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.