A Legia of their Own

After embarrassments like the one last night when Celtic played like a giggle of dairy maids on their way to church only to be grabbed from the bushes by the leery farmhands of Legia Warsaw, the Celtic plane is usually to be found taking off with the players running after it while Lawwell sits inside barking into his phone preparing the sports editors of Scotland for a pre-emptive thrashing just in case they even consider reporting wrongly on the game.  Last night however, Lawwell was so angry at the performance that he was already on the phone ordering the Scottish press to meet him at Glasgow airport so he could lay into them as soon as possible.  The trouble with this was, he became so inflamed with anger, so intensely violent that he began to foam at the mouth and the Polish authorities decided that he was an ebola carrier and tried to tie him to a gurney and wheel him off to an isolation ward.  Alex Salmond got wind of it though and called Donald Tusk and demanded Lawwell be freed and put on a plane to Scotland immediately.  “Don’t you know who this man is?” asked Salmond.

“No, who is he?” said the Prime Minister of Poland, puzzled.

“He’s Peter fucking Lawwell of Celtic, he runs the SFA!”

“Sorry, I’m still no further forward” mused Tusk.

“He has tens of thousands of fans who follow his team who could be possible yes voters.”

“Yes voters?  You’re having a vote on something?  Sorry, I wasn’t aware.  You do know this man could be carrying ebola?”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take to secure the Celtic vote.”

“You’re willing to risk a pandemic to keep football fans happy so they might vote for you?”

“Yes."  There was silence for about a minute until Salmond continued, "and who’s going to argue with me?  What’s to stop me from doing what I want, the Holyrood Committee system?” and at this Salmond laughed and Tusk, tired of dealing with an obviously deranged local councillor went off to arrange Lawwell’s release so he could get back to watching the highlights of Legia Warsaw beating some lower league football team from a country he hadn’t heard of before tonight.

Murray Foote of the Daily Record was waiting for us at the arrivals exit at Glasgow airport and as Lawwell approached him we suddenly heard the sound of boots goose stepping towards us and there behind Foote, armed with semi-automatic machine guns and marching straight for us were a dozen House Troopers, dressed in baseball caps and hi-viz vests with grenades hanging from their pretty pink belts.  I wondered if they were here to intercept and quarantine Lawwell but they marched straight up to Foote and beat him to the ground with the buts of their guns and laid the boot into him for a good ten minutes while a perimeter guard kept bystanders at bay and maintained community relations by spraying the arrival lounge with bullets.

“Cunt needed broken in and I’ve not had time to do it myself since Rennie went upstairs” muttered Lawwell as we made for the SFA limo sitting outside.  Just as we were almost at our car a chanting mob stormed towards us, screaming obscenities and waving Palestinian flags; it was just our bad luck to run into a pro-Gaza demonstration and it looked like they were going to declare class war on our limo but Lawwell had other ideas.  “Here, have Nir Biton,” he said and tossed the Israeli Celtic player into the baying mob who demonstrated their impeccable credentials for respect and tolerance by trying to take his head off.  “Knew he’d come in handy some day,” snorted Lawwell as we got into the SFA car.  “It’s a new season, a new world we’re living in Spiers, I have work to do and you’re going to record all of it for posterity, you hear?  You’re going to author my book, A Year in the Life of Peter Lawwell, that’s better than working for the Herald, eh?  Better than working for a paper that could only afford to send you to Walsall to cover our game tonight?” and he smiled at me but only for a second before he pulled out his horse whip and lashed me a sore one across the cheek.  “Home driver!” he shouted.
“Okay boss!” said Stewart Regan from the front seat as he drove us towards Hampden.