The Land of Lost Content

The peace of my new surroundings was at odds with the danger from which I'd just escaped: wind chimes tinkled in a tree as a light breeze brew through the burial ground where I was lying; a blanket of strands of spider silk covered the entire field and glistened in the sun and beyond the moss damp fence posts, the hills shimmered in the distance a hazy blue.  I could almost lie here forever, with the beauty of  the countryside washing over me, removing the dirt and grime of the city and within that city, my trade.  It's a dirty game now - not even a game anymore, it's become too vicious and agenda strewn and yes, I'm right in the middle of the whole thing, sniping at Rangers and excusing Celtic; it's all I seem to do these days and if I had any soul left that hadn't been polluted by the vile machinations of Peter Lawwell then I would be damned ashamed of what I've become.

But I have no soul so fuck Rangers and hurrah for Celtic!  Especially the Green Brigade who got a policeman the chop this week for daring to arrest a few of them.  I received a summons from Lawwell just before it happened and I bounced up to Parkhead all eagerness and drooling at the mouth in anticipation of being able to help him again in some delicious scheme.  When I got there he was underground as usual, dressed in a Hugo Boss Schutstaffel suit and was sweating having spent the last half hour slicing into the back of Alan Rennie with his horse whip.

'Take a seat, Spiers' he said, eyeing me most maliciously and I found out straight away why - the seat had a nail sticking out of it, strategically placed to pierce my arse if I sat down.  One look at Rennie showed me what would happen if I didn't so I chose to have my arse pierced rather than take a whipping which to be fair, was just like a normal night after the Polo Lounge for me, I'm not sure about Rennie.

Easing into the chair with a smile on my face, I awaited Lawwell's orders and they weren't slow in coming.

'What are we going to do about the Green Brigade?  That is the question, Spiers - no, I don't want you tell me what you think, just listen: I've encouraged these dolts in private for as long as it was expedient but as usual, give 'em an inch, so I need to put them back in their box.  This is why I've been working with FOCUS - yes, you heard that right - to break them up, to make their experience at Celtic Park so miserable that they'll do us all a favour and disappear back to their holes.  And what did the little bastards do?  They leaked details of meetings with me that they vowed to keep secret and now some are wondering just how much I've encouraged their filth, their constant embarrassing the club and the malignant singing and chanting which puts off what few normal punters we have left.  The middle classes are abandoning us, Spiers and we have to get them back; we need to be the first choice of the right-on, middle class, west end dinner party elite, it's how we infiltrated BBC Scotland after all but these oafs are endangering everything we've worked towards and you need to help me fix it.'

'Of course,' I chirped.  'Just tell me what to do.'

'You write a puff piece on them, make them sound all nice and cuddly - praise them to the heavens and make them sound like a football supporters group so people might believe that they're not a radical, Irish Republicanism obsessed bunch of spotty oiks run by rapey old men.'

So I did.  The sound of people laughing at me could be heard from Ayr and for the first time in a while, fellow journalists hooted at me from across the street.  Even Tom English stopped blowing me kisses on Twitter so I packed my bags at my first chance to come into the city to argue my case and damn them all for being just as cowardly as I am when in the company of Lawwell - which one of 'em would have said no to him?  None, that's who!  Yet still they chortled and flicked my ears behind my back but I figured I'd have the last laugh because I was going to bring a few friends with me, I was bringing with me all the vengeance I could muster in the shape of the Green Brigade itself.

Unfortunately, Donald Findlay found out and met me as I approached Glasgow.  My coach had stopped at the Kings Arms in Fenwick and I was enjoying a small gin and tonic at the bar when I heard a harrumph from the corner and there he was, buried beneath a great cape and deerstalker, his cane twirling between his fingers, the usual mischievous smile on his face.

