Modern Marketing and Obsession

I was absent mindedly gazing out of the window at the office of the Drum when I spotted Lawwell marching towards us and I was up and into a cupboard in a twinkling.  Everyone else there was wondering what on earth I was up to when the door exploded open and there was Lawwell, face purple with rage, a smoking bazooka at his hip.  "Haggerty," he roared.  "If I wanted some pox-arsed doxy fucking up my latest scheme then I'd call for one - I'm sure Neil Lennon has a few on speed dial.  So what the fucking fuck are you doing sticking your neb into BBC Scotland business?  You think I don't have this under control?  You think we don't know exactly where we stand with the BBC Trust?  Have I been sending all those threatening emails, texts and tweets to Jim Spence for no fucking reason at all?"
"But I thought..." trembled Angela.
"You thought fuck all," screamed Lawwell, putting down the bazooka and letting the riding crop drop from up his sleeve and catching it perfectly by the handle.  "Next time, leave it to the professionals, eh luv?" and he turned without hitting her and walked towards the door.
"Er, Mr Lawwell?" squeaked Angela.  He stopped and without turning, said, "Yes?"
"You left your bazooka."
"I know.  Spiers, be a good boy and pick up my bazooka once you've built up the courage to come out of the closet" and with that he stepped over the burning door and left.

"That's the last time I listen to Phil McBloody Gullivar's Travels or whatever the hell he's called," shrieked Angela, sporting a beamer that could light up the Clyde.

"Blimey, Ang', he really put you in your place there, didn't he?" I suggested, coming out of the closet at last.
"He puts everybody in their place, Spiers.  You know that."
"You're right, and all because you listened to crazy old Phil McGilligan's Island."
"Yeah, well I'll not do that again in a hurry," she seethed, pulling her golden hair back from her face and spitting on the floor.  Then her phone rang and she put it to her ear.  "Hello?  Phil?  What?  You have it on good authority that Rangers will be in administration again within twenty four hours?  Right, leave it with me!"  She turned to me, eyes alight with the journalistic zeal of an HND student from Cardonald College.  "Did you hear that, Spiers?  Rangers are..."
"Aye, right you are Angela, I'll see you in twenty four hours," and I picked up Lawwell's bazooka and left her farting with excitement and tapping something demented onto Twitter.

The Infinite Monkey Theorem

"Fucking Morton?" he screamed and lashed out at Tom English, catching him a cracker across the cheek with his horse whip.  I don't know why Lawwell was picking on me and Tom but there was no doubt that he was as we were the only ones called into his lair in the Daily Record building where he'd booted Allan Rennie out of his office for the day, told him to dry his eyes and then got down to business chasing me and Tom around in circles, slicing our arses with his whip as we jumped and yowled in protest.

 

Once he'd calmed down - well, when I say calmed down, I really mean ran out of puff - he beckoned for us to go to him, urging us close like a loving father and then when we'd placed our heads on his chest and he stroked our hair, softly hushing us with a reassuring hum, I thought his rage was over but he gathered one of our ears in each hand, crunched them in a tight grip and dragged us out of the office, swinging a kick at Rennie on his way past the desk under which he thought he was hiding unseen.

"Come with me, he growled.  "I want to show you a real Celtic Minded journalist.  I want to show you a man who although banned from Parkhead, still churns out the most unbelievable tripe on a daily basis; laying into Rangers and sycophantically praising me while burying bad news about Celtic.  I want to introduce you both to someone who puts you to shame, I want to introduce you to..."

"Hugh Keevins?" interrupted Tom.

"Don't fucking interrupt me, you cock-guzzling twat!" shouted Lawwell and twisted Tom's ear just a little harder so that Tom shrieked like a girl and started crying.  "But yes, it's Hugh Keevins" and he opened a door and we gazed in.

 

The room was enormous and inside were hundreds of monkeys chained to desks, clumsily clacking away at their typewriters, drawing paper from them and tossing it onto a conveyer belt which trundled into an office which sat in darkness at the far end.  "What's this?" I asked.

"This, my whimpering friend, is Hugh Keevins," laughed Lawwell and booted us into the room which upset the monkeys and had them jumping up and down on their chairs, screeching, shitting in their hands and throwing it at us.  Just like the time I sat in with the normal fans at Parkhead then.

