The Dildo and the Damage Done

I was stuck in the ventilation ducts above the Hampden boardroom when the reconstruction took place yesterday.  I wasn't there by choice in order to listen in on what went on, no I was there because I was one of many of the Scottish press rounded up by Lawwell and imprisoned in his Hampden dungeon until he could tell us what to report after the meeting ended and I wasn't too happy about it so I tried to escape but then my fat arse got stuck in the ventilation shaft and I had no choice but to keep quiet and listen.

 

First in was Lawwell who sat on a throne at the top of the table then everyone else filed in behind him, someone pushing a pram which contained Stewart Milne of Aberdeen.  They all gasped and as I strained to see through the grate, I could already tell it was because Lawwell had covered their seats in drawing pins and was daring anyone not to sit down.  Interestingly, it was Roy MacGregor and Stewart Gilmour who said they'd rather stand thank you and that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the meeting as nine SPL chairmen sat on tacks and nodded along to everything Lawwell said as he sat in his throne and stroked his pet pussy.  His pet pussy, Neil Doncaster hardly said a word the whole meeting.

 

For hours Lawwell pleaded and cajoled then ranted and raved but MacGregor and Gilmour stood fast in their refusal to agree to his proposals.  'It's a bloody farce and our fans don't like it,' said Gilmour.  'Nobody's fans like it, except yours for some reason, Lawwell - why's that, eh?  What possible damage could this structure cause to Rangers that could bring your lot onside on such a ridiculous system?'

Lawwell growled and lashed out at Leann Dempster of Motherwell who to her great credit, sat there and took it like a man.  It was telling that Lawwell didn't attack either Gilmour or MacGregor as they were standing up to him; no, I'm sure he'd be leaving that to his pawns in the Scottish press.  Then there was some more arguing, to and fro until it was quite obvious there was a stalemate but then Lawwell smiled and snapped his fingers and Doncaster was up and retrieving a satchel from the other side of the room.  He brought it to his master and settled down again under the table and Lawwell reached into the satchel and brought out something in each hand: in his left hand, a wedge of cash; in the right, a solid steel dildo.

'It's the cash or this, boys.  Take your pick' he said and the next thing you know there was bedlam as outraged, MacGregor and Gilmour tried to attack Lawwell only to be held back by all the other SPL chairmen while Doncaster ran into a corner and pissed himself.  There was then a great pushing and shoving of bodies and the table overturned from the weight, the cash and dildo scattered on the floor and slowly but surely, the mass of bodies, groaning and crying out, reached Lawwell who lost his balance and fell on the dildo.

His scream echoed down the ventilation shaft and nearly broke my ears.  Once he'd stopped screaming, there was a great silence broken only by Stewart Milne who started crying and threw his toys out of his pram.  MacGregor looked around at the scene and muttered something about not staying around this madness anymore and then he left the room, Gilmour behind him.

'Medic!  Get a medic!' roared Lawwell.  'And free those wimps in the dungeons and get them to pursue those two bastards!'

 

And that's how Scottish football was saved from its own stupidity.  You don't have to believe me if you don't want to but I was there, above the room and would be there still if Stephen McGowan hadn't heard my sobbing later on once everyone else had left and helped me out by pushing my arse until it came unstuck.  At least that's what he said he was doing...

Tales of the Underwood: the Call of the Huntsman

Dawn was beginning to break as our uneasy little alliance made its way across the fields to where our coach was waiting to take us to the nearest inn for coffee and eggs to heat us up.  At least that was the plan until suddenly we heard a great cheer and the sound of hounds coming over the hill.  ‘What the deuce?’ exclaimed Findlay, startled as we ducked into a culvert and strained our eyes to see what was happening in the distance.  A lone figure was at the bottom of the hill and running straight for us, about a mile behind him were the hounds and then riders hove into view and I recognised everyone of them – it was the Scottish press and they were scanning the horizon for their prey until their horn sounded and they let up a triumphant yell before galloping downhill, again towards us.

