Hypocrisy Hill

The hill lay before us, shrouded in mist which in its early morning prettiness would have fooled anyone into thinking it was a benign thing; something to be tackled on a crisp Sunday morning in spring.  I knew different, I knew that before us lay a deadly place that threatened to end the lives or careers of many of the Scottish journalists gathered at the bottom as they listened to Peter Lawwell give us instructions as to how we were going to storm Hypocrisy Hill.

 

"Right, you lot," barked Lawwell, pointing at a map of the hill with his horse whip.  "You lot advance up the hill, sweeping away anyone or anything in your path and I want it taken by sunset, you got that?  Gerry Braiden here will stay here and guard the supply line and by guard the supply line, of course I mean, fight a rear guard action against anyone bringing up the subject of State Aid."

 

So Lawwell was throwing everyone up the hill except Braiden who was busy enough putting out fires all over Glasgow City Council.  The poor chap hadn't had a good night's sleep for weeks, so busy was he with his spade and shovel, burying bad news.

 

And so as the sun came up on this cold February morning, the ranks of the Scottish media stood in line gazing across at the hill.  Then the whistle sounded and we climbed out of our trench and advanced.  I immediately got behind Neil Sargent - the Sun boy with a face like an onion - because I know Neil and spitting every time he speaks aside, he's a good lad to get behind when it comes to being disingenuous about Celtic fans and I was proved right when he charged the first barricades with a Celtic scarf tied around his head like Rambo.  I had no need to hide though as the expected maelstrom of shot and shell, grape and shrapnel didn't materialise and we walked straight through the first bastions and took the first third of the hill without having to fire a shot.

 

You see, Lawwell had us attack this hill for a reason: he expected an outpouring of outrage when the Celtic fans, backed by all of the official supporters' organisations, released an old fans' favourite, Roll of Honour which is a song that glorifies IRA terrorists.  Now this is nothing new for the Celtic fans who with Lawwell's silent approval seem to think they're back in the 70s but never before had they been so blatant and Lawwell was worried that such a heap of opprobrium would be brought down on his club that he might struggle to contain it.  Well he's not often wrong but he was this time as the press remained silent and politicians who aren't slow to jump on the sectariansism bandwagon when it involves Rangers, seemed to vanish quicker than snowfall in a river.

"Come on, we can't dilly-dally all day, there's a hill to be taken" shouted Magnus Llewellin of the Herald as he straightened his helmet and charged the next lines through what we thought might be a devil's garden of obstacles but again, there was nothing.  We did encounter one piece of resistance though when we arrived at the half-way trench because there we found Chris Graham of the Rangers Standard, screaming into a walky-talky as we poured into his bunker.  "They're here!  All of them - you wouldn't believe it!  Not one of the bastards has spoken out!  Just aim for my position and you'll hit every damn one of 'em!"  He was calling down an airstrike on his own position knowing that we'd all be hit and Magnus Llewellin knew this and lunged at him with his bayonet.  I closed my eyes because I didn't fancy having the memory of someone being run through with cold steel so close to me but when I opened them again, Graham had gone and Llewellin was pulling his bayonet out of a sandbag and looking puzzled.  "Christ, he's fast" he said before grabbing me by the jacket and pulling me out of the bunker and on up the hill.

Chris Graham's air strike didn't materialise.  The morning mist had cleared and before long we were sauntering up the hill meeting no opposition and some of the young turks from BBC Scotland had pulled on their Celtic strips and were kicking a football around.  An hour later we were at the top - we had scaled the giddy heights of Hypocrisy Hill and were looking out on Scotland from the moral high ground.  We gave an almighty cheer and some of the lads waved their helmets in the air - Neil Sargent even planted a flag, an Irish tricolour naturally, and declared it a good day's work.

Later as we loafed in the sun while waiting for orders from Lawwell, I overheard Llewellin on a radio to the Herald office, he was giving instructions:  "Yes, I want it on the front page.  No, don't bother with that.  Front page.  Okay, the bottom of the front page then.  Eh?  No I don't want it to be scathing, are you fucking daft?  Put your line manager on.  Who was that cunt?  Well how did a hun get a job at the Herald?  Sack him and get the Celtic Roll of Honour story on the front page.  Yes, congratulatory, thank you!  At last someone who doesn't need me to spell it out for him."

