The Imaginary Diary of Graham Spiers

Police State Scotland Disclaimer: This diary is a farce, a parody, a satire, a comedy. It in no way consists of, contains or implies a threat or an incitement to carry out a violent act against one or more described individuals and there is no intention to cause fear or alarm to a reasonable person. Although of course as we all know, Celtic fans are not reasonable.

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

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!

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