Occam's Razor

 

It wasn't much fun down at Pacific Quay this morning as they're all too busy propping up the doors with sandbags, blacking out the windows and sitting under their desks with their fingers in their ears singing, "Fuck you BBC Trust, you can suck my dick.  You can't get me BBC Trust because you're just old farts!"  Quite.  So I mooched down the pathway along the banks of the Clyde and who did I bump into but Paul Holleran and Angela Haggerty, "Hullo, you two," I said.  "Where you off to?"

"Hello Spiers," smiled Paul.  "I'm heading into the BBC to speak on behalf of Jim Spence and Haggerty here is going to sit in the reception cafe waiting till I'm finished for me to give her the scoop on everything that was said," replied Paul.

"So you're leaking what was discussed in a confidential meeting to a wee lassie with an HND who works for some creative community news outlet no one's ever heard of?  Smart thinking, I take it that it's bad news for the Huns?" I asked.

"We wouldn't be pursuing the issue otherwise." 

Continuing my stroll, I crossed the squinty bridge and passed the Daily Record building but upon seeing the entire workforce standing in the car park I knew that Lawwell was visiting and giving Allan Rennie his weekly lashes.  Now something here puzzles me: Lawwell annexed the Record long ago and we all know that Rennie would be laying into Rangers anyway without any interference from Celtic but what on earth is Andy Harries's motivation at the Sun?  It's not that long ago that he fetched up with egg all over his face with the Phil McGillivan episode, he's now up to his ears in shit again after devoting a front page to some bigoted ned who dressed his dog in a Celtic top and claimed it had been attacked by Rangers fans!  I know.  Even I, Graham Spiers: scourge of Rangers, can see right through this one.  So I loafed along to Queen Street to see if I could sniff out anything unusual and there in the street, was Brigadier Bill Leckie fencing off three Celtic fans who were going at him with axes and machetes.  "Alright there Bill?" I shouted from a safe distance.

"I'm fine Spiers, I'll be with you in a moment but hey, don't mention this to anyone, eh?  Can't have the good name of Celtic fans dragged through the dirt."

"No problem old chap," I reassured him and sneaked into his building and then wished I hadn't: the place was full of even more Celtic fans and they all had dogs with them, holding a candle lit vigil on behalf of Magic the dog who couldn't make it today as its owner was in jail for sectarian assault.  Andy Harries was in the corner of the room, his head in his hands.  "Facebook, Andy." I said, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder.  "Always check Facebook."

 

One bus ride later and I was at Hampden where I was scared off entering by the sight of Vincent Lunny dangling Ian Black by the ankles from a top floor window.  "Admit it," Lunny was screaming.  "Admit it you dog!"

"Admit what?" shrieked Black as he hung upside down.  "Admit that I gambled on football?"

"No, admit that you're a dirty Orange bastard!" spat Lunny giving him a shake which caused Black's iPhone to fall out of his jacket pocket and land at my feet.  Unfortunately it smashed so I couldn't take Keith Jackson's advice on matters like this and rummage through it.  I'll be here all day waiting for Lunny to be finished, I thought and so left for the west end where I fancied meeting Tom Devine and Pat Nevin for a drink in the Chip.

 

I wasn't disappointed, they were both sitting at the bar, Pat telling the barman one of his two stories as Tom sucked down a pint of port while texting some doxy.  "Hello fellows," I cried cheerfully, pullling up a stool.

"Oh, hello Spiers," said Nevin sullenly.

"What's up with your face?" I asked and was surprised as he parachuted from his stool onto the floor and flounced off in a huff.  "What's up with him?" I asked Tom Devine.

"Twitter, Spiers.  Twitter.  If you really want to smother Shaun Maloney in kisses then at least keep it off Twitter and spare wee Pat's feelings, what?" and at that his phone bleeped and he too got up.  "Got to go, Spiers.  Got a date.  Some big fannied haybag has just blagged a scoop on Rangers and wants to celebrate by putting me through the shinscraper."

"Haggerty?"

"How'd you guess?  Later Spiers!"

