Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale

Although I'm an Elton man, there's a song by Paul Weller that makes me giggle, including as it does, the line, 'fuck those fuckers in their castles, they're all bastards too.'  You can imagine him venting when he wrote that.  Now imagine football fans singing it but change one word, 'castles' to 'chapels' and watch Strathclyde Police wade in and start arresting people for singing a song.  Changing one word in a song is the difference between going home after a game of football or spending the weekend in jail: a ridiculous state of affairs, don't you agree?  I certainly do but it wouldn't pay for me to voice this opinion in public as to do so is to guarantee a one way ticket to one of Lawwell's underground torture chambers; he has three now: Parkhead of course, Hampden since he annexed the SFA two years ago and now a new one under the Daily Record where he keeps Alan Rennie as a pet.

I was reminded of these underground chambers the night Donald Findlay led me to an enchanted tower where I counted 380 steps on the way up but on noticing he was abandoning me and running downstairs, I eventually got to around three thousand before giving up and wondering what fresh madness this was now.  I sat there sobbing for an age until the smell of cigarette smoke told me I wasn't alone and who had been standing there in the dark all that time as I cried like a girl?  Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter of course; if ever there's supernatural goings on then you can depend on the Hammer making an appearance and blowing smoke in your face.  Which he did before opening a door by my side - which I swear hadn't been there before - and leading me out and taking me home.  'You owe me now, Spiers' he said as we stepped over Brian McNally who was still living under the stoop outside my flat, and then he was gone and I was left alone listening to Paul Weller and wondering how we got to the point where Celtic fans preferred to stay at home monitoring the songs sung by Rangers fans than attend their own games.

Once I'd got over my spooky experience in the tower I sat down and penned a column for the print edition of the Herald which appeared on Saturday but nobody noticed.

Then I attended the weekly press conference at Celtic Park where Lawwell has us stand in a line with our trousers at our ankles while he thrashes us with his horsewhip just to remind us who's in charge of Scottish football.  It was while this was going on that I was surprised to notice David Longmuir standing forlornly in a corner watching, grimacing with every lash, blinking as the occasional spray of blood splashed onto his jacket.

'There you go Longmuir,' panted Lawwell, as we pulled our trousers back up.  'This is how I roll, so off you pop and remember what I told you, you can either live in a world of pain or join us and reap the rewards of being a member of the Cabal' and as he said it, Longmuir bowed his head, a beaten man, and walked slowly out of the room, avoiding the piss on the floor where Hugh MacDonald had wet himself.
'The rest of you,' shouted Lawwell at us.  'Can go take a flying fuck to yourselves and remember, I have eyes everywhere so no fannying around on this subject, okay?'

And so we shuffled out and on the way out of Parkhead who should come puffing up the corridor having been late for the whole thing but Keith Jackson.
'What did I miss?' he asked.
'Oh nothing,' I replied.  'Although I wouldn't go in there if I were you, he's naked again and is holding his horsewhip.'
'Great, thanks Spiers,' he said.  'I owe you one.'