The Time Machine

Back before all this happened, if someone had said to me, 'Spiers old sport, don't go accusing Rangers of cheating on Twitter, it could come back to bite you on the arse if they win the tax case' then I'd probably have ignored them.  I know myself you see and I'm sure I'd have cocked a snook at anyone trying to give me advice; me, Graham Spiers who knows everything and wanders through life with a permanent sneer on his lips reserved for fellow members of the inky trade.  Inky trade, if only these days.  No, I'm stuck with an online column for the Herald - one of the few Celtic Minded newspapers who'd have me these days, it was either that or the Daily Mail or as we call it in the trade: Celtic's PR Dept. but they're chockablock with sports journalists who can't type properly because their Celtic scarves get in the way of the keyboard.

Anyway, I'd have ignored that advice and more fool me because this week Rangers won the tax case and all my tweets of the past year are not only biting me on the arse, they're queuing up to roger it senseless.  To make matters worse I denied I'd ever said it and live on television too so when through a series of curious events I fetched up sprawled on the floor of Peter Lawwell's time machine along with Souness, Devine and Lawwell himself, I figured that this wouldn't be so bad - perhaps I could go back in time and change things and if not, then at least I'd be hidden from the hoots and howls of hilarity at my faux pas on Scotland Tonight.

As Donald Findlay stepped into the room holding one of Lawwell's goons at pistol-point in front of him, we seemed to have our quorum and the blue room, already buzzing and twitching like me when faced with the grinning face of Chris Graham, began to vibrate and pound until a blinding light dazzled the room and we all fell unconscious.

'Oh well fucking done, Donald,' said Lawwell as we came to.  'You do realise by smashing your cane off that control panel you've sent us into the future, don't you?'

'Blast,' exclaimed Findlay.  'And here was me thinking I was turning on the Christmas lights' and he chortled and eyed up the room.

Time Machine Prologue: Lawwell

Razors pulled slowly over taught skin, peeling, slicing, eating...  Who is Peter Lawwell?  Who am I?  Razors.  I look at the enemy and I see razors slicing and I know what I must do.  Never feel pity, never hesitate, always attack.  Sometimes I see clearly and know what must be done but...  Boiling.  Boiling the back off a man while he hangs in chains.  Sorry.  I know that Rangers must be punished.  Punishment!  Razors and boiling, the rack!  Cage them and flay them, bind them in wire and brush a sword down the dimpled flesh.  Punished for what?  No pity, no questions.  You are Lawwell, I am Lawwell, you know what must be done.  Death from a thousand cuts: too fast.  Spiers - integral cog in the machine, laid low by Tax Case win, must reinvigorate for the coming storm.  Storm and blood, blood and skin, razors and boiling and a thousand cuts.  I am Lawwell, I have a plan.  He is Lawwell, he has a plan.  He's mad.  He shows no pity.  What goes on in the mind of Lawwell?  This.

 

The lawyer.  I smile at the thought but need him whole.  The progrom against Rangers must continue.  The death by a thousand cuts must maintain its course.  Cuts, razors.  He shows no pity, I show no pity.  I am Lawwell.  Orders barked down a phone at Regan and Doncaster.  Two bags of gore, useless waste of skin holding it all in.  Should take a razor to them but wait.  Need them.  Lawwell needs them, I need them.  I am Lawwell.  He's mad.  What goes on in his mind?  I am his mind, I am Lawwell.

 

I take Spiers to the time machine.  It's taken a fortune to build.  Luckily we had a fortune.  Stolen from Rangers.  Rangers.  Hate them.  Hate them more than I love my own team.  Mission to destroy taking too long.  Must take drastic action.  Must flay, must boil, must razor.  Who says I'm mad?  These eyes hide genius, half closed to stop my soul escaping.  Have no soul, just Lawwell.  I am Lawwell.  What goes on in my head?  Rangers.

