Welcome to Scotland

I spent the next few weeks taking my new Best Friend Forever around my usual haunts: the Brazen Head, Heraghtys, Jintys and introducing him to anyone who had a tale to tell that was damaging to Rangers. In Heraghtys there was Matt McGlone, supping on his Stella as if he’d spent his last pound on it, who told many a wild-eyed tale of how Rangers were the most evil institution on earth. Thomson would ask why then ask for proof but there was never a proper answer and certainly no proof.

Then we visited the Rangers Tax Case man in the Brazen Head. He sat in a dark corner as usual, with his hoody up and a balaclava covering his face. We heard the same old tales of Rangers villainy but again, no proof. I could sense Alex was tiring of hearing nothing but thinly veiled bigotry dressed up as fact and he was absent mindedly twiddling with his webbing when I suggested we go to Ashton Lane where the real action is.

We’d just come off the underground and were heading towards Jintys when the street lights blinked and went off plunging us into darkness. Alex, a fearless veteran of many war zones immediately began looking for a reason, perhaps a story while I was checking out escape routes. Just as I was eyeing up the way back to Byres Road three figures came out of the gloom; a hooded figure holding an enormous sword and two chain leads on the end of which were the shambling figures of Neil Lennon and Scott Brown – it was Lawwell with his pet zombies!

Lawwell held up his sword and pointed it towards Thomson’s face. ‘And who is this and why hasn’t he been brought to see me yet?’
‘Alex Thomson, roving reporter for Channel 4 News, Channel 4 News I say!’ said Thomson, offering his hand in greeting. Lawwell pushed away the hand with his blade and held it up at me this time, the end of it just touching my nose.
‘Channel 4 News, eh? Have him in my office at midnight, Spiers or it’s the worst for you, you hear?’ and with that he turned and pulled at the chains for Brown and Lennon to amble after him. An odd sight, you’ll agree but such is the behaviour of that pair these days that no one in Ashton Lane would notice any difference.

‘Who the hell was that extraordinary fellow?’ asked Thomson, goggle eyed at what he’d just seen. ‘And were those zombies on leads?’
‘That was the CEO of Celtic and yes, those were zombies. The manager and captain of Celtic to be precise. They’ve been drooling sociopaths for most of the season but Celtic keep them around for reasons that escape most of us.’
‘Incredible, just incredible,’ muttered Thomson. ‘Absolutely psychotic! What the fuck is happening in Scottish football and what on earth is that chewing my ankle?’
I looked down and there was Elaine C Smith, gnawing at his leg. She must have slipped her own chains but it wasn’t long before Tom Devine appeared and pulled her off, booting her arse and sending her howling home to her kennel.
‘Well met, Spiers! Eh? I thought we’d lost you for a while there,’ shouted Devine, burping and vomiting a little port onto his tunic. ‘Come, we must repair to an ale house and regale your new companion with tales of Protestant oppression of Catholics, first round’s on your friend, eh? Ha ha ha ha ha!’
And as he laughed, we headed for the Chip as Thomson looked around in bewilderment and worried for his sanity. And his reputation.

As Time Goes By

I was just beginning to enjoy myself again having hooked up with two old friends in the Polo Lounge, Hedy Lamarr and Googie Withers. They were all over me and I’d just said that I could really go for a couple of old fashioned girls like them and they’d giggled coquettishly and asked if I’d ever seen the Crying Game when all of a sudden there was a commotion at the door and a steward approached me.
‘Sorry Graham, there’s a weirdo at the door wanting to come in but we knocked him back and now he’s saying he’s a friend of yours. Do you want to come and see?’

I followed the steward to the entrance and there was Alex Thomson, holding up his ID and shouting, ‘I’m Alex Thomson of Channel 4 News, this ID gets me in anywhere – don’t you know who I am?’
‘It doesn’t get you into Glasgow’s premier gay night spot, mate so turn it down, eh?’ said another doorman, barring Thomson’s entry.
‘Gay night spot?’ asked Thomson.
‘No! No no no no no…’ I cried and strode through the melee of stewards and curious queens, took Thomson by the shoulder and led him away from the club and down Virginia Street.
‘Well it might be,’ I continued. ‘Not that I’ve noticed. I only go in there for the quality of the cock… tails! The quality of the cocktails. Plus I’m investigating the possibility that there might be gay footballers in Glasgow.'
‘And there’s an issue with gay footballers because?’ asked Thomson, frowning.
‘I don’t know, I only do what I’m told and since I was sacked from the Times I’ve had to take a wage where I can get it and Flourish pays good money to people ready to demonise the gay community. My goodness, they really hate the gays, that lot.’
‘What lot? Flourish, isn’t that the newspaper of the Catholic church in Glasgow?’
‘No! Oh dear, I’ve said too much already,’ I cried and waved down a handom cab and jumped in but Thomson followed me.
‘Is this a horse and carriage?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Yes, why?’
‘What have I got myself into? What kind of madness is this?’ he asked himself, clutching his press ID to his chest and looking fearful. ‘I just hope I don’t get dragged into it, I just hope I’m not assimilated into this way of life – it can happen you know, to a roving reporter for Channel 4 News, have I told you I work for Channel 4 News? Oh god, I just hope I don’t piss away my hard earned reputation on this job.’

