The Fate of Titans

"It was only a matter of time before Piara Powar became involved," said Donald Findlay as I spent another comfortable evening with he and Souness at 221b, smoking cigars and warming our arses against Donald's huge open fire.  "I knew he'd poke his nose in the moment you told me you saw Aasmah Mir limping out of Lawwell's office, adjusting her dress."  He took a pull at his pipe and disappeared for a moment in a cloud of blue smoke.  "Remember young Martin Bain accused Powar of setting us up, oh, four or five years ago?  Remember?  He sat in with our supporters during a European game until he heard one or two fellows say something off colour and next thing you know his FARE organisation was cliping us to UEFA.  Young Bain said we'd been fitted up then the SFA fitted up Bain as punishment.  Aye, it was then that I realised that the days of Farry, Walker and Taylor were a breeze compared to the malignancy that Stewart Reagan has brought to the table.  Still, at least it's the England fans he's having a go at and not our boys."

"You say that like you don't know that we're being tainted by association," said Souness, tugging at his moustache.  "Irish fans spilling out of Celtic supporters clubs on Friday raised nary a peep but the moment a few Rangers clubs welcome friends from England, all of a sudden we're pariahs again."

"Tell me this Spiers," shouted Findlay, pointing his pipe at me accusingly.  "We all know that the England support wouldn't have been so vocal about the IRA if the game hadn't been at Parkhead where they sing about 'em every second week, so why don't you and your chums in the media mention this, eh?"  I blushed and stared at the fireplace but Findlay burst out laughing.  "Ho ho ho, Spiers.  Like I don't know.  D'you know, thon musician chappy, what's his name, Graeme?"

"MacMillan" said Souness.

"That's the chap!  James MacMillan, why even he's come out and condemned the Celtic support for their glorification of the IRA and not just them, any old terrorist cause going - what do you say to that, eh?  A composer saying what you lot in the media are too afraid to, what do you say to that?  Eh?  What do you say to that?" and by this time he was up out of his chair and poking me with his pipe.  "Lawwell," I began.

"Ha!  We know it's Lawwell, you bloody oaf, he has you twisted around his little finger.  Anyone would think he was threatening you all with violence, the way you jump to his every command."

"But he does!" I shrieked and I could see Souness, tiring of the conversation, pouring more brandy.

"He's right Donald," said Souness as he sipped his drink.  "And we need to do something about it, there's an old firm game looming and you know there's going to be carnage, it's best that we make sure we're not the whipping boys the day after."  Findlay coughed and gazed at his pipe, looked up at me and sighed.  "I know Graeme, I know; the past five years haven't exactly passed by without me noticing what's been going on but our great club is laid low right now.  Like a modern Prometheus, it lies in the gutter, it's still warm corpse being picked at by a succession of scavengers; we are carrion for any and every scoundrel who fancies making a quick buck..." and I swear, at this point he began to weep and had to stand up and turn away from us.  "Forgive me my dear boys, I hate to let you see me like this but I despair; I despair of ever seeing the Rangers once more where they should be, competing at the top of the top table in Scotland."

"We know, we read the Daily Mail," I whispered under my breath but Souness heard it and shot me a glance that withered my arse, then he too stood up and said, "Just say the word, Donald.  Let me off my leash, I'll sort it out."

"Oh Graeme, you magnificent bastard...  Do as you will."

"The gloves are off, Spiers" said Souness, winking at me.  "You'd better watch your step, you don't want to get in my way, there's a reckoning coming" and he pulled on his great coat, put on his trilby and left the room.  From outside we could hear his Aston Martin roaring down the drive and into the night.  I looked over at Donald Findlay and he looked happy now, no sign of the tears from earlier.  "Oh, I should get a bloody Oscar, don't you think Spiers?" and he chuckled and poured another brandy.

Tuesdays with Souness

"What is that?" snarled Souness as I returned from the bar with our drinks, giving him his vodka martini and sitting down with my own appletini.

"An appletini" I squeaked.

"If anyone I know comes in here, you beat it, okay?  Embarrassing enough to be seen at Parkhead with you."

 

I was having a drink with the magnificent bastard himself, post-Scotland/England match.  I'd spent the afternoon smoking and drinking brandy with he and Donald Findlay when Souness had suddenly announced that he had two guest tickets for the game and asked who was coming.  Findlay chuckled, said it was a young man's game and urged us to go on out and enjoy ourselves, he'd watch it on television.  Souness snorted, put on his coat and as we left, I could hear him growling at Findlay, "I know fine well you don't have a television, you're leaving me to go with this prat?"

