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?"