‘Bloody typical that they’re coming our way,’ cursed Devine.  ‘And who are they chasing?’

‘It’s the Scottish press, Devine; who do you think they’re bloody chasing, it’s Charles Green!’

‘If we hide inside the culvert then perhaps they’ll all pass us by and we’ll be fine,’ I ventured but Findlay shot me a look that froze my blood while Devine merely opened his hip flask and took a swig.

‘Sorry old boy,’ said Findlay.  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to sacrifice yourself to allow us to get Charles out of here.’

I goggled at him, ‘Me?  Sacrifice myself for Charles Green?  Why I’m usually the first one to lay the boot into him!’

‘Oh do keep up, Spiers’ sighed Findlay.  ‘Tom English is way ahead of you on that front, why I do think you’re yesterdays news when it comes to fighting Rangers and look, the lead horse just in front of Alan Rennie, it’s your old chum English himself.  Now off you pop and create a diversion’ and as he said that he pressed his dagger into my ribs and gave them a tickle just to remind me that I had no choice.

So that’s how I found myself haring across a field pursued by my fellow journalists who thought they were chasing Charles Green who was now sheltering in the culvert with Findlay and Devine.  It didn’t take them long to realise they’d lost Green and that it was me they were hounding but as I grabbed a breather beside a wall they pulled up I could hear a few them debate what to do.

‘Well I really wanted to get Green you know,’ said one.

‘You do realise if we don’t finish him off then Lawwell will finish us off?’ said another.

‘Well Green’s gone but that’s Spiers over there, I hate that bastard as much as Green so why don’t we at least have some sport with him?’ said one who I’m sure was Keith Jackson.

‘Yeah, let’s bring that arrogant fucker down a peg or two, view hulloo?’ and that was certainly Tom English – but I thought he was my friend!  And with that they sounded their hunting horn and galloped after me as I jumped the wall and to my horror landed in the White Cart river again.  The current caught me and dragged me downstream at a speed that was too much for the riders and their hounds who had pulled up at the wall and reckoning he drop into the river not worth the fuss – I had escaped!  But I’d also helped Charles Green evade their clutches and I’d surely pay for that and it was weighing heavily on my mind as I dried out my corduroys back at my west end flat but not heavily enough to stop me from looking out my Martin O’Neil scrapbook and lying back in bed to console myself.

Tales of the Underwood: An Unusual Alliance

'I'm not the beast you're after, Findlay' rasped Tom Devine with Findlay's stiletto blade pinking his throat.

'But you mention a beast, Tom - what do you mean by that?' asked Findlay, keeping a steady eye on him.

'Come on, you know what beast.  Isn't it one of yours?  Aren't you up here to control it?  Oh, I saw you, Spiers, floundering in the water like a tit, making enough din to wake the dead; and you did, didn't you?  You disturbed Stewart Regan and now he's awake you only have yourselves to blame if he comes looking to cause your club more trouble with spur of the moment, made up rules.'

Findlay looked at me and I shrugged, 'Don't look at me,' I said.

'Hold on,' said Devine.  'The beast isn't yours?  We thought the randomness of the abductions was a ruse to deflect from you taking Lennon from us as he uses this road often.'

'Take Lennon from you?' spluttered Findlay.  'Why would we do that?  We like Lennon exactly where he is, causing you as much bother with his hot head and foul mouth which, if it wasn't for the abject cowardice and outright bias of our press, would have him splattered all over the front and back pages instead of mischief making fairy tales about us!'

'Foul mouth?  You dare to mock us for foul mouths when you have Charles Garnett Green taking us back to the 70s with his ignorance?'

'Oh for fuck sake,' sighed Findlay, looking at me as if Charles Green were my fault.  'Back to the 70s?  You mean the decade your fans are taking us back to with their obscene chants in support of the IRA?'

