Fair Blows the Wind of Kazakhstan

I was one of the lucky ones in that I wasn't in Kazakhstan to report on the game so it meant that I wasn't one of the poor saps who were tied to the back of a tractor and dragged through a potato field as Lawwell ranted and raved about just how the match was to be reported the next day.
"You will focus on the positives" he shouted at them as he stopped the tractor and jumped off to herd them into a pen.
"What postives?" asked some fool from the Express only for Lawwell to pull out a Luger and shoot off his left ear.
"Any other smart arse comments, eh?" he barked, aiming the gun around the gathered hacks and swinging a boot at Craig Swan just to keep up the pretence that the Record hasn't been annexed by Celtic. "And you," he shouted at Ronnie Esplin. "Any straying from my approved wording and I'll cut off that blue nose of yours and stick it in your Jap's eye!"

This was the fallout from the gubbing Celtic had received at the hands of a bunch of farmhands from Shakhter Karagandy who'd taken some time off slaughtering sheep and shagging wheat to run rings around the team that not so long ago Neil Lennon was saying could win the Champions League. I can't remember where that quote came from but he must have said it after his fourteenth tequila slammer in the Drake because only a moron or a drunk could come out with such piffle and Lennon's both so it's perfectly believable. So while Lennon dealt with the dressing room, Lawwell took care of the Scottish football press and made sure all the headlines would be defiant nonsense about the return leg and as I said, I escaped the torture thanks to the fact that I wasn't reporting on the game.

I did however, watch it on the tv screen in Findlays on Byres Road with my pals, wee Pat Nevin and Tom Devine. Nevin was up on my shoulders so he could see and Devine was in the corner with his arm around Janette Findlay, whispering lude things in her ear and burping port on her petticoats as he nuzzled her breasts. We'd been in the bookies an hour before to stick a cheeky fiver on five nil to Celtic, such was our confidence, and the place was heaving; I was just getting to the front of the queue when one of the Byres Road Irregulars paid to keep watch shouted, "Lunny's here!" and everyone scarpered out the rear fire exit. One young chap, a player with Partick Thistle stumbled, fell and was trampled as everyone fought to escape before Vincent Lunny looked in but when the front door opened and the SFA man entered, the poor soul was still on the floor.

"I hope there are no professional footballers in here gambling," said Lunny, looking around and then he noticed the boy from Thistle on the ground. "Rangers?" he asked.
"Partick," said the boy with a sob.
"Then you're of no interest to me lad, be off with you! Oh, hello there, Spiers, Pat, erm Professor Devine. Did you happen to notice any Rangers players in here putting bets on?"
"No," chirruped wee Pat. "But I saw a load of Celtic players, Morton, Airdrie, you name it."
"Hmmm..." pondered Lunny. "So no Rangers players then? I'll look elsewhere, good day to you gentlemen" and with that he was off, playing hide and seek up and down the west end with half the professional footballers in Glasgow.

"Interesting days, eh Spiers?" barked Devine later in the Chip as we drowned our sorrows while listening to both of Nevin's stories about sectarianism. "Yes, yes, Nevin," mocked Devine. "And you said your name was Patrick Kevin Francis Michael Aloysius Bronach Munchin Dick Nevin, everyone laughs, another urban legend portraying Rangers in a negative light is perpetuated, job done."
I looked at Tom and wondered about his state of mind because a year ago he'd have laughed along with that one, no matter how many times we've all heard it but he caught me looking and growled.
"What the deuce are you staring at you mouldering pimp?"
"Sorry Tom, nothing" I said, blushing and went back to my Fursternberg but I'd noted his behaviour the past while and was beginning to wonder if Tom was maybe changing his ways but then Allison Haggerty appeared and he took her to the toilets and bulled her so hard that I could hear her screams even after I'd left and was half way down Byres Road heading for home.

I was fair pooped by the time I got to my flat and was just about to head to bed with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook when I decided to check Twitter on my laptop, see what all my Celtic friends were saying about tonight's game but when I opened it, they were all talking about Charles Green, the Rangers EGM and some rot about safety certificates. I tweeted at them asking if they knew there was a Celtic game on today and one of them tweeted back immediately, "Eh? Shit, we didn't know! Still, did you know Ibrox is missing a Food Hygiene Certificate?"

The Andromeda Strain

`

 

So the Demon Hunter had returned.  This was bad news because Jorg Albertz only ever pops up when there are supernatural forces at work and the world of Scottish football has been refreshingly free of any demonic interference since Lawwell didn’t have to worry about competing with Rangers anymore.  Lawwell didn’t have to worry about competing with anyone anymore – the new SPFL being a one horse race and so he had no need for conjuring or haunting, relying instead on his trusty horse whip and a reputation for vicious punishment beatings and, well, vicious pre-emptive punishment beatings.

