What Keeps Lawwell Alive?

Wearing a wig and cocktail dress, I was in disguise at Peter Lawwell’s Hogmanay party, as staff. I was serving drinks and it gave me a terrific view of all the great and good of the Celtic Minded as they went about their business. Which is exactly what Donald Findlay wanted and why he had me infiltrate the function. It wasn’t hard, I wore a low cut top and wobbled my jugs so no one looked at my face except Steven Purcell who looked me straight in the eye briefly before turning, puzzled to find a loo. Alex Mosson leered over me for a bit but then I noticed he was only distracting my attention and had his hand in the till. Alan Thompson was brought in on a lead and a barrel organ struck up somewhere and he did a cute little dance before being rewarded with bananas and stuck in a cage. I also noticed Neil Lennon and Scott Brown staggering around, moaning and drooling; of course they’re zombies these days but no one noticed. Johan Mjallby was there, dressed badly and feeling out of his depth much like he does every Saturday; he didn’t last long though, after spotting the black drummer from the house band and following him down the corridor racially abusing him – he must’ve thought he was back in the Ibrox tunnel chasing Kyle Bartley and El Hadji Diouf. John Reid was back for the night and was over at the cocktail bar slurring on the shoulders of some young Parkhead secretary, ‘Come on, you know you want it…’ he slithered before collapsing into an ice bucket. I caught a glimpse of Kenny McAskill in a corner looking shifty until he was joined by Barking Phil Tartaglia who stood glowering at him until McAskill handed over a document of some kind – it all looked very odd indeed.

The problem was, I was seeing nothing that I hadn’t seen a hundred times before so Findlay was going to be very disappointed when I reported the same old rubbish, a bit like my old editor at the Times must have felt every time I handed in my weekly column. Ah, those were the days: working for the Times, mixing with the cream of Scottish football, a member of Lawwell’s inner sanctum, coffee at Hampden, tea at Parkhead and trebles all round with the BBC Scotland bhoys down at the Chip where we’d drink all evening until it was time to be ravished in the toilet by some coked up little squirt. Now all I have are memories; memories and a cracking set of tits. I served Joe Ledley with them in full view and he sniggered and pointed at them, ‘Look, a woman’s breasts, hee hee hee…’ and he sloped off.

The whole thing was becoming quite dull and I was considering leaving when the band struck up and everyone stood back expectantly as the lights went out and a spotlight hit the stage at the end of the hall. Peter Lawwell walked on, kicking his feet, wearing a white fur coat and hat and singing:

‘Now, let me see: those gentlemen who think they have a mission - to rid us of the seven deadly sins - should first sort out the basic food conditions.
Then start their preaching, there it all begins.
You mean this lot who make the wars and give us hell?
Should learn for once the way the world is run. However much they twist, whatever lies they tell - first they should feed us, then can have their fun.
For even honest men may act like sinners, unless they've had their customary dinners.
What keeps a man alive?’

This was astonishing, Lawwell was giving us a song and dance, the band oompah-ed away and he continued as the entire room stood, grins fixed, hoping not to attract his attention.

‘What keeps a man alive - the fact that people are being tortured, beaten, punished, killed, oppressed.
Man lives on other's pain, could be his brothers; for his own greed he will just keep us all repressed.
Remember if you wish to stay alive: just once, give something back and you'll survive,’
and as he sang this last line I saw him winking at the SFA referees in the corner.

Then to great cheers from the crowd, some dancing girls came on, dressed in traditional can-can dresses, kicking their height and exposing their bloomers – it was Jeanette Findlay, Joan McAlpine, Gillian Bowditch, Roseanna Cunningham and Stephen McGowan. They high kicked onto the stage and joined in:

‘You tell us girls our daily work is sinful.
You leave your wives and then to us you run.
You make us sweat and want us to be grateful.
First fill our stomachs, then come have your fun.
All hypocrites who talk of high morality - those institutions that create the law.
They take their pleasure putting us to shame - they'd better feed us, we are not to blame.
For even honest wives can act like sinners - unless they've had their customary dinners.
What keeps a man alive?’

And then Lawwell joined in again and urged everyone in the audience to join him and before I knew what was going on, the whole place was singing and dancing, the band skipping around the room, tubas blowing, harmonium whirling, Joan McAlpine pulling Lorraine Davidson onto the stage where the pair of them did a striptease, then the Young Bhoys of the BBC came running, sniffing out of the toilets and joined them naked in a dance and that's when the room descended into orgy and I decided it was time to leave. As I was tip-toeing out I heard a door open and from inside the room a voice rang out above the merriment.
‘I know it’s you, you know,’ it was Steven Purcell. ‘Happy new year Spiers! Happy new year every one of us!’