And that was my morning, uneventful in the main and very boring; it almost makes one long for another adventure and that was exactly what I was thinking as I walked down Byres Road when I heard the sound of hooves on tarmac and turning round expecting to see a zebra, was surprised to find a horse galloping towards me, Souness on its back.  He pulled up and winked at me, "Come on loser, jump aboard, we have work to do."  And that was how I once again ended up on the wrong side of Peter Lawwell, hiding in the basement of an old house amongst the bodies of poisoned travelling salesmen...  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

With Echoes of Abaton

“Charlotte Fakes are One Direction!” I gulped.  “It’s been One Direction all along!” and then suddenly everyone was gaping at me.

“Er, what on earth are you talking about Spiers?” asked Ogilvie.

“Aye, whit ye oan aboot?” trilled Haggerty.

“Yes,” sneered Lawwell, getting in on the act.  “What the fuck are you on about, cock munch?”

“Charlotte Fakes, it’s been One Direction all this time!” I protested, doubt rising in my mind and that familiar feeling of dread that I was wrong again creeping up my back and lingering around my neck which began to blush.

“That’s not One Direction you tool.  That’s a bunch of nobodies who should fucking know better” sighed Lawwell in disgust.

“Come on dear,” said Tom English who had climbed down from his cocoon and had put a reassuring arm around my shoulders.  “We’ll get you home and back on the tranquilisers or next thing you know you’ll be seeing the Osmonds again.”

 

And so we left, me and Tom on our own, leaving behind all the madness and confusion.  Charlotte Fakes wasn’t One Direction but for all they turned out to be, they might as well have been.  I don’t know what happened to them but I know that Lawwell doesn’t take too kindly to that kind of bother intruding on his private property - private property like Schonhausen, Celtic Park and Hampden.  Souness had unlocked the shutters and everyone followed us out the main door and down the gravel road towards the gates where the emergency services were waiting, the flashing lights from their vehicles lighting up the dawn.  We were all just approaching them when about twenty police in full riot gear came walking tentatively towards us.  Seeing this, Lawwell pushed his way to the front and said, “Hello boys, we’ve got this under control but you can take it from here, you know what to do,” and so they grabbed Campbell Ogilvie and gave him a right good kicking.

Under the Hood

 

I knew that as soon as the doors of the lift opened that we’d be faced with something awful and I wasn’t wrong because when they eventually slid apart we came face to face with Angela Haggerty.  “We thought  you were dead!” I exclaimed.  “Of course, we can see you in front of us, we can touch you, you’re very tangible to us right now but you must be dead!”

“Not this shit again,” sighed Jorg Albertz.

“She’s a zombie!” cried Ogilvie.

“You too?” snorted Albertz, rolling his eyes.  “Hit her with a shovel if you like, it’ll probably improve her looks but she’s no zombie.

“No, she’s not,” came a voice from behind Haggerty – it was Souness!  “Her hair caught on a gargoyle on the way down.  I was patrolling the roof after hearing the crash of the chimney caving in as Delahunt was tossed down it and came across her hanging there; I didn’t know which one to rescue, her or the gargoyle.  The sound of Tom Devine hitting the ground with a burp which knocked Delahunt unconscious soon brought me to my senses so I pulled her up and into my arms and safety.  Do you know what she did, the ungrateful little cow?  Spat in my face!  It made it all the more easy for me to use her as a bat when the killer crept up behind me – I swung her round by the ankles and knocked the bastard off balance and he toppled through a skylight and in here.  That’s him sitting over there wearing a hood.”

“But there’s five of them,” said Lawwell and he was right.  At the far end of the extended attic were five people wrapped in sheets and bound with black duct tape.

“Yes, interesting, isn’t it?” said Souness with a smile as he pushed Haggerty into my arms.  She was dazed the poor girl, no wonder after Souness had used her to knock our maniac through the roof.  

 

After I’d recovered from the cheap thrill of feeling a woman’s bouncers pressed against my chest, I had a chance to look around this attic and I gasped at what I saw there: everyone who had been at the party was stuck to the ceiling, wrapped up in cocoons like they’d been spun around by some giant spider; only their heads showed and remarkably enough considering all they'd been through, they were all breathing which was a relief for Lawwell because the whole of the SFA Board was in here and he was already dreading having to put together another gaggle of useful morons to replace them.