I had been standing in the second floor flat of the man I thought to be the latest of my rescuers but who turned out to be Albertz who had led us into a trap knowing that Keith Jackson wouldn’t be able to resist being a right old sneak and making off with some juicy gossip about Rangers stolen from someone for whom he should’ve had respect.  This wasn’t what concerned me though.  No, I was more worried about the gang of bearded youths who’d formed a silent circle around me and Keith and stood staring while some guy with a cock for a head tried to emasculate us with a samurai sword.  Who were these soundless men?
“They’re the Celtic Internet Mafia” said Jorg Albertz as if he’d read my mind.  “A loose coalition of young men who really should know better and live with their mums, they spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing about Rangers and causing mischief on Twitter and in blogs.  Their sole reason for existing being to damage Rangers.”

“Yes, yes,” I puffed.  “But what has all this to do with the supernatural and if they’re all nice middle class boys then who on earth was the nutter with the nob for a napper?”

“That’s the big question, Spiers.  What could possibly have infected these people, what could have possessed them to obsess about Rangers in this way?  Celtic fans to a man, they don’t seem to spend much time thinking of their own club when there’s lies and innuendo about Rangers to be spread.  I think there’s something bigger at play and that’s why I’m here.  Oh, and your friend with the sword?  Well he’s just hired muscle since these guys are internet geeks who’d faint if challenged to a fight, that’s why they’ve got the man with the German helmet for a head - for protection.  Although someone should tell him to check the blade isn’t loose in its handle next time – that was quite something, eh?  Even I didn’t see that coming.”  He laughed and so did I but only from nerves and then we heard the sound of a police car coming down the street.  I walked over to the bay windows and looked out and right enough, the boys in blue had arrived.  “I’d better go down,” I said and left Albertz alone in the flat.

 

I got a floor down when I met the police coming up and I told them about the sword man and Albertz and to follow me upstairs so we could explain together.  The door to the flat was still open and we entered, the police walking past me as I stood confused, gaping at the place.  The police walked around, checking rooms and cupboards until one of them eventually turned to me and said, “So where’s this Albertz fella then, and where’s the laptop?  This place is empty.”

Later, as I sat in Cottiers nursing a pint I went over in my head the embarrassment of explaining to the police that I had definitely witnessed a man murdered in the street by someone with a dick for a head and then had a conversation with an ex-Rangers player turned exorcist about a mass possession of nice young men which caused them to be all lairy on the internet.  The cops had been very angry and gave me a ten minute telling off about wasting police time, saying they had Common Purpose homework they could be catching up on instead of listening to my wild imaginings.  My mortification was such that I still had a beamer that lit up the pub, even an hour later and it was around this time that Tom Devine blundered in with his latest doxy who I didn’t recognise due to her having her hair stuck to her face.  “Hollo Spiers, well met” said Devine, squeezing his slattern’s arse.  “This is...  Um, truth be told I’ve rather forgotten who she is but she’s coming with me for a tumble, fancy joining us?”

“Sorry Tom, I’ve got things on my mind” I declined.

“You don’t have a fucking option, squirt.  I need someone to take us into the countryside, whatshername here fancies one up a country lane.  At least I think that’s what she said.  You’re driving.”

And that’s how I fetched up sitting in the front of Tom Devine’s old Jag while he lay in the backseat sucking down port and wine while some pribbling clotpole rode him horse artillery style, grinding away atop that swollen belly which groaned and gurgled in protest until the hag was nearing climax and ripped her shirt open to reveal a couple of prize bouncers which Devine gazed at in gratitude and was just reaching out to grab a handful when he vomited all over them.

“What a day, eh Spiers?” roared Devine later having cleaned up.  “Such a pretty little piece of baggage, what?  Wonder what her name was...  Anyhows, what have you been up to? “

So I told him and he didn’t believe me.  “Honestly, Spiers.  That imagination of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

The Cerebus Syndrome

The past few days I’d spent with Keith Jackson were a real eye opener: five days of wine, women and cowboy hats as we loafed around the pubs and clubs of Byres Road, discussing how best to make mischief to add to the woes currently surrounding Rangers.  We sneaked around Ashton Lane, eavesdropping to pick up a scent here, find a lead there before lurking in Oran Mhor to meet some roughs Jackson knew would tell us some tall tales we could report as fact – yes, Keith is a journalist of the old school, the truth not mattering a damn to him and I admired him for it and was beginning to enjoy my walk on the wild side.

Until we were walking along Dumbarton Road in Partick one night and realised we were being followed by a gang of youths.  “Don’t look back,” said Jackson, pulling me by the sleeve and taking us on a detour up Gardner Street.  We were a third of the way along when we looked behind us and they were still there, tailing us, silent and menacing.  “Fuck it, Spiers, there’s no shame in running when you know someone’s after you, let’s go” shouted Keith and we took off along White Street but as soon as we did we wished we hadn’t because there at the end of it was another gang walking towards us, the same purposeful stride, the same evil intentions.  We stopped and stood helpless in the middle of the street and to my horror the two gangs reached us and formed a circle.  “What do you want?  I have money” I whimpered.