'That was some column, Spiers - oh yes.  We thought it was hilarious when Lawwell gave you the sex change that time but your column this week was even funnier.  Tom Devine steals your wife and you sail off after him like a cuckolded nancy boy?  Funny as billy-be-damned but not half as funny as this column!  Walter Smith replaces Neil Lennon with a robot and blames you?  Had us rolling in the aisles, Spiers - rolling in the aisles!  That was just a warm up act for your column though.  You're a regular comedian, you know that?  You're Krusty and Pagliacci rolled into one - you're Bozo!'

'Yes, alright Donald, I get it; you didn't like my column on the Green Brigade...'
'The Green Brigade?  Is that who it was about?  Well blow me, I thought you were talking about the Boys Brigade, such was your gushing' and then his mood darkened, his smile gone now.  'Listen here Spiers, the Green Brigade are not to be messed with - even Lawwell can't abide them but he's made his own bed - no, they're bad news and dangerous and we like you just as you are thankee: without a scratch on you so you can continue your buffoonish attacks on us.  Having a clown like you as the chief assaulter of Rangers is a damned sight better than having someone with any talent going after us.  By Christ, if we had enemies other than you, lisping Chris Daly and the bone-brained squarehead Alex Thomson then we'd be in real trouble' and at the mention of these names, his smile reappeared.  'Now be off with you,' and he lowered his head, pulled up the Times crossword and sniffed.

When I got outside the Green Brigade were gone.  They'd been marching behind me all the way from Ayr, spoiling for a fight but now they were gone.  I found out later that all the while I'd been chatting with Findlay, they'd been lured into a trap just outside the village and it was there I found them: defeated and buried, literally buried. 

 

There's a burial ground sits on a small hill just outside Fenwick, it's the most peaceful place; a light breeze blows through wind chimes there and a blanket of silk covers it, glistening in the light while those blue remembered hills glittered, bathed in sunshine in the distance.  I thought I heard a laugh on the wind and turned and I swear I thought I saw Souness in the distance, Souness and the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos disappearing into the shimmering green and purple moors, shining plain.

Erebus and Terror

Although Tom Devine had reinforced the hulls and keels of his two yachts, the Saint Bernard and the Voice of Reason, faced with the kind of pack ice that we encountered on our ill-fated journey to King William Island, it was only a matter of time before our vessels collapsed from the pressure of a million tons of ice bearing down on them.  Stuart Regan and Neil Doncaster almost mutinied when Devine said that we should take to the ice but faced with being left alone on a splintering ship with Alex Thomson, they decided to follow us after all.  We made camp in the shadow of some pressure ridges and prayed that Lawwell would send out a rescue party, after all we did have Gerry McCulloch and Hugh Keevins with us and with them missing for too long, Radio Clyde Super Score Board might not reach the same levels of Rangers-bashing that it would with Gerry at the helm and Hugh squeaking in agreement with every Celtic-Minded lunatic who phoned up to talk about Rangers.

We were here in search of the Rangers side letters we'd been told by Lawwell we'd find in a cairn on the interior of King William Island, Lawwell having bugged Donald Findlay's office and being in possession of a recording of him mentioning this.  I pointed out that I could hear giggling when Lawwell played back the tape for us to hear but so desperate is he these days for any old rumours to be true, he believes everything no matter how ridiculous.  So we set off with Devine in what was obviously a Findlay ploy to get us out of the way for a few months but for what reason?  No one knew, especially Regan and Doncaster who said they were just happy to get out of Scotland for a while now that HMRC had the scent of Rangers again and as usual, was leaking like a sieve, and Lord Nimmo Smith was trying to figure out a way to appear independent while still punishing Rangers lest he fetch up in Lawwell's torture pits again.

Then a storm arrived and we were stuck in our tents for a week with the temperature outside a deadly minus fifty which could frost bite your nose off if you left it out more than a few minutes.  We found this out the hard way when Gerry McCulloch went outside for a piss and took so long about it that his cock fell off.  Later when we patched him up, Alex Thomson volunteered to go out into the storm and look for the penis.  'I'm going out to look for Gerry McCulloch's penis,' he said.  'I may be some time' and he stepped outside into the whirling maelstrom of snow and wind only to reappear five seconds later saying 'Fuck that for a game of soldiers, I'm not paid enough to get that close to danger' before snuggling into a corner and crying.