 

The whole scene was quite grotesque and I was just beginning to feel queasy when Lawwell suddenly ran at the five bound and hooded figures.  “Nobody fucks with Peter Lawwell in his own house!” and he gave the closest figure a roundhouse kick on the neck and was pulling a machete from his underpants when Souness shot it out of his hand.  Lawwell gasped and stared at Souness and for a moment it looked as if he was going to attack him but Souness wagged a finger and said, “Now, now, now.  I’m not a member of the Scottish sports press you know, I’ll hurt you back” so Lawwell relaxed, feigned indifference and walked back towards us, taking a slice at the second bound and hooded figure with the horse whip he had concealed up his sleeve.

“So who are they?” asked Ogilvie.

“Isn’t it obvious?” mocked Albertz, strolling past Souness who motioned for him to be his guest and explain everything.  “Who’s been giving everyone in Scotland the run around for the past year?  Who has been acting in a malignant and sinister manner these past months and who has the Scottish press scared stiff to say a word about him?”  Everyone looked at Lawwell who tapped his chest with a thumb and mouthed, “Me?”

“No, not him.  Well, yes him,” groaned Albertz.  “Someone else apart from him.”

“To be fair, I can’t think of anyone who fits that description that isn’t him,” said Ogilvie.

“It’s Charlotte Fakes” said Souness tiring of the prevarication.  We all gasped as one and looked over at the five figures one of whom was on the ground from Lawwell's wild kick.

“You mean, Charlotte Fakes is five people?” I asked, blushing because it had never occurred to me.

“Five people,” repeated Albertz positioning himself behind them and resting a hand on one of their heads.  “Close to discovery, they thought they’d go out with a bang and take out the whole of the SFA in one fell swoop and how better to do that than infiltrate one of Lawwell’s parties?  I don’t know what’s going on with the webs and all the fancy tricks but has anyone known how Charlotte Fakes did anything that short time they blazed so brightly and brilliantly on Twitter?”

“This is all very well, Albertz” interrupted Lawwell.  “But what I want to know is, who the fuck is Charlotte Fakes?  Are Charlotte Fakes?  Oh just get on with it!”

“Why don’t you remove their hoods and find out?” said Souness, his moustache bristling from the tension.  And that’s what happened, just as the SFA and other guests were coming to and climbing out of their cocoons, Lawwell strode over to the Charlotte Fakes figures and whipped off their hoods.

 

Everyone gaped in confusion but only I seemed to recognise them, only I knew who had been Charlotte Fakes all along.

Enter the Werewolf

We were down to nine and even one of those – Souness – was missing; in the house somewhere, probably the one doing the killing according to Keith Jackson but we all knew to ignore him as Keith has a reputation for using any old excuse to lay into anything to do with Rangers.  We had retreated from the kitchen and were in a room two floors up watching the commotion outside through a window and the gaps in the locked storm shutters; word had obviously got out and the emergency services were everywhere.  Curiously there was no sign of any press, tv or otherwise – a sign of just how tightly Lawwell has the media wrapped around his little finger.

 

We could hear the noise of someone trying to communicate with us through a loudhailer but you know those things, even if you were standing right beside one you still couldn’t make out what’s being said through it.  “I think I heard him say ‘negotiator’” said Tom English.

“I heard that too, and something else about ‘quim or a cunt’ or something,” chirped Haggerty and as she said it a helicopter approached the house and it had something dangling from it - the figure of a man on the end of a cord.

“Is that...?” asked Jackson.

“It fucking is,” shouted Lawwell.  “Spiers, is tonight a full moon?”

“Eh?  I don’t know, why?” I replied, confused.

“Because those idiots out there think this is a hostage situation and they’re sending in Jim Delahunt as a negotiator!”

“Jim Delahunt?” puffed Campbell Ogilvie.  “Mellifluous and honey voiced arbiter of reason?”

“Which Delahunt are you thinking of, fruit-dick,” screamed Lawwell in Ogilvie’s face.  “Because that pinch nosed little cunt they’re about to drop in here is a fucking werewolf – Spiers, get to the kitchen, fetch some silverware.  Haggerty, prepare to sacrifice yourself to him, he likes hairy women!” 

 

They dropped Delanhunt into and down a chimney and he crashed into the room next door in an explosion of soot and random curses.  There was no way I was going down to the kitchen on my own, not only was there a killer on the loose but now the authorities in their infinite wisdom had decided to turn to a fur-faced lunatic to come to our aid – we all know nobody in their right mind would turn to Delahunt for help but he has a knack of sticking his nose, uninvited into all sorts of business.  That and he tends to turn into a werewolf when there’s a full moon.  I peeked outside and sure enough, low to the east, illuminating the clouds, was the biggest moon you’ve seen all year.   

