The Corleone Conundrum

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.  Yesterday I had planned to retire, to leave the baggage of Scottish football behind me and concentrate on golf, then today Neil Lennon resigned and Peter Lawwell emerged from my attic.  "I knew I'd beat him, the fucking little toad," said Lawwell, dusting down the sleeves of his jacket.  "That jackass thought he could pester me for cash  to compete in a league with no opposition, no challenge - a league without Rangers?  Ha!  Well who's laughing now?"

"Not him, boss" I whimpered, bowing slightly.  "But I don't see why you had to hide in my attic until he got the message."

"I wasn't hiding in your attic, Spiers, I was redecorating it."  And he had been, I took a look in and the walls were now crimson from the blood of junior sporting journalists, chains hung from the ceiling and he'd somehow fashioned a rack from the odds and ends that had been lying around up there.  "Help me, Spiers" pleaded one of the BBC Scotland online boys.  "I think I might be dying."

"Good for you sunshine, keep it up" I chirped and climbed back downstairs to see where Lawwell was off to and I found him rummaging in my kitchen drawer.  "What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Car keys, give me them" he growled.

"I can't just give you my car!"

"Honest to God, Spiers.  I'll punch your balls so hard..."

"Here they are" and I handed them over.  "Can I come with you?  Please?  At least I'll be around the story and can push your side of things."  He stopped and thought about this for a moment then turned and smiled.  "And what makes you think every wincing cock of a journalist in this country isn't going to push my side of things anyway?"  He had a point.

"Can I come anyway?"

"Okay, but I swear, if you try to speak..."

 

By the time we got to Celtic Park it was surrounded by supporters, all standing in silence and looking up.  We got out my car and followed their gaze and there was Lennon wobbling around on the stadium roof, shouting and shaking his fists.  "What's that daft cunt doing up there?  Somebody get me my gun" shouted Lawwell as the crowd turned to see who was threatening their hero.  Suddenly the crowd got ugly - well, more ugly - and it surged towards us, a mass of moaning grey bodies, their arms extended grabbing at us and trying to haul us down but Lawwell was too quick for them and produced a grenade which went off and scattered them allowing us to make for the Parkhead doors.  The hoard kept coming though and they battered at the doors as the Celtic security guards strained to keep them closed then a window smashed and that awful groaning sound filled my ears as rotting arms reached in trying to grab anything living.  Lawwell ran upstairs and I followed him, asking why the Celtic support were blaming him for Lennon's departure but a quick back hander across my nose silenced me. 

Inside the calm of Lawwell's office, I watched and listened as he called in some biplanes from Glasgow Airport and these were buzzing and annoying Lennon as we left out the back door and headed for Hampden.  As I looked out of the back of the taxi that took us to safety I could just see Lennon swatting at them, climbing higher up the roof and spitting black ooze into the crowd below.  Also, he was naked now for some reason.  That's the Neil Lennon I know and admire, I thought - a charming, peaceful man and full of class.