Where the Tentacles Can't Reach

 

If I hadn't spent all night in Bierfabriek drinking lager straight from the tap in the middle of our table and eating monkey nuts off Tom English's bare chest then I might have turned up in time for the preliminary hearing of the Amsterdam Six who are an assortment of rapscallions who have been arrested for nothing if you believe the noises coming out of Parkhead.  I was at the ground yesterday and all I witnessed coming out of there was Keith Jackson, head first through a window.

 

If only I'd stayed to help Keith and not hopped onto the flight to Schiphol with Tom who said there was bound to be a big story here, that the Celtic fans arrested for rioting and police assault were bound to be found to have no case to answer and would be released into the adoring arms of the Green Brigade who had saved up their Alpine bottles and Green Shield Stamps and travelled over in support.  Not only that but Lawwell had come to keep an eye on the Scottish press so even if we couldn't report the facts, at least we'd be employed in some capacity by him to show the young scuds of the media how we do things around here when the good name of Celtic is at risk.

But all that was by-the-by as we got beastly drunk the night before and only appeared at the end to find Lawwell being dragged out of the court by security as the Amsterdam Six were taken to the cells and not allowed access to social media which might at least have allowed them to delete their Facebook pages full of the usual IRA glorification.  "What would the press do with that dynamite if they knew?" I asked Tom.
"Oh they know, Spiers.  They're just too scared to mention it, would you?"
"It's a shame though, all these young men, alone in a foreign jail..." I said but Tom interrupted.
"Well that's what happens when you get pissed and attack trams and Dutch police.  Imagine it had happened in Scotland - do you know what would have happened there?"
"Kenny MacAskill would've intervened."
"Exactly," nodded Tom.  But this lot aren't Ryan Caird and this place isn't soft touch-don't upset Celtic-Scotland."
"What're you two mincing squirts whispering about?" shouted Lawwell, approaching us with one eye twitching.  "Never mind, just get on that bus and show these fuck-wipes how to deflect from this disaster, you've been doing it for long enough, you can probably do it with your eyes closed by now.  And hurry up about it, we need to get back home and deal with this SPFL thing, fucking morons can't even be trusted to rape another two hundred and fifty big ones from Rangers; I swear, if they've hired that fat fuck of a lawyer again then I'll have their eyelids off with my whip."

Working Tirelessly to Reduce Knife Crime with Kenny MacAskill

I was alone in a graveyard this morning - I'll get to why later - when I was sure I heard footsteps behind me so I paused.  Looking around there was no one else there but me so I walked on but then I heard them again, very distinctly, so I stopped and stayed very still and listened.  The sky was cloudless and the sun cast long winter shadows over the freshly fallen snow and there wasn't a sound to be heard for miles in this peaceful scene.  Except a sudden footstep behind me which I heard as clear as day so I turned quickly but again, no one was there.  Then I noticed the leaves falling from the trees, landing on the hard snow made crisp by the early morning frost; they landed with a crunch and sounded just like footsteps.  I breathed a sigh of relief and thought myself a fool for my wild imaginings and was just about to laugh out loud to myself when suddenly Ryan Caird came at me with a knife.

 

Something hard and fast knocked the knife from his hand though and I was off without wondering what, haring across the graves, over a wall and into a field where I ran until I reached the nearest village.  I was just eyeing up the wood burning fire in the corner and calling for bread and cheese when I heard a familiar chuckle from behind me, it was Donald Findlay.  "Ye're out o' breath, Spiers.  What demon of hell is pursuing you now?" and he laughed so hard that his whiskers shook.

"Some Celt...  Erm, some ned just attacked me with a knife in a graveyard," I said, sitting opposite him and trying to compose myself.

"Aye, he has you trained well not to bring the good name of Celtic into it, hasn't he?  Tell me, Spiers, how long does he spend on the phone these days?  Haranguing, threatening, promising and blackmailing you all into keeping his team off the front page?  Is it all day like the old times or has he had to free up a few hours to work Stewart Regan and Vincent Lunny from behind?"

 

Oh, he was relishing this, the old rascal.  Findlay always appreciated my discomfort and I allowed him this little pleasure knowing that he'd pulled my fat out of the fire more times than once but it didn't mean I had to enjoy it so I tried to put him in his place and said, "Listen here Findlay, I haven't just survived a knifing by some Celtic Minded maniac just to come here and be mocked by you..."

"Hold on Spiers," he interrupted.  "What was that about a knife wielding Celtic Minded maniac?  Can I quote you on that?  When I bump into Lawwell later tonight, should I mention that you're giving the game away?" and he roared loudly into his ale, his shoulders shaking so much from laughing that his top hat nearly fell off.