"Relax, old soldier, you might enjoy yourself" laughed Findlay.

"Only way I'll enjoy myself at this dump is if someone gives me a pair of boots and lets me on the park to break Welbeck's jaw."

"Charming," I said.

"I don't need to be on the park to break something of yours, Spiers" snapped Souness, ending the conversation until we got to Parkhead.

 

Things were fine until just before kick off when the Scots fans jeered the national anthem and I could see Souness's moustache shaking with anger but he composed himself and even said later that he'd heard worse when he was a player.  "Doesn't mean I have to like it though," he said and settled down to watch the game.  All was fine until the England fans started to sing some guttural obscenities about the IRA, basically telling those fine freedom fighters to go to fuck.  I was offended and said so to Souness who looked at me as if I'd just farted in church.  "Hold on," he said.  "Our Jocks boo throughout the nations anthem and you smile along but when the English lads chant against a bunch of murdering thugs, that offends you?"

"Erm, yes."

"Spiers, you know I only put up with you because Donald's fond of you - for whatever reason, I don't know - but I'm not sitting around here waiting for you to start a social media shit storm over football fans doing what football fans do the world over.  No wonder this country's turning into an authoritarian nightmare with arse-wipes like you encouraging House and his troopers to arrest people for letting off steam at a football match.  These Jocks were booing the Queen and you know what?  It does her no harm and does the Jocks a bit of good to vent, no harm done to anyone - left to idiots like you the cells would be full tonight for a few catcalls.  I'm off to the pub."  And he got up and walked quickly up the steps.  "But what about the rest of the game?" I shouted after him.

"Three one to England," he shouted back at me, ten minutes into the game.

 

I followed him out, having noticed the hostile faces around me once he'd gone and deciding that I was safer with Souness than on my own even if Parkhead is usually a safe haven for me.  Souness wasn't happy but allowed me to pay for the taxi into the city centre where we stopped for a few drinks before going back to disturb Findlay at 221b in Newlands.  We had just settled down to our drinks, Souness scowling at my appletini, when the doors of the bar burst open and in marched a gang of masked thugs - it was the Green Brigade and they were here to bully and assault anyone who didn't fit their rich cultural heritage.  They knocked over tables as women screamed and everyone ran for the doors.  As usual, I was one step ahead of everyone and was out of my seat in a twinkling and haring for the fire exit when I tripped and skimmed across the marble floor and under a table.  Hidden, I stayed there as Green Brigade thugs smashed faces and cracked skulls and all the while, amazingly, Souness stayed seated at his table finishing his drink.  Then, damage done, the mob left as quickly as they came in.  I got up from under the table and walked tentatively over to Souness.  "That was remarkable!  They didn't even go near you!" I exclaimed.

"Those fannies know better" said Souness, wiping his moustache and calling for a taxi. 

During the drive to Findlay's residence, a blanket of fog had fallen on the city; the streets were quiet, the football fans had gone home early, Scotland had lost three goals to one as Souness had predicted.  I thought about what he'd said about my taking offense at the songs sung at the football and I wondered if he was right, if I should just calm down and accept that singing ribald songs is part of the working man's football experience but then I saw an opportunity to lay into Rangers supporters and carefully lifted out my smart phone and started typing up a short column on how awful it is to sing your defiance against a murderous terror group, especially if they're Irish.  Booing the national anthem though?  Of course, that's alright.

Behind Blue Eyes

"Alex Salmond's having more farewells than Sinatra," said Donald Findlay as he puffed on his pipe and rested his feet on the fireplace.  "You know the difference between Sinatra and Salmond, eh?"

"You mean, apart from the fact..." I attempted to riposte.

"Salmond's friendly with more gangsters!" interrupted Findlay, almost bursting out of his weskit.

"Very poor," muttered Graeme Souness who was sitting in the corner stewing.  Nothing much was bothering him, it was just his natural state these days.  Mainly because everything bothered him.  "Anyone would think it was a laughing matter," said Souness.  "Anyone would think Alex Salmond wasn't dressing up at night like Zorro and doing an arsonists tour of Asda stores."

"That's a very serious accusation, old friend" puffed Findlay.  "Do you have the proof?"

"Well Asda stores are burning down all over Scotland and witnesses usually report seeing a portly man dressed in black and smelling of paraffin leaving the scene.  One actually tried to stop him only for the fat fellow to pull out a sword and carve an S on his chest."