The Pagliacci Problem

Allan Rennie got a standing ovation as he walked across the floor of the Daily Record towards his own office where Peter Lawwell was waiting for him, hand extended in congratulation and Rennie accepted the handshake and winced as Lawwell ground his knuckles and pressed tacks into his palm.  "Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, bhoys and ghirls of the Daily Record," shouted Lawwell.  "I'm here today to announce Allan Rennie's promotion to Managing Director of Media Scotland, a position Rennie almost deserves but would have been nowhere near if I hadn't done all the hard work for him.  Indeed, if we hadn't found out his predecessor of seventeen years was a closet Rangers supporter we wouldn't have had to let her go and promote Allan before he was ready but hey, what you gonna do?  You got anything to say, Allan?  No?  Okay, you lot get back to work and don't forget, I want you all over the Neil Lennon as a victim of sectarianism story, got that?"  As Lawwell finished his speech, Rennie motioned to enter his own office but Lawwell was already back behind the desk and one of his bodyguards was closing the door in Rennie's face.

I witnessed all this because I'd been summoned by Lawwell, I think he got a kick out of me seeing his humiliation of Rennie and at first I suspected that was the only reason I was there but as Rennie stood stewing outside his own office, the door opened and I was whistled in.  "Spiers, we want you to join the Record.  It's a fucking comic and we want you to bring some serious gravitas to it, shake it up a bit and entice back the tens of thousands of Rangers fans who've deserted it since it became a companion of the Celtic View.  Do you have it in you?"  I was astonished, I was speechless,  I was delighted!  I couldn't believe what he was offering me and I goggled at him, a stupid grin spreading across my face and I was just about to say yes when he burst out laughing and pointed at me, holding onto his desk for support.  "He believed it!  Can you imagine?  He fucking believed it!" he screamed at his bodyguard who was bent double with laughter.  "You?  In the Daily Record?  You wish, Spiers!  Wait till I tell everyone at the SFA about this one.  Oh Spiers, you are a dolt, did you honestly think you are the man to bring the Rangers fans back to the Record?  And how the fuck could you ever think that you could bring gravitas to anything?  Jesus wept..."

I was mortified.  The walk from Lawwell's office (well, Lawwell's annexation of Rennie's office) through crowds of hooting Record journalists, all pointing at me with tears streaming from their eyes, was the longest walk I've ever taken; it was quite frankly the most shameful experience of my life.  I got outside and as soon as I'd stepped out the door a huge noise erupted around me - Lawwell had brought along the staff from every newspaper in the city and they were all standing outside, pointing and laughing.  I pushed through them all, feeling the bitter taste of my own tears as I could hold it in no longer and began to cry.  The crowd saw this and started flicking my ears as I pushed through them all until at last I was away from Central Quay and heading for Ashton Lane.

I'd fled to the Chip you see, to seek out my chums Pat Nevin and Tom Devine; they were both at the bar.  "We heard," said Devine, putting a consoling hand on my shoulder but I swear I could see him trying to hold in a chuckle.  "Yeah, we're really sorry, Spiers.  Can we buy you a drink?" said Pat.

"A large one please, I've never been so humiliated" I wept.
"What, more humiliated than that time you flew past Ibrox, dangling from a hot air balloon with your cock out?" asked Devine.
"Worse than trying to punch Walter Smith and him beating you up and holding you prisoner for a fortnight?" snorted Nevin.
"How about being chained to a cave wall and nearly eaten by Phil McGillivan and Mad Joe O'Rourke?" crowed Devine.
"Yes, yes," I said as they convulsed at the bar.  "I don't need you two reminding me of my unfortunate past.  If you were true friends you'd find some way to cheer me up."
"Well you know what I think, Spiers" said Devine, composing himself and calling for a bucket of port.  "When you've been ridiculed and are feeling low then you absolutely must ridicule someone else, someone who is even lower than you.  That'll do the trick!"
"By jove, you're right!" I shouted.  " I must bully someone else - that's how it all works, isn't it?  I have to find someone else who thinks they're it, someone else who thinks they're a journalist of great standing but is an even bigger joke than me!  But where do I find such a thing?"  and I looked at Tom and Pat as our eyes widened and we came to the same conclusion at the same time.  "To the Drum!" we cried and marched out of the bar.  "There's fucking loads of them there!"

One Short Tale from the Emerald City

Vincent Lunny stood behind Stewart Regan, his face lit up from the glow of Regan's computer monitor, watching Regan as he attempted to negotiate his way around Twitter without making a total cunt of himself this time.  Regan was searching for Joe Gorman's moronic tweet from the night before when he seemed to suggest he'd like to line up Protestants against a wall and shoot them.  Now who knows, maybe this type of thinking was deemed acceptable in Ireland in the old days but this is the 21st century and we're supposed to be above that now, especially in Scotland where you can be arrested for saying this kind of thing either in a football context or in a threatening communication.

"Here it is," said Regan, clicking on the tweet.  "Yes, it's as bad as the Huns are saying, what are we going to do about it?"

