side,’ laughed Tartaglia, raising his arms and as he did, there was a fluttering of wings and something flew down from the church above, into our chamber and moved with such speed that we couldn’t see it but could feel the wind from its wings as it passed in between us, over us and beneath us. Then it settled on the bottom step, its wings folding shut behind its shoulders and as it looked at us with those awful eyes, mis-shapen head and two front teeth sticking out like little flint knives, Albertz whispered, ‘Noseratu,’ but he was wrong.
‘It’s Chris McLaughin,’ I said.
Albertz laughed and Tartaglia turned towards him, face blazing with anger but Albertz kept laughing which I found unsettling considering Barking Phil was wielding a whip and had a creepy looking McLaughlin crouching behind him hissing.
‘Oh Phil. Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here but that’s no angel,’ taunted Albertz. ‘That’s a fucking vampire mate.’

Gaze Not Into the Abyss

St. Mirin’s Cathedral, Paisley, fifteen minutes until midnight. I’d been hiding in the grounds all night, keeping an eye on the doors, counting them in and counting them out. When the last wee man coughed and dropped his key before bending over to pick it up again, lock the doors and leave, I gave it another hour before risking leaving my position and picking the lock. It had been as cold as a whale’s arse in the grounds so my fingers were quite frozen and it took me all of my skills picked up from Jack McConnell to break in. It wasn’t much warmer inside but it was darker so I pulled the torch from my corduroy action trousers and shone it around but there was nothing peculiar to be seen. I walked slowly down the nave, sweeping the torch all around, sometimes catching the face of some saint or other, peering down at me disapprovingly. What type of person breaks into a church, they seemed to say so I took a deep breath and whispered, ‘the type of person who would sacrifice everything for the truth. Or at least to bury it.’

I was just approaching the main alter when I heard a voice from the cloisters.
‘Spiers. It’s me, Albertz. I’m bound and gagged just now and speaking to you from the ether, the synchronicity highway. It’s draining, even for me so you have to listen. I’m beneath you.’
‘So are most people,’ I replied smugly.
‘No, I’m underneath you. Look behind the alter, there’s a secret panel marked with cross keys – remove it and pull the lever, you’ll find me there.’

This was exciting, I truly began to feel like an investigative journalist rather than just someone who stole stuff from internet blogs and ponced them up with fancy words to make them suit a particular agenda. I located the cross keys panel and felt around it with cold fingers until with a click, it came away and there was a lever protruding towards me. I gasped, it was shaped like a cock.
‘Take it in your right hand and put your mouth around it,’ said Albertz from the shadows above me. In for a penny, I thought and took a hold of it and plunged down on the lever until it nudged the back of my throat.
‘Only kidding, chump,’ chuckled Albertz. ‘You only have to push it down to the floor.’

I blushed at having been caught out by such an obvious prank and heaved at the lever until it touched the alter floor and there was a grinding noise from behind me as the ground opened up and I was hit with the waft of a damp and rotten smell which took my breath away. Vowing to wash my armpits and change my shirt when I got home, I stepped cautiously into the abyss.

The Tyranny of the Hyper-Sensitive

The tape reels rolled slowly and Alex Salmond’s voice crept out of the speakers. ‘Of course we’ll still allow the people freedom of speech, so long as it’s the right kind of speech, blandly expressed, offending no one as decided by perfect arbiters of truth such as…’
‘Tom Devine? Peter Kearney? How about James McMillan?’
The second voice was Bishop Tartaglia – by the Gods, how did Souness and Donald Findlay obtain this? They had a recording of Salmond’s meeting with Barking Phil Tartaglia, one of the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland’s most feared bully boys. Findlay watched and smirked as my eyes opened wide in amazement at what I was hearing.
‘If you insist Bishop although I must warn that we have to tread carefully as your flock in the past few years has done immeasurable damage to social cohesion in Scotland, encouraging a poisonous culture of victimhood, grievance and entitlement…’ Then there was the sound of fast footsteps and the noise of a glass smashing and then whispering.
‘This is where we believe Tartaglia had Salmond pinned to his desk and was choking him with his own tie,’ said Findlay. ‘We don’t think he appreciated what Salmond was saying just there. This man is throttling the First Minister with impunity, Spiers. Do you not now realise how lucky you were that we pulled your fat out of the fire in Barcelona? If he can do that to Alex Salmond then what do you think he’d have done to a pissant like you?’
‘I’ll tell what I’d like to do,’ growled Souness, tugging at his moustache and eyeing me most malevolently.
‘We all know what you’d like to do to him Graeme but unfortunately as is ever the case, we need Spiers for our plans to work and he’ll be no use to us with his balls stuffed up his nostrils.’

The tape continued and we sat back and listened as Alex Salmond explained to Bishop Tartaglia how the new Justice Bill would be manipulated to make sure only one set of fans, the Rangers fans of course, would be on the receiving end of the most authoritarian legislation to come out of Holyrood yet.
‘So no changes then?’ asked Tartaglia.
‘No changes,’ said Salmond.
'And what about the poofters?'
'Oh I think you'll find there are those within the SNP just as prejudiced as you when it comes to the Dorothys.  Getting back to the football though, I can’t vouch for the behaviour of House, I’m afraid the Chief Constable is a loose cannon and has been rounding up fans of all football clubs for offensive behaviour and this is before we’ve even passed the bill. If you could see your way to having a word with him I’d really appreciate it.’
‘Of course you would, First Minister. Now kiss my ring and I’ll see myself out.’
‘What’s that on your shoulder Bishop? Why it’s a cricket! There, it’s off, no harm done.’
And there the tape ended.
‘Cricket?’ I asked Findlay who smiled and lit up his pipe.
'Right, so you wanted to know where to find Jorg Albertz?' he asked, puffing away.  'He's being held by the very man you've been hearing out of those speakers.  The Demon Hunter is a captive of Bishop Tartaglia.  And Spiers?  We want you to free him for us.'