Time Machine Prologue: Devine Retribution

My name is Tom Devine; author, professor, drunken boor and oppressor of Protestants.  Prods?  Can't stand the fellows.  Don't have much time for my own lot either as they're often terrible bores but one can't help the way one's brought up and I'm saddled with the indoctrination of my formative years.  That's why I drink.  Well, it's one of the reasons why I drink.  The other is to have as much bloody fun as possible usually ending up in some disgusting mischief with a trollop or two.  Or three.  Indeed, male or female, it matters not a jot to me.  For my name is Tom Devine and I'm untouchable.

I also freelance as a trouble shooter for Lawwell.  In the old days I wouldn't have wasted time looking down my nose at the gotch-eyed psycho but he's a powerful one these days so it does one well to stay in his good books.  The other night I received a call from him to retrieve our lawyer from a car wreck and while I was there, to try and also retrieve his cock from some tart's mouth.  Honestly, these amateurs!

I didn't get very far though, the call of the Drake was too great and before I knew what was happening, I was in a port drinking competition with some jakey at the bar.  Short fellow, shaved ginger hair and breath that stank like a dead fox, I was sure I recognised him from somewhere indeed he treated me like an old friend for a short while, until I'd drunk him under the table.  I left him there and blundered down Woodlands Road, trying to remember which street corner I'd find Janette Findlay these days when I noticed Spiers and Lawwell heading south and behind them was Souness!  Sobered by the sight of that homicidal maniac, I followed in pursuit.  The problem with old age is though, you can't silently creep up behind anyone anymore.  Just as I was approaching Souness while he spied on my comrades I tripped and stumbled into him and we both fell into that curious blue room with the floor and walls that sparked and buzzed with electricity.

Time Machine Prologue: The Return of Souness

I'm Souness.  I'm a soldier.  I've spent too long idling on half pay, waxing my moustache and drinking brandy with Donald Findlay as he tells me there's a time and place for everything.  A few weeks ago he let me go out to play.

 

The exhaust boomed and the back wheels spat gravel as I pointed the nose of my Bentley towards the country where an enemy drove slowly towards me.  The target was a low-level paper gatherer for the SFA.  Findlay thought otherwise and counted on maximum embarrassment for that Rangers hating cabal once it transpired their tea boy was really running things.  Once it transpired their tea boy was a Celtic fanatic employed by that club and seconded to the SFA to cause as much damage as possible to the Rangers.

 

The Bentley gunned down the M80, the wheel soft in my hands, Walther PPK cold and hard on my chest.  At last I saw the target but too late, another car rear ended it and sent it spinning.  I shut down the Bentley and got out.  I arrived at the paper-gatherer's vehicle and he was in agony.  His lap was wet.  His passenger had something in her mouth.  It belonged to the paper-gatherer.

'It'll take a while for that to grow back son, pity your secretary swallows, eh?' I mocked and got back in the Bentley.  It's engine hummed, coughed and I went home.

 

On the way I chanced upon Spiers and Lawwell.  I followed them to Hampden.  Silently stalked them into the corridors of power.  I watched them walk into a room with a curious blue glow emanating from it.  I stood rigid by the door and glanced in and knew immediately I had to roll into that room and join them.

Peter Pansy and the Rangers Tax Case Fairy

Yesterday was not a very good day for me. For a start, I woke up to find Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone squabbling in the corner of my bedroom but a few pills and they were soon gone. With a medicated bounce in my step, I skipped down Byres Road to see what bright new opportunities would be presented to me which I might utilise to further attack Rangers. Oh I know it’s been my favourite past time the last few years but this past year it’s become a bit of a national sport, so much so that even the SFA have become involved and seem to be leading the way.

I didn’t get very far though before I came across a crowd in the street just before Ashton Lane; it was practically every sports journalist in Scotland and they were gathered around the dying body of the Rangers Tax Case Fairy. 'What's going on?' I asked and Tom English turned to me with tears in his eyes, 'The Rangers Tax Case Fairy was poisoned by Captain Hook.'
'Captain Hook?'
'Sorry, the FTT. They've won, Rangers have won the First Tier Tax Tribunal!' and a great wail went up and some, the Daily Mail boys, burst into tears. Then I had an idea, what if all the boys and girls at home started to shout out, I believe in The Rangers Tax Case Fairy? If enough boys and girls believed then surely it'd bring the fairy back to life? So the Scottish press pack started shouting out, 'I believe in the Rangers Tax Case Fairy! I believe in the Rangers Tax Case Fairy!' over and over and something remarkable happened, the Rangers Tax Case Fairy raised its head and whispered, 'Rangers didn't win the tax case, it was just worded to make it seem that way; it's all an establishment/Masonic/Zionist plot...' until a huge foot stood on it and crushed it like a bug - it was the Traynor!
'Fucking losers,' he guffawed and walked away laughing.