We ran for the door but it flew open before we even got close and there was Jim Delahunt, covered in soot, his clothes torn and a face, well, with a face like a werewolf peering over a dyke as my old granny used to say.  He pounced and in the time it takes to wet yourself he had a hold of both Haggerty and Keith Jackson by the necks and was shaking them.  It was at this point that Tom Devine showed his mettle; he cried, “Angela!  Mon amour!” and ran at Delahunt, tackling him around the waist and forcing him back against the window which shook under their combined weight until it eventually gave way and all four of them toppled out the window.

“Begorrah, that was close,” laughed Tom English but he’d barely said it when the floor gave way beneath his feet and he disappeared screaming through a trap door.

“Anyone else want to be a smart arse?” asked Albertz and we all stood in silence, the dark of the room lighting up as police spotlights shone at the hole in the wall where Delahunt, Haggerty and Jackson had been pushed out by Tom Devine.  That left five: me, Lawwell, Albertz,  Souness -  wherever he was lurking, and Campbell Ogilvie and who could believe that after all we’d gone through that he’d still be alive?  Certainly not Lawwell who pulled out a Luger and shot at him out of frustration but Ogilvie was quick on his feet and got out of the room without a scratch as we all chased after him, not because we wanted to catch him but because nobody wanted to be left alone in a room.  Ogilvie sprinted down a hall and round a corner into another wing before tripping and tumbling into an open lift.  In moments we were all in there beside him, Lawwell pointing his Luger and pulling the trigger at Ogilvie’s head even although he knew he was out of bullets - click click click went the pistol and then the lift doors shut.

 

The lift started rising and I felt that usual tingling down the back of my legs that tells me that the game is more or less up.  “Are you crying?” asked Lawwell.

“No!  I just have soot in my eyes,” I lied.  “This is it, isn’t it?  We’re all doomed.  When we reach the top these doors are going to open and something horrible is going to be standing there waiting for us” and then the doors opened and something horrible was standing there waiting for us.

Ten Little Indians

“What’s your impression then?” asked Keith Jackson.

“My impression?” I replied.  “Ooh, Betty, the cat’s done a whoopsy on the table...  No?  Okay, how about, get off your horse and drink some milk...”

“Yeah well, I suppose that makes more sense than your fucking opinion.”

 

We were stuck in Lawwell’s country house, locked in and in the presence of a maniac who was knocking off the great and the good of the SFA and Celtic which come to think of it, are the same thing these days, and we were down to ten of us, hiding in the kitchen with not one of us unconcerned about the amount of steak knives to hand.

 

There was me and Tom who had been providing the entertainment before the killings began, Lawwell and Keith Jackson eyeing each other with suspicion, Souness who was in the house somewhere unknown, Albertz, Campbell Ogilvie who seemed to be in a daze over the fact that he’d survived this long in such hostile company, Jim Ballantyne, Angela Haggerty who’d surfaced from beneath a rock and Tom Devine who it turned out hadn’t been a victim of our killer but had just been trussed up the way he likes it by Haggerty before we’d rudely interrupted them.  Ten of us wondering who was next to be bumped off, seven of us scared out of our wits with Souness, Albertz and Lawwell not seeming to give a damn.  They’re the kind of people who thrive in these conditions; who live in this kind of world.  Well it’s not the world for me and I told everyone that but was told to shut it as Albertz listened at the dumb waiter.

 

“It’s moving,” he whispered.  “It’s coming down from upstairs – someone’s operating it!”

“Well if it arrives at our floor, for fuck’s sake don’t open it” whimpered Jackson and then as the sound of the squeaking pulleys got louder, we all sat in silence, watching the doors of the dumb waiter with mounting horror.  Squeak, squeak, squeak...  It got closer and I could feel a bead of sweat running down my neck.  Squeak, squeak, squeak...  Haggerty tugged at my sleeve.  “Where’s Jim Ballantyne gone?” she asked.  Squeak squeak squeak, and then it stopped with a dull finality at our floor.  Everyone backed away from the doors except Albertz who walked up to them.  He turned to look at us all and we were shaking our heads in silent protest – don’t open the doors, our eyes screamed at him but he winked and turned and slid the hatches open and there was a lidded silver platter sitting inside.  “Anyone hungry?” asked Albertz and lifted it out, bringing it over to a worktop and placing in front of us.