“They’re not interested in your money, Spiers” complained Jackson.  “They want blood, don’t you know who this lot are?”  But before I had time to answer, the circle parted at one side and a man walked through the gap towards us carrying a Samurai sword.  I recognised him immediately, he was bald with a bright red scar running down the middle of his crown making him look like he had a huge cock for a head – it was our man from the pub brawl the other night in the Gallowgate!

The circle closed behind him and without a word of explanation he approached us and lifted the sword quickly behind his head with both hands and then brought it down on us as Keith and I held each other for dear life and shrieked.  Nothing happened.  I looked at Keith and he at me and we were both still intact.  We looked at dick-head and he was staring puzzled at the sword handle in his hands which no longer had a blade then everyone in the circle started to disperse and disappear around corners and up closes.  We soon realised why.  Lying behind our bald foe was one of his own gang, the blade sticking out of his eye, blood pooling behind his head – the blade had come flying out of the handle when baldy had gone to bring it down on us and the unlucky chump behind him had taken the full force of it in the face.  Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself laughing at our good fortune.

“You’ll no’ be laughin’ in a minute,” growled baldy and he reached into his pocket and produced a knife but before he could do anything with it a car screeched up, it’s door opening and someone shouted for us to get in which we did in a twinkling.

“Bloody hell, you don’t expect to see that kind of thing in the leafy west end, even this close to Partick,” said our rescuer as he drove us to his flat to call the police.  He took us in and made us some tea for our nerves which were shot and as he did I noticed that Jackson was noseying around the man’s laptop which lay open on a desk by the bay windows.  “What the hell are you doing, Keith?  This man just saved our skins and you’re intruding on his private communications?  That’s his email account for Pete’s sake!”

“I know, and lookey here, this guy must have something to do with Rangers – what luck!  Would you look at what it says here...” and he started taking pictures of the screen with his phone camera before closing the laptop and leaving.  “Oh don’t look so shocked, my Puritan friend.  You’re playing with the big boys now” and he slammed the door behind him.  Then our friendly hero came through from his kitchen carrying two mugs of tea and asked where Jackson had gone.  I told him he had to dash.  “Did he read what was on my laptop?” he asked.

“Erm, yes.  He did.  Look I’m awfully sorry especially after how you were our salvation out there in the street and...”

“It’s okay, it really is.  I wanted him to see it, Spiers.”

“What?”  I exclaimed, panicking, feeling that recognisable feeling of dread creeping up my spine as my stomach objected and the bile rose in my throat.

“It never fails, hypnosis.  Mind you, the subjects have to be bloody shallow and gullible,” and as he said it, I had a sudden realisation as his face appeared to blur and when the mists had cleared from my astonished eyes, standing before me was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.

Stab Everybody

A journalist's quest for truth, the desire to shine a light on the murky conspiracies and machinations that go on in the bristling underbelly of Scottish society, sometimes take him to places where he wouldn't normally be seen dead.  You know the type of place: so rough that the only way you'll get home is if you live downriver and your body just happens to float there.  That's where I fetched up one night recently as I searched for some information on the latest shenanigans going on inside Ibrox where there seems to have been an outbreak of galloping clown syndrome as Rangers pratfall from one calamity to another.  It came to a head when even wily old Walter Smith resigned his chairmanship and left the stadium with his Ally McCoist robot army to lick his wounds in Silence, his secret underwater headquarters.

But I digress.  I was sitting, hunched in a corner of some crazy pub in the Gallowgate which had a lovely horseshoe shaped bar and I wasn't too happy to be there considering at the head of the horseshoe bar, right by the doors, was a gang of hoodlums all listening intently to the loud boasts of their leader, a small man with a bald head.  They didn't care who heard their wild brags of drug deals and beatings and acted like they owned the place and since this was the Gallowgate, who knows, maybe they did?

I was looking around for my contact when I noticed that the fire exit beside me was blocked by a juke box and even if it wasn't, the damn thing was chained shut anyway.  I was just pondering what I'd do if a fire broke out when the doors at the other side of the bar swung open and in came what was obviously a rival gang.  I knew they were rivals from the way one of them brought a meat cleaver down on the bald head of the man at the bar.  Baldy collapsed in an explosion of blood as his attacker shouted "Stab everybody!" and the pub erupted in screams and a mad scramble for the exits.  Unfortunately for me, my exit had a bloody great juke box in front of it but one likely lad beside me had picked up a table and holding it in front of him, was charging for the main door as all around us people were being stabbed in the legs and arse.  You don't have to ask me twice and I was close in beside my table carrying friend and shrieking like a woman as we tumbled through the melee and collapsed through the doors and into the daylight.

"Come with me if you want to live," said my saviour, dusting himself down and reaching out a hand to help me up.  I blushed and let him pull me to my feet, feeling a slight frisson of excitement at the scent of stale beer and cheap soap.  "But who are you?" I asked, quivering.

"How quickly you forget, Spiers" snorted my rescuer.  "It's me, Keith Jackson.  Come on, Rangers are vulnerable again and we have mischief to make."