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."