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."