 

I left him to it and made my way back into the city to attempt to head off any news of my indiscretion by speaking to Lawwell first.  I was just approaching Parkhead when a window smashed and a body came flying out from two floors up and landed in the car park not twenty yards away from me, it was Keith Jackson.  "Don't go in there, Spiers" he said, groaning.  "He's just heard that the A.S.A. have shot down his appeal about Rangers."

"Thanks Keith, that's one I owe you."

"Well if you owe me one, how about helping me get an ambulance, I think I've broken both legs?"

"Seriously Keith, any time, just let me know if I can ever repay you the favour," I called over my shoulder as I walked away.

"Spiers!  I think I have internal bleeding - call a doctor!"

"Whatever you need, Keith, just shout, I'm your man."

Ceci N'est Pas une Celtic Riot

Our car was stuck in traffic caused by a build up of Celtic fans around Dam Square and it wasn't long before we were surrounded by them as they banged on the bonnet, roof and windows until one of them noticed who was sitting in it.  I was with Tom English, Mark McGivern and Peter Lawwell himself who had hitched a lift with us from Schiphol after the team bus had left without him due to him being too busy horse whipping the boys from BBC Scotland for even considering mentioning the Rangers Dunfermline game in Reporting Scotland.  Once the Celtic fans had spotted us they started throwing cans and bottles at the windows until one of them smashed and McGivern was dragged out through the broken glass and taken behind a bus stop and shot.  "You didn't see that," said Lawwell.

 

Then he got out of the car and let the fans see him and they stopped rioting for a moment until some plain clothes policemen wandered over and before we knew what was going on, the cops were chased against a passing tram and beaten to a pulp before the crowd dissipated leaving behind broken and bloodied bodies.  "You didn't see that either," said Lawwell.

 

The flight home was an interesting affair with Neil Lennon being restrained from opening a hatch to throw out his team who had shipped three more points in spite of every learned journalist in Scotland tipping them to win; I predicted 1-2 to Celtic and I'm never wrong when it comes to this type of thing.  I also predicted Lennon would get the hatch open but he was tied to his chair and sedated by the club doctor so I was wrong there too.  The team breathed a sigh of relief until Lawwell stood up and addressed the rear of the plane where the journalists were squeaking in their seats worrying about how they were going to ignore the rioting.

 

"Right," shouted Lawwell.  "Here's what you do: you mention it once, page 7 or something, small column, no pics.  You telly boys have my permission to allude to it but all of you, you must never - never!  Never say it was Celtic fans.  No, you can say it was Ajax fans in Celtic clothing, you can blame fans from any other nearby club who might have turned up for a barney, you can even say it was travelling Rangers fans attempting to besmirch the good name of Celtic but if any of you say directly that it was Celtic fans then I'll have your balls off with a pair of garden shears, got that?"

 

That was last night, this morning was just as interesting as I witnessed the continuation of the mass hypocrisy of the Scottish media when it comes to reporting on Celtic.  Clips of the rioting appeared all over Youtube and on social media but the threat of those garden shears weighed heavily on everyone's minds and so it was played down.  I sat in the dark in my west end flat and contemplated what we were doing - if this had been Rangers there is no doubt in my mind that it would have been front page headlines, first topic on every news bulletin and Alex Salmond would probably gave got involved and introduced some new illiberal legislation to outlaw wearing red white and blue scarves but it wasn't Rangers.  It was Celtic and so a hush fell over the country and I remained in the dark, too ashamed to show my face.  Because although I may act otherwise, I am an intelligent man and I understand the implications of what I am doing and that the more we cover up their behaviour, the more we deflect from it and lay the blame everywhere but at their own door, then the more Celtic fans believe they are untouchable, the more they believe they are morally correct in everything they do - from singing songs about Frank De Boer being a sad Orange bastard to ripping apart Amsterdam city centre and hospitalising Dutch police.  I felt I had to discuss this with someone, an intellectual who could bring to my dilemma some calm and reassuring guidance.

 

Tom Devine was horsing Angela Haggerty when I arrived at his Dowanhill mansion.  "Come in Spiers, don't mind the trollop, I'm almost finished with it" he shouted, holding hard onto the reins.

"No thanks Tom, I'll come back later" I sighed and closed the door behind me.  As I left I could hear Haggerty's screams, "Don't you dare finish yet you cunt!  Come on, harder!  What am I?  What am I you pussy?"

"You're an unrepentant fenian bastard" cried Tom, climaxing.

"And don't you forget it, bitch.  Now come on you fat tart, victimise me some more!"