Later as we discussed what to do about Gerry, Tom Devine who had practically emptied a barrel of rum by himself, coughed and spoke up,  'I'm just surprised he had a penis to lose - I've always thought he had a little fanny.'

'No Tom,' said Keevins.  'You mistake what we told you; we said Gerry McCulloch is a little fanny, not has a little fanny.'

Three days later the storm abated and I ventured outside to see if I could get a signal on my iPhone so I could tweet a love letter to Tom English and as I wandered round in circles, my phone held in the air, I thought I heard a noise from behind me, near the pressure ridge.  Straining to see anything through the snow and in the darkness of the constant Arctic night, I could make out a figure standing in the spindrift between two seracs.  It's Souness, I thought.  It's always Souness, he's here to rescue us as he always does.  But the figure wasn't Souness, too short.  I could see that now as it stumbled towards me, clumsy in the many layers of woollens and inner and outer slops designed to keep out the cold but which never succeeded.

'Help me,' said the man as he collapsed into my arms.  'I've been hiding out here for months and have run out of food and lost my tent in the storm last night.  I'm in grave danger and so are you if we don't get out of sight and into your tent.'

'Why, who are you?' I asked.

'I'm the Rangers Tax Case Blogger' he said, then he fainted.

Later, inside the tent, we sat and stared at our new and unexpected guest while Devine huffed in the corner and complained about our rum rations not including any new arrivals.

'You do realise this man's presence puts us all in danger?' said a stern faced Keevins.

'Danger?' squealed Thomson, pulling out his laptop and trying to book into a hotel far enough away but close enough to claim he was in amongst the action.

'Why would we be in danger around the Rangers Tax Case Blogger?' asked Devine.

'Because everyone's after him!'  I almost cried.  'Rangers want him because his blog helped scare off investors, Celtic want his hide because he made them believe Rangers were guilty and they lost hundreds of fans over the side of the Erskine Bridge when it didn't pan out that way and I hear the police have a cosy cell waiting for him if he ever shows his face in Glasgow again.  Do we really want to giving succour to a man like this who could endanger our entire mission?'

'I hate to break it to you, Spiers' spoke up the Blogger.  'But I am your mission.  Findlay fooled you all into thinking the Rangers side letters were here but they're not, they're not anywhere - the damn things don't exist, I should know as I've been looking for 'em for three years.  No, Findlay just wanted you to blunder into my path knowing that with you idiots around something stupid was bound to happen to me that would necessitate my return to Scotland.  Well here we are: my tent blown away in a storm, my supplies scavenged by a polar bear so that all I had to eat was a tiny morsel of meat I found outside your tent a few days back...'

'Oi!' screeched Gerry McCulloch.
'And now I'm stuck with you fucking morons waiting for rescue instead of being safe and sound in my tent, far from Lawwell and all his works' and as he said this, a great cracking noise erupted outside our tent and the ice shook.  We all screamed and untied the tent flaps, rolling out onto the snow just in time to see the ice break and a huge iron tentacle reach out of the sea.  Only one craft had the strength to break up ice this thick: Richard Gough's Nautilus.  Then we were all scooped up and dropped into a hatch which slammed shut behind us, leaving us in darkness in dank hole that stank of fish but maybe that was just me.

'Oh fucking well done,' groaned the Blogger.  'Months I've been hiding out here, no one able to reach me due to the ice and storms and five minutes in your company and I'm grabbed by a metal fucking space ship or whatever the fuck this thing is.'

'It's Richard Gough's submarine,' I corrected him.

'I don't care what it is,' he cried.  'It's fucking stupid and now I'm on my way back to Scotland, to jail, or worse!'

'Talking of fucking stupid,' piped up Tom Devine.  'I hear Scott Brown's the captain of Scotland now' and as we sat in silence, digesting this latest madness, the Nautilus dived beneath the ice and sailed home with us in its belly, heading towards an uncertain future.