"Fuck all," said Lunny.  "We can get around this one no bother."

"Are you sure?" asked Regan, surprised.

"Of course I'm sure, who's going to pursue it, the Scottish press?" and at that they both burst out laughing.

"Good boys," said Lawwell who was standing behind Lunny, as he removed the dagger from Lunny's back where he'd had it pressed during the whole conversation.  "Now we can get back to more important matters like how to get those arseholes in the media to start talking about Craig Whyte again to take some of that State Aid heat off us .  Spiers!" - and he looked over at me - "What the fuck have you been doing to create diversions apart from hanging around Parkhead like a bad smell?"

"Erm, how about the whole Neil Lennon bigotry thing?" I said, ignoring his jibe about my personal hygiene but as soon as I said it he sprung on me, got me down on the floor and started lashing at me with his horse whip.  "I've told you a million fucking times, you don't mention Neil Lennon's bigotry, ever!  You hear me?"

"You misunderstand" I squealed.  "I was talking about people being bigoted towards Neil Lennon!" and with that he sniffed and got up off me and walked back towards Regan and Lunny but then when I wasn't expecting it he turned quickly and slapped me across the face with a dildo.  That's the problem with Lunny's office, those blasted things are always lying around.

Just Another Menippean Afternoon

"So that's decided then," said Lawwell.  "The Scottish Cup final will be held at the home of the SFA."
"Hold on," piped up Doncaster, straightening his wig and puffing out his chest.  "I thought Hampden was closed to football until after the Commonwealth Games?"  Lawwell sighed, "You still don't get it, do you chum?" and knocked Doncaster's wig off with a well aimed brick which he kept by his side at all SFA board meetings for moments such as this.
"Aberdeen and Inverness though, playing in Glasgow; Parkhead will be empty" said Rod Petrie.
"Wouldn't be the first time, eh?" exclaimed Campbell Ogilvie.  "Am I right?  Eh?  Eh?"  Ogilvie looked around and saw no one was amused by his little joke then he turned towards Lawwell and found the business end of a bazooka prodding him on the nose.  The blast sent Ogilvie shooting out of the window and into Cathcart.  "Been meaning to do that for ages" said Lawwell, stalking the table.  "How the fuck we ever allowed one of them onto the Board of Directors, I don't know.  Well, now that he's gone, there's room for me."
"But you're already running the Board, erm, already on the Board" said Ralph Topping.
"Then there's room for more of me - woof!" shouted Lawwell, thrusting his groin into Topping's face.
"Right, where were we?  Oh yes, we were discussing the regrettable incident of the H-Block banner.  Good work there, Doncaster.  Glad to see that all those loopholes we had McBride sneak into the revised rule book haven't gone to waste.  Still, it took guts to pull it off, well done."  Doncaster beamed with pride that he'd impressed Lawwell but in an instant he was holding his cheek after Lawwell had spun round and caught him a cracker with his horse whip.  "That's for not saying thank you for all my hard work!  You think keeping a compliant press is easy?  Where do you think your half-arsed excuses for not going after us would be without my fucking red hot phone keeping those cretins in place?  Hooted out of town, that's where!  Now get down on the floor and give me twenty!"  It was at this point, with Doncaster doing press-ups that I decided it was time to leave.
"And just where the almighty fuck do you think you're going, cock-breath?" Lawwell growled. 
I winced and stopped in my tracks: "Er, for a coffee?"

 

Later as Tom English sweated and strained to remove the coffee pot from my arse, I asked him what he made of all this anti-Irish racism stuff that Angie baby and Phil McGillivan were punting after Neil Lennon had been spoken to harshly by some Aberdeen fans on Saturday.  Tom is typically Irish in that he speaks with an Irish accent and goes home to Ireland during the holidays so he was perfectly suited to comment on this unique situation.  "Don't go near it with a barge pole" he said.  "If there is anti-Irish racism - if such a thing can exist - then incidents of it can be counted on one hand and this isn't one of them, if you're foolish enough to write a column on this for the Herald then you'll be laughed at from here to Tipperary.  Lennon was targeted because of football hooliganism - no more, no less and certainly not for his nationality or religion.  Who told you all this anyway?  Please tell me you've not been listening to Haggerty and McWhatshisname again, have you?"
"No," I lied.  "It was Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone who told me this morning when I woke up, they also said it was more than likely Rangers fans in disguise, Masons perhaps...  Oh!  Ah!  Ah!  Ouch!" I screamed as my rear was engulfed in pain.  "Tom, it feels like that coffee pot is going further up my arse, not coming out!"
"Does it?  Sorry."