The Lawwell Who Would Be King

The cold of the frost on the wire bit into my fingers and sent such a shot of pain up my hand that I thought I'd caught it on the barbs.  I turned to Souness who was waiting to go over the fence next and he just stood there, magnificent in his nudity, shaking his head.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We'd fallen for an old trick when the whole of the Scottish footballing press had gathered at Lennoxtown on the promise of a huge story from Lawwell, something about Rangers and the tax case.  I must admit, having been bitten on the arse once before onthis topic, we should have been more cautious but you know us, the mere whiff of a story of Rangers in trouble and we were all there, slavering at the mouth, Celtic scarves in our satchels beside the laptops, eager for a bone from the plate of Lawwell.

He gathered us in an empty warehouse and insisted we get naked.  A huge smile on my face and wondering if this day could get any better, I promptly stripped and was just beginning to wonder where the Daily Record bhoys were when Lawwell's goons appeared with hoses and soaked us in freezing cold water.  It was at this point that there was a commotion in the corner and it turned out that Souness had been discovered in the rafters, spying on us.  He too was forced to remove his clothes at pistol point and was promptly hosed down along with the rest of us.  Then Lawwell came back and told us we had two options: wait till he returns or leave here naked and wet, risking the minus ten degrees outside.  Then he laughed, lashed Tom English with his horse whip and strode out the door.

The sound of weeping inside that warehouse was awful as Celtic Minded journalists from every newspaper in the land and quite a few from BBC Scotland bawled their eyes out and wondered why their beloved leader was treating them so harshly - hadn't they proven time and again to be on-message?  Hadn't they continually laid into Rangers while ignoring outrages by Celtic and their supporters?

'He's taking no chances,' growled Souness as he stood over me, his dong waving like a squirrel on steroids while I glanced down at mine and felt ashamed at the walnut hidden between my thighs.

'Taking no chances on what?' I asked, shaking with the cold. 'And aren't you freezing?'

'Of course I'm freezing, I'm just not shivering; shivering's for women.  And I'm surprised you didn't know that today is the day Lawwell's being crowned over at Hampden and he sure as hell isn't risking one of you morons mistaking yourselves for real journalists and exposing him.  No, that's down to me - I'm out of here, are you with me?'  And before I could say no, he'd grabbed me by the arm, had kicked in a door and we were off across the fields towards Glasgow.