'Gentlemen!  Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,' I interrupted.  'We'll be here all night.  Surely our job here is to work in tandem to defeat whatever beast seems to be threatening both your interests?'

Findlay glared at me, 'Work with Tom Devine?  Preposterous!'

Devine sneered, 'A partnership with Donald Findlay?  There's not enough port in the world to make me drunk enough to accept that.

And so they shook hands and together we wandered into the stygian blackness of the East Ren' countryside to look for the Roadkill Beast.

Tales of the Underwood: Darkness on the Edge of Town

Corduroy wasn’t made for crawling around the undergrowth in the middle of the night during one of the coldest springs in recent memory.  It was alright for Donald Findlay, he was head to toe in tweed with a great coat, scarf and deerstalker to keep out the chill but all I had was the usual rags, a pair of light loafers and a jaunty smile.  I was soaking wet too after we’d approached the fields along the banks of the White Cart Water.  We knew it was the White Cart Water because I fell in it twice.  We must have passed an old graveyard because we were disturbed at one point by the earth shaking and an arm reaching out of a grave and pulling a mouldering old body into the moonlight.  ‘Blimey, it’s Stewart Regan,’ whispered Findlay.  ‘I have the awful feeling Rangers might be in some kind of new trouble otherwise that decaying bastard would remain hidden in the ground.  Come on, we must get away from this place before Neil Doncaster makes an appearance too and we all die of stupidity – it’s like a virus you know.’

So we ran off towards the lights of Eaglesham which was a mistake because it wasn’t long before we strayed into the hunting ground of Suzie Maguire who pounced on us from a behind a tree and almost had me with her Black Fighting Dildo before Findlay shooed her off with his cane.  Eventually we fetched up in the bushes beside the Humbie Road and waited for the Roadkill Beast.

We waited hours, Findlay sucking on his unlit pipe and me shivering and whimpering beside a hedge until a hulking great shape came snuffling out of the darkness.  I recognised the smell immediately: stale port, but as my mind whirled and rushed with fear and realisation, the beast recognised my scent: ‘Old fish and pish!’ it cried out in the night and came at us with a bottle – it was Tom Devine!

Tales of the Underwood: Roadkill

It was just a normal Tuesday night for me as I dangled in chains from a basement wall, naked but for a Celtic scarf tied around my manhood.  Well, it was more of a ribbon…  Oh alright, it was a Celtic club tie.  The sweating figure of the man who had been lashing me approached out of the darkness – he was completely naked except for the gimp mask that obscured his face.

‘Had enough yet, cock-squeak?’ he asked, panting.

‘No sir!’ I shouted in reply.  ‘Please may I have some more?’ and so my punishment went on.  What was my punishment on this day?  Well that depended.  If, as I suspected, it was Peter Lawwell behind the mask then it was for being caught lying on record again but if it wasn’t Lawwell then it could only be one person, Peter Kearney and that could only mean that I was being punished for being a damned dirty Baptist.  At least I think that’s what he said to me that night I tried to cosy up to him in the Polo Lounge only to be rebuffed and left to the mercy of a lovely man in a red dress called Bob.

Then the man in the mask sidled up to me and with garlic breath, whispered in my face, ‘Are you seeing Chris Graham behind our backs, eh?  Are you stepping out with him?  Are you girlfriends?’  My face must have betrayed my confusion because he removed the face mask and spat in my face, ‘Then why do you keep letting him shag you up the arse on live radio and television?’

It was Lawwell and I knew what he was talking about.

