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.