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!"