He looked out of the window of the cab as the sound of horses hooves clattered down cobbled streets while in the distance we could hear the plaintive howling of what he thought was a deranged dog but I knew was the Traynor as it sensed something awful in the air. What could it be? Were Rangers not going to die after all? Would they drag themselves out of all their current woes and come back stronger than ever? Perhaps with the help of this gullible fool Thomson, I could ensure that doesn’t happen and earn myself a place back at Lawwell’s table and by extension, be allowed to work for a Scottish newspaper again in the sports department.

‘Tell you what Thomson,’ I exclaimed, jovially. ‘Let’s you and I be friends and I’ll give you an insight into what’s really going on in Scottish society and how it’s all Rangers’ fault. Then I’ll introduce you to some of my acquaintances who can provide you with some fascinating material for your reports. You know, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

Verisimilitude

He was wearing combat fatigues and an army helmet when I first met Alex Thomson but then there was nothing odd about that in Bennets on a Saturday night; over there is a butch fairy, there a fireman and standing beside me stroking my cheek was the ex-leader of Glasgow City Council dressed as a Celtic supporter.


He approached me out of the blue and pulled his press ID from the webbing on his chest. ‘Alex Thomson, roving reporter for Channel 4 News,’ was how he introduced himself, his ID held high, a badge of honour. Purcell looked him up and down and purred before leaving to go to the loo for a quick update.

‘Pleased to meet you but why would Channel 4 News follow me in here? I’m here on investigative duty only, I’m not gay, I promise,’ I stuttered but he waved away my entreaties and told me that he had no interest in my private life, ‘No, what matters is that you have the inside dope on Rangers and aren’t afraid to lay into them,’ he said.
‘Who is?’ I asked smugly. ‘With Rangers in administration all the slugs are crawling out from under the leaves to put the boot in with impunity. They wouldn’t have done this if Souness wasn’t in Lawwell’s dungeon, I’ll tell you that.’
‘What’s that about Lawwell’s dungeon? You mean Peter Lawwell, the CEO of Celtic? He has a dungeon?’
‘No! I’ve already said too much,’ and I excused myself and fled my favourite nightclub and ran round the corner to the Polo Lounge.

The Super Gay Adventures of Graham and Alex

‘The devil is in the detail,’ said the devil and he should know. Peter Lawwell had just given us a speech* that everyone else seemed to understand as they nodded sagely and glanced at each other knowingly while I stood and wondered what was going on having zoned out after the first sentence. So what was Lawwell hinting at, that he was the devil? That seemed to be it and yet as he stood there in his subterranean dungeon beneath Parkhead, there was no sign of any horns, no pointed tail and certainly no pitchfork although he was holding a horse whip which he was using to thrash Stewart Regan of the SFA just to remind him who’s boss you see?

Lawwell had finally spotted the cricket on the shoulder of his Wehrmacht dress jacket and had casually picked it off and bitten its head off to taste before popping the rest in and crunching away like it was so much popcorn. Souness and Findlay were obviously hoping the cricket was a harbinger of relief for them, that it heralded the arrival of the mysterious Mr Mojo Risin** – Maurice Johnston returned from exile to seek revenge on those who kept him from his own country for decades. Yes, it was the Celtic fans. Not that you’ll hear that from the media in Scotland as they are now almost completely taken over by journalists with heavy doses of the Celtic Syndrome and if they’re not then they’re too shit scared of Peter Lawwell and his sinister network of thugs to ever say anything detrimental to the image of Celtic and its fellow travellers. So Souness and Findlay were to be disappointed and they were also to be holed up in that dungeon, chained to racks for many weeks while outside, Celtic marched to an expected treble, trampling over a dying Rangers as they did.

Rangers were lying bleeding in the gutter you see; in administration, skint, two tax cases looming and the man who had many of us believe he was their saviour, Craig Whyte was hiding away in the playground of playboys, Monaco. Their football team wasn’t doing much better and during the quiet spell when I wasn’t writing my diary, they were losing to everyone including the Murray Park canteen second eleven.

The Rangers financial woes are none of my bisnae though, they’re for others to stalk and catalogue as there is no end of lunatic volunteers willing to risk their reputations and careers illegally passing around confidential government papers as it turns out the Celtic fans working in HMRC are just as mental as any other and would put their hatred of Rangers before putting food on the tables of their families any day of the week. So leak followed leak and next thing you know, a mysterious chap appears out of nowhere as the Tax Case Blogger and inadvertently saves Rangers’ bacon with a little accidental help from Chris Daly who I’d last seen running screaming through the jungle to get away from a naked Lawwell.*** Talking of Chris Daly, I should thank him the next time I see him although that’ll be a while since he’s now in hiding, fearing for his life after his special report on Craig Whyte didn’t destroy Rangers as he’d hoped it would and he now has a Green Brigade price on his head. That price is three pounds fifty and a bottle of buckfast but you know Celtic fans, they’d queue to do the job at half that price. Oh, and the reason I should thank Chris is that he recommended to someone he knew that he speak to me about reporting any old rubbish as long as it stuck the boot into Rangers and that’s how I met my new Best Friend Forever, Alex Thomson.


* http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/mysterious-stranger.html

** http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/and-close-your-eyes-with-holy-dread.html

*** http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/lord-of-lies.html