“Don’t open that thing,” warned Jackson.

“Please don’t open it,” whined Haggerty.

“If you don’t open it I fucking will,” barked Lawwell so Albertz put his hand on the silver lid and looked at us all one by one.

“Are you sure you want me to open this?” he asked and we all shook our heads but he ignored us and lifted the lid slowly and peeked under.  “Ooh, what a way to go,” he laughed and lifted the lid off fully to reveal Jim Ballantyne’s head on the platter.

“Damn!" exclaimed Lawwell.  "Wish I’d thought of that one!”

The House on Hell Hill

“I’d stand back if I were you lot,” said Jorg Albertz as the crowd grew bigger at the bottom of Lawwell’s staircase and while they all gazed up into the darkness above to see where David Longmuir had gone on the end of a noose, another two dropped down and caught Ralph Topping and Jim Spence.  “Michty!” cried Spence as he disappeared into the gloom.
“Told you,” said Albertz and everyone stepped back from the stairs and gawped at Lawwell, looking for an explanation.

Meanwhile Tom English and I had taken advantage of the confusion to sneak off to find somewhere safe to hide up until it was all over.  We’d found another set of stairs in the east wing and had crept up those, down a hall and into a bedroom only to discover a hole in the floor – this was where Jack Irvine had crashed through the floor on a bed, we were right above the party!
“You’re right above the party,” said a voice from the shadows and I nearly puked from the fright.  We turned and there was Souness sitting calm as you like in the corner, the long cold metal of the silenced Walther PPK aimed right at us.  “Souness!  You terrible cunt!  Tom’s just soiled himself, you scary bastard!” I cried, forgetting myself for a moment.
“Aye, and the suit’s rented too,” whimpered Tom, shaking the piss off his left foot.
“What are you doing up here anyway and what’s with the great hole in the floor?” I asked, moderating my tone having just remembered there was a sociopath sitting pointing a gun at us.

“It was me who punched Jack Irvine through the floor of Lawwell’s bedroom,” said Souness, a mischievous glint in his eye.  “I caught him on the bed, didn’t know he was there, took us both quite aback but before he had time to withdraw from Angela Haggerty I’d knocked them both through the floorboards.  Haggerty was buried in the sheets when they hit the next floor, disturbing Lawwell’s little shindig so no one noticed her slipping out amongst the dust, debris and confusion.  No one that is, except Tom Devine who couldn’t believe his luck and sneaked her off to another room to punch her in the face with his cock.”

“But why are you here?  This is a Celtic party, in Lawwell’s house, if you’re found here you’ll be strung up” said Tom.
I’d like to shake the hand of the first man to try,” sneered Souness as he holstered his pistol and stood up.  “I’m here with Albertz, there’s someone here we’d like to meet but these sudden deaths have forced us to change our plan.  You two can stay around if you like but I’d watch my necks if I were you, nobody’s safe in here.”

 

We realised just how right he was when we sneaked back downstairs to join the safety of the crowd and found it severely diminished.  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Oh Spiers, you wouldn’t believe the varied and fiendish methods something is using to despatch us, this house is evil.  We even lost Stewart Regan and who knew that man would go down without a fight?”  This was Keith Jackson who was shaking in his cowboy boots and glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.  “There’s something demented at work in here, that seems to be expending an extraordinary amount of time and energy in order to destroy us!"
"Now you know how it feels," smiled Albertz.
“Get a hold of yourself Jackson,” growled Lawwell, sticking his thumb in Keith’s eye.  “There’s nothing in this house that I don’t already know about and believe me, there’s nothing in here that I’m afraid of.  No, if anything, this mysterious force should be scared of me!” and he turned quickly as if expecting to meet the our mysterious stalker and lashed out with his horse whip but all he did was catch Neil Doncaster across the cheek sending him reeling against a wall and as Doncaster put out his hands for the wall to stop his trajectory, the damn thing opened and swallowed him before closing.
“Fuck!  Did you see that?  The wall just ate Neil Doncaster!” screamed Jackson.

“Then it won’t have to eat again for at least a week,” chortled someone at the back then the hole in the wall opened again briefly, burped, and Doncaster’s wig came flying out.

