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.