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."