“Well you don’t see that every day,” chuckled Albertz, picking up the wig and sniffing it.  “I suggest we get out of this hall and into the billiard room; we’ve lost too many out here, maybe the billiard room will be safer.”  So we filed off, the few of us who were left of what was once a swinging party and shuffled into the billiard room which worryingly was in darkness.  Albertz was last to enter and he closed the door behind him and switched on the light.  Someone screamed.  Then everyone screamed and there was a mad rush for the door and just before I was caught up in the chaos and dragged out of the room by the panicked rush, I saw what had scared them all: Tom Devine was naked, nailed to the billiard table, his arse in the air with a cue sticking out of it.

 

Of course if they’d given me a chance I’d have explained to everyone that this was just a normal night for old Tom.

The Flaunting

Three days we’d been locked in Schonhausen, Peter Lawwell’s country retreat; three days since the storm shutters had mysteriously closed on their own and kept us in here in the presence of a maniac.  The first death happened as soon as the shutters locked and the lights went out and everyone screamed, including me and Tom English who were still by the piano singing Three Little Maids from School and trying to fend off Jim Spence who was drunk on Buckfast and crying out for Eton Rifles although why he’d want to be armed in the middle of a party I don’t know, perhaps he foresaw the bloodshed to come?

Once the lights came back on, Lawwell laughed and called for more wine but Neil Doncaster who was Lawwell’s waiter for the evening was too busy crawling around the floor looking for his wig.  “There you are, Doncaster.  More wine and make it quick before I forget my good mood and take the horse whip to you.  Doncaster!  Doncaster?”
Doncaster was quite still, on all fours, his arse sticking out from underneath our piano.  I thought at first that he’d been caught blowing Tom English but then his face looked out from the gloom and he shivered, “There’s a body under here,” he said baldly and suddenly no one felt like listening to the Mikado anymore.

“Who is it?” asked Ralph Topping.  “Anyone important?  Is it Campbell Ogilvie?”
“No, it’s not Ogilvie” said Jim Ballantyne.
“Bugger,” cursed Topping.
“And it’s definitely nobody worth worrying about, I don’t recognise him at all,” said Ballantyne, motioning for Doncaster to get up off his knees and pour him a drink.
“Well, English?” called out Lawwell.  “I’m not not paying you to sit around on your arse not playing the fucking piano all night - play something.  And make it maudlin,” so Tom struck up again and everyone went back to slapping each other on the back,  breaking the tops off bottles to celebrate Lawwell’s official position now on the SFA Board, and singing misty eyed ballads that don’t rhyme.  It was during one of these ballads that the ceiling caved in and Jack Irvine crashed into the room on a  four poster bed.  “Is it Campbell Ogilvie?” shouted Ralph Topping, dusting himself down as a clean-up squad rushed in to change Hugh MacDonald’s underwear.  By this time, Tom and I were beginning to look like the Stranglers in the Golden Brown video and so decided to beat a hasty exit.  We were running up stairs two steps at a time when a headless body came running downstairs towards us three at a time, knocking us on our arses and covering Tom in gore.  “Bejeesus, it’s rented too!” cried Tom as I put my arms around the waist of the carcass and tried to lift it off of my friend and just at this moment, David Longmuir appeared and muttered something about being perverts but before I could take him to task on the matter, a noose fell from two flights up, tightened around his neck and pulled him up into the darkness.  “Bloody hell, did you see that?” I shrieked.
“Longmuir?  Ach, I’ve seen it all before in here” muttered Alan McRae, paying more attention to the headless corpse whose arse I seemed to have pressed against my groin.  Embarrassed, I quickly dropped it to more groans from Tom but before anyone could crack any jokes about the situation we were interrupted by Lawwell thundering out his room, horse whip in hand.  “No fucker kills any fucker in this house unless he’s called Peter fucking Lawwell, got that?” he roared and cut McRae a cracker across the cheek.

“Listen,” spoke up Doncaster, his wig on backwards.  “I make that at least five dead bodies in here,”

“Cunt can’t count,” whispered someone at the back.
“There’s a maniac loose in the house and we’re locked in here with him.”  Everyone started looking at the ground and shuffling their feet.
“Oh come on, he’s not talking about me!” sighed Lawwell.  “There’s some other fucking maniac in my house – my house!  And I’m not standing for it.  And what the fuck was Jack Irvine doing on my bed?”  But before anyone could answer him the lights went out again and someone screamed like a girl.  “Sorry,” I said.

