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.