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.