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.