The Roche Limit

Where have they gone, those heroes of this past season?  So many strange and fantastical characters that have orbited my glowing magnificence.

Alex Thomson

He lay unmoving as the midday sun burned his face and arms, in the distance he could hear the sound of men shouting and as he looked all around he could see a rifle here, a rusty sword there; all sitting amongst the dust, bleached and scorched by the searing heat of the Afghan sun.  From the building to his right, a man came walking towards him so he closed his eyes and played dead.  The man stopped and stood above him, his shadow covering his face; he paused for a moment, puzzled, studying him and then spoke, ‘Another gin and tonic, sir?’

Yes, if you’re going to cover a war then trust old Uncle Alex Thomson, there’s nowhere better to spend it than a boutique hotel, sunbathing drunk and tweeting so that the folks back home believe you’re right in amongst it.

He had spent the Afghan War holed up in Gandamack Lodge in Kabul; as safe as a General and half as pissed.  It was quite the place being a little piece of England in the heart of that ancient and savage city and it reminded him of a little place in the New Forest but with a dozen Kyberie badmashes armed to the teeth and guarding the gates.

Another servant appeared at his feet, holding a telegram.  He read it and smiled; his master was calling, he had to return to Scotland.

 John DC Gow

The Thing was hunched over a table in McMillans, a café/deli in Broomhill where I used to consort with Steven Purcell before his downfall.  I’d gone there to revisit those old days when the cherry blossom was in bloom and the air was filled with the sweet scent of youth but that was then and now, well now the country is filled with loathing; a curious result of a looming independence referendum and the downfall of Rangers.  The country’s never been so divided, so full of hate.  When I saw John Gow sitting in a booth, his trilby pulled down over his eyes and the collar of his mac pulled up to hide his features, I knew I just had to discuss this decay with him, perhaps I might hear his opinions on how we came to this juncture?  I knew he was a violent and unpredictable creature but deep down, I was sure he had a certain respect for me so I felt quite safe.

I pulled up a seat and asked if I could join him and he grunted but remained studying the book he had in his huge hands.  He was, he claimed, examining the universe through the principles of interconnectedness, a universe that functions on the mechanistic basis of cause and effect.  ‘Jungian synchronicity then?’ I said and he punched me and broke my nose.

As I sat there with my head back, holding a napkin to my face, he lambasted me.  ‘Your articles are flim-flam, custom made to please the Celtic Minded who you patronise, treating them like children who can only handle fairy stories that confirm their prejudices.  You’re destroying your soul, Spiers.  Can’t you see that?  Rangers as a new club, really?  If you can’t be honest to yourself as much as anyone else then you cannot be a good writer.  Oh you’ll make a living of course, easy to do that in Scotland but you’ll never produce anything worthwhile.  There’s something bad coming, Spiers.  Think about what I’ve said and remember it when the time comes to choose sides’ and then he closed his book, stood up, tweaked my nose and left.

 Souness

He sat hunched on his horse, glowering from under the brim of his hat as flecks of snow blew around him in the wind.  He watched as the ragged remains of his column of supporters made their way home from Berwick having been given a bloody nose in a classic flanking manoeuvre into which they’d blundered, blind and stupid.  Souness could barely conceal his disgust but his men were surprisingly upbeat and defiant.  ‘We’ll sing what we want, eh sir?’ shouted one and Souness reared his horse and galloped off without looking back.  I think it was at this point of the season that he decided that drastic measures had to be taken.

Tom Devine

Devine’s head was bowed as if in prayer as well it could have been because I had caught up with him in St. Peter’s Church in Partick but as I got closer I realised he had his face in a bucket of communion wine.  Hearing my footsteps he looked up and snorted his derision at me.  ‘Look at this place, Spiers; all I see is a testament to human endeavour.  Inspired by ignorance and superstition but endeavour nonetheless.  Religion has inspired man to soar to great heights but unfortunately, it has also dragged him down to great depths.’  His face was wet not only with the wine but tears too, ran down his cheeks.

‘If you knew what I knew, Spiers then you’d get the hell out.  Go, take thee to a nunnery!’ and he stood up and aimed a hefty kick at my balls but I was too nimble for him and was out of there in a twinkling, skipping up to Cottiers to order a drink, some lunch and ponder what on earth Devine was on about.

Donald Findlay

He was in a more jovial mood than usual, his pipe glowing, whiskers at peace, so when I asked Donald Findlay why we were having sundowners in such a remote place near the Ayrshire coast, he just smirked and watched the sky.  It didn’t take long for the spacecraft to appear; dots at first but they soon grew in size until they were almost upon us, silent and gleaming from the setting sun.  Rangers were bringing the army of robot Ally McCoists back home from the moon where Charles Green had hidden them from prying eyes.  This was obviously pleasing to Findlay who could see a crisis in the distance like no one else so I asked him what was up.  ‘Nothing for you to worry your head about, Spiers – it’ll be all over bar the shouting soon enough and these old things have a part to play, as do I.  Yes, I feel quite at peace with what must happen so I tell you what, how do you fancy that interview I’ve always promised you?’

I was taken aback at this, all these years we’d plotted and played together, usually on opposite sides, he’d always refused to grant me an official interview because he said he didn’t trust me, that I was as bad as those hacks at the Record.  Something was wrong and I got the feeling that he was somehow saying farewell so I switched on my dictaphone and started asking questions while in the background, the Ally McCoist robot army emptied out of their silver ships and marched towards Glasgow and as Findlay talked, I could see his light fading like the sun as it dipped into the sea on the horizon to which he always turned, drinks at the ready at the end of the day.