Then from behind us came the sound of a zippo lighter sparking up and we turned to see someone lighting a cigarette.  The lighter illuminated a face as it looked up and blew smoke in Stewart Regan’s eyes and I knew immediately who it was and just how at home he was in a charnel house such as this.

“My name’s Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter” said Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.  “And you geezers have a bad dose of the possessions; this place is haunted, Lawwell.  There’s a ghost in your house.”

Dr. Evadne and Dame Hilda Entertain

"Graham, dear, we've been invited by that awfully nice man, Mr Lawwell to his party to celebrate his promotion to the board of the SFA."  This was Tom English, my old spinster friend as he arranged the lavender in the kitchen of my Ayrshire cottage.

"Oh Tom dear, that's magnificent.  I think we should celebrate with a song" I replied, sitting down at the piano.

"Hit it Graham," said Tom.

"What from here?" I replied.  Oh how we laughed!

 

The party wasn't what we expected, in fact we hadn't been invited to join in the celebrations; no, we were there to provide the entertainment and before we'd even settled down to a small sherry at Schonhausen - Lawwell's country pile - we were whisked off to a changing room and put into black dresses and then plonked in front of a piano to sing a few Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, not forgetting Ivor Novello (dear old Ivor).

"Let's play them the one that wowed them in Bearsden" suggested Tom and I agreed and struck up on the piano, singing

 

"We're a pair of cards from Byres Road

We think we are so droll

Some say it doesn't make us big

On Twitter being a troll.

 

We're two old fashioned journalists

Some say we're two has beens.

The only fan base we have left

Is three tired lesbians."

 

I could see Tom sweating as he swayed, hands clasped by the piano, gazing out into the audience who sat stoney faced, refusing to smile at any of our gay wit and repartee and just as I thought Lawwell was considering taking his horsewhip to us for the line that went

 

"So hush now baby don't you cry

Mamma's gonna take you to Milngavie."

 

something strange happened: the doors flew open and in came Stewart Regan.  Lawwell's guests formed two lines and forced Regan through the mill, punching and kicking him until he staggered to the end and collapsed in front of Tom who gasped and called for me to sing "Comes a Train of Little Ladies" but I was too caught up in events and my piano lay silent as Andrew Waddle cleared his throat and demanded an audience.

 

"Gentlemen, Knights, Celtic Men all, I give you our newest board member: Peter Lawwell" and the room erupted in applause and cheering and Vincent Lunny choking on a vol au vent.

"It's taken a while to make it official," continued Waddle.  "I mean, I know our press in Scotland are hardly the most inquisitive and we really thought we'd gone too far in the annexation of Hampden three years ago but there hasn't been a squeak, not one awkward question, and now we come to the end of the beginning of our plan.  Sure, not everything has gone our way - sure, Rangers are still here" and at this point Lawwell shot an evil glance at Rod McKenzie who ducked instinctively.  "But they're years away from challenging us at the top of the SPFL - talking of which, good work there lads in swallowing up those SFL wallahs - and the way their board is behaving, like a clown troupe of galloping morons, I don't expect they'll even be challenging us seriously again until we've made it ten in a row!"

There was a huge roar of approval, Rod Petrie shouted hip hip hooray and Stewart Milne called for more whisky in his sippy-cup.

"So," went on Waddle.  "As I stand here before you a humble man," (cries of "no" and "shame").  "A humble man who sent off Rangers players for fun when I was a referee..."  ("hurrah!").  I'd like to thank two men on behalf of our master: Stewart Regan and Neil Doncaster.  Admittedly, Neil had to be held against a wall with a cattle prod lighting up his chin for ten minutes before he caved in to our will but ladies and gentlemen, how about Stewart Regan?  He did it simply because he wanted to.  I give you Stewart Regan" and at that the room clapped and hallooed and Lawwell tossed a bottle at me and Tom to get us to start up the music again.

 

And that's how Peter Lawwell and the great and mighty of the SFA celebrated Lawwell's ascension to the pinnacle of Scottish football and  I was just beginning to play some Noel Coward when I spotted out the corner of my eye, a shape in the corner of the room; standing in the shadows, obscured by cigarette smoke.  It was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.