I’d been on Radio Scotland on Saturday evening and got into another altercation with the man from the Rangers Standard and I foolishly allowed myself to be lured into an exchange about whether or not Rangers are a new club.  Obviously I don’t believe they are and frankly, the whole thing has become a bit of a bore and the domain of only the most rabidly confused and moronic of the Celtic support so of course I had to take that line.  Unfortunately for me, Graham confronted me on the issue, quoting the SFA, SPL, UEFA, FIFA, throwing in a couple of Law Lords for good measure.  I admit, I panicked and reached into the deepest recesses of my intellect, found nothing so scrabbled about in the bare cupboard of my imagination, brushing aside the dead skin and spiders and made do with saying flippantly that I’d spoken to a few financial experts who said otherwise.  As soon as I said it I knew I’d made a mistake and so I gulped and wheezed until pressed to name my sources and before I knew what I was saying I was shouting out Neil Patey’s name.  Across the studio, Tom English put his head in his hands and I could almost read his thoughts, his entire face seemed to be sighing, ‘why do I associate with this dolt?’

And that’s how I fetched up in a dungeon underneath Hampden Park being whipped by Peter Lawwell although these days, there’s nothing unusual about that, indeed there was a queue of Scottish sports journalists waiting outside for their turn when I left. 

‘Hi Tom, hi Keith, no trying to skip the queue there, Chris’ was all I said as I sauntered past, holding my buttocks, flinching and vowing revenge on Chris Graham.

Later as I took a coach home to Ayr to rejoin the country bumpkins and inbred retards who are my neighbours (well, I implied as much on Twitter so why not reiterate it here?), I stopped off at the King's Arms for some bread and cheese with a glass of ale and who was sitting in his usual corner but Donald Findlay, tugging his whiskers over the Times crossword in front of the fire.

‘Well met, Spiers!  Come and join me for a heat although I’m sure your arse doesn’t need it after Lawwell’s been at it with his horse whip, what?  Eh Spiers, what?  Ha ha ha ha ha!’

I grabbed a cushion, placed it on a chair and sat down, slowly.

‘Have you heard of the Roadkill Beast, Spiers?’ he asked immediately, leaning forward and sucking on his unlit pipe.  I shook my head, trying not to look too stupid but Findlay chuckled, ‘Ha, you look stupid, boy – here’s a tip: don’t try too hard to look as if you know absolutely everything, nobody likes an arrogant bastard, Spiers, do they?  Look, the Roadkill Beast is a clever monster, been operating around these parts lately, mainly on the Humbie Road; it captures foxes, rabbits and the like, holds ‘em by the side of the road in the hedges until a car approaches and then let’s the poor things go and they run for their lives, right in front of the car.  As soon as the driver steps out of the car to investigate the damage, the Roadkill Beast pounces and drags ‘em off.  Totally random people abducted but all on the same stretch of country road.  What do you make of that then, eh Spiers?  What do you make of that?’

‘It sounds like arrant nonsense,’ says I but he sighed and sat back in his chair.  I get that a lot, people sighing when I speak – they must be intimidated by my superior wit and knowledge.  I was thinking this when I realised that Findlay was speaking again and I hadn’t been paying attention.

‘…only to me, it’s the randomness of the abductions that are worrying, especially when it’s a road taken every day by the Rangers CEO.  You see, when you’ve seen enough of the wild and outlandish schemes of your friend from Hampden, you begin to suspect his hand in everything and most of the time?  Most of the time I’m bloody right.  Who’s to say Green isn’t next to fall victim to the beast only for him to be disregarded as just another random victim?’

‘Who’s to say it isn’t Rangers fans fed up with his constant sticking of his foot in his mouth?’ I ventured which did get a brief smile from Findlay.

‘Yes, quite.  But no, Charles is a buffoon but there’s no one at Rangers or in the support capable of such sinister machinations, no that’s the realm of Lawwell, no one else.’

It was my turn to guffaw now, ‘What about Souness you purblind fool?’ but before I could finish, Findlay was across the table, a dagger pulled from within his walking stick, holding it against my throat.

‘Be careful, Spiers.  You don’t want to make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’

‘I don’t like you when you’re happy,’ I whispered as I walked away after he let me go.  We settled our bill and left the inn and I was just about to set off for Bumpkinland when Findlay climbed in beside me, ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted, knocking his cane on the ceiling of the coach only for the driver to turn the horses and we set off towards the Humbie Road.