I turned and sloped off towards Radio Clyde as I had to make an appearance there that I wasn’t looking forward to. All this bad news might bring out Jim Delahunt in a bad case of the werewolves – I know it’s not a full moon but once we told him in jest that Rangers were going to win the Tax Case and he turned in a twinkling and nearly had my arm off. It took the emergency team an hour to get him into a cage and back home till morning.

All the way there I kept getting phone calls on my mobile. Scotland Tonight wanted me in as did BBC Scotland on everything they were running on the subject. At one point I was due to speak on Radio Scotland but took fright and pretended the line was dead.  They fell for it too and continued without me, barely concealing the anger in their reporting of the Rangers victory.

Clyde passed in a daze, everyone there was in shock and suddenly wanted to talk about football instead of obsessing about Rangers and the Tax Case and I noticed nobody wanted to sit beside Delahunt.

Then came Scotland Tonight. The bastards sat me beside one of the Fantastic Four who had a shit eating grin on his face like he’d just been blown by Fatima Whitbread and I sat there squirming, wondering if someone had put oil on my seat because I couldn’t get comfortable at all and my arse kept sliding around as I gulped and wheezed until suddenly the grinning man had accused me of saying that Rangers had cheated. Before I knew what I was doing I was denying I’d ever said this and as soon as I’d spoken I realised I had accused them of being cheats all over Twitter for the past year. Fucking Twitter! I knew it’d be the ruin of me eventually. I endured another ten minutes in the hot lights and I swear, that bloody make up girl hadn’t put enough powder on me as sweat ran freely down my face, glistening and shining in the studio glare. Every moment was torture as I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible to delete all my cheat-tweets but I couldn’t, it was no use and from the giggles from the cameramen and runners in the gloom behind John McKay, I could tell I was trending and not in the good way I used to in the old days of Kelvin Way.

Eventually I made it home, stepping over the putrid puddle of gravy, miasma and filthy raincoat that is Brian McNally who has been camping out on my doorstep for the past year and some even thought had died of neglect during the summer but it turned out that was how he always smells.
‘What’s going on down there then Brian? Having as bad a day as me?’ I asked, speaking to him directly for the first time.
‘Mmmmf. Tweeting about English football, no time to talk,’ he oozed.
‘Crikey, there’s a first time for everything, eh?’

Inside, in the warm safety of my home I opened my laptop and tried to make sense of a world without Rangers being morally wrong and my mind began to wander. Before long I was back in the past, thinking about me as a schoolboy and the recurring memory I have of being chased by a gang of the local toughs. I ran as hard as I could through bushes and into a field and I remember the sight of the moon shining bright above me illuminating my panicked breath as it froze in the cold winter’s night. They eventually caught me and gave me a good beating, didn’t even stop when I was on the ground and begging for them not to kick me anymore. I kept thinking about this, couldn’t get my mind off it and wondered why until I felt the sharp bite of my conscience reminding me that this is exactly what we’d done to Rangers and I was as culpable as any of them, more than most some might say. I used to despise bullies but I’d become one, flushed with the thrill of being in a gang I’d turned into what was once anathema to me. My head dropped onto my keyboard and I wept at what I had become.
‘What are you crying about you fucking pansy?’ came a voice from behind me. It was Lawwell!
‘Don’t worry Spiers, we’ll destroy them yet and I have just the thing to do it. Do you fancy an adventure through time?’
‘Does it mean I’ll be part of a bullying witch hunt against Rangers?’ I asked, plaintively.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘Brilliant!' I cried, having learned nothing.  'Where do I sign up?’