"Could be anyone, there are lots of fat people in Scotland with names beginning with an S" I said.

"Yes, but do they all smell of whisky and leave a trail of betting slips?" asked Souness, harrumphing and sitting back in his chair as if that settled the matter.

"Oh Salmond can do what he likes now," said Findlay, tapping his pipe on the fire.  "He's more of an irrelevance than he ever was.  No, we have more pressing concerns.  Spiers, what do you know of this man who's been arrested over the Rangers affair?"

"Which one?  There's loads!" I laughed and Souness coughed and shot me a look that made my balls run for cover.  "Nothing, I know nothing about it, about any of it.  To tell you the truth, the whole mess has become so complicated that I rarely even think about it these days as it hurts the old noggin.  Lawwell's got a gagging order on it anyway, no one's allowed to write about it, allude to it, tweet about it, even bring it up in conversations with friends down the Ubiquitous Chip.  Anyone'd think he's protecting someone..."

"Precisely," said Findlay, taking a taper from the fire and lighting his pipe.  He sighed and seemed to relax, groaning with pleasure amongst the fug of tobacco smoke.  "What do you think of the game against the Irish then, eh?"

"Scrappy, ballsy, very little actual football played; a bit like an old firm game really, why do you ask?"

"Conversation, my dear boy!  We don't invite you over here every time to embroil you in some scheme, I just fancied some of your company."  At this point I knew he was lying as no one ever wants my company.  Not unless they're after something.  "I thought it was hilarious," continued Findlay.  "It was like Scotland were playing the cast of Gangs of New York, I was sure we'd win but we were a bit worried when they brought on those fellows from Peaky Blinders, weren't we Graeme?"

"Quite," grumped Souness.  "Of course I was on top of the roof with a snipers rifle in case any of those bearded murphies pulled a gun but it all turned out okay.  All they did was dive in with a few tackles worthy of drunken peat diggers, or myself at my peak."

"And what about the England game?" asked Findlay.

"No interest in it, just a bunch of jumped pantry boys wearing too much cologne, hurrying to get the football out of the way so they can get on with the serious business of spit roasting girls in hotel rooms" sneered Souness.

"You can't be talking about the England team, surely?" I exclaimed.

"Well, them too but I was really talking about the SFA." 

The night wore on and Souness relaxed a little, his moustache stopped bristling and occasionally Donald Findlay would appear from his cloud of smoke and top up our brandies.  It was a jovial night, and I was just considering how much more pleasant it was to the cold evenings with Lawwell when he'd show his hospitality to the Scottish press by hanging us upside down from meat hooks in the Parkhead walk-in freezers.  Towards the end of the night, conversation got around to Craig Whyte and I felt a chill in the room as if someone had opened a window.  "He fooled us all," I said but Souness growled, "He fooled nobody," and he got up and spat into the fire.

"I hear House's men are looking to have a word with him, there's a warrant out for his arrest."

"He'll only appear if he wants to appear," said Findlay.  "And why should he?"

"Did I tell you I met his son recently?" I asked.  "Looks remarkably like his father, in fact he's got his father's eyes."

"No he hasn't," smirked Souness, picking up a jar from Findlay's worktop.  He pulled a velvet handkerchief from the jar and I almost gagged.  "We've got his father's eyes." 

Far from the Mad Crowd (5th Anniversary Special)

Souness's Log (extract)

 

My name's Souness, for the last month I have been babysitting the cretin Spiers who has been in a catatonic state since the referendum result came in.  Like the rest of the west end dinner party elite, he'd believed that what he'd heard in the bars and cafes of Byres Road was representative of the rest of the country, then when the dream collapsed, so did he.  It might also have been something to do with Tom Devine hiding his meds but we can't be sure.  So there he was, lying in a bed in Ravenscar Asylum, drooling and shitting himself with his only visitor apart from his nurses, being Pat Nevin who would appear every night and tell him his two stories. 

In the old days of espionage, to keep an eye on Spiers's progress, I'd have had to sit in front of the CCTV monitor all day and night but in these days of new technology I have it linked up to my smart phone which is programmed to alert me to any movement from the bed.  At first I'd be checking the screen only to find a nurse there, cleaning his nappy or feeding him but recently, all that changed. 

My phone buzzed and I glanced at it expecting to see the nurse but no, there he was: Spiers was sitting upright in bed, his eyes wide open.  I switched on the audio and could hear the sound of a transistor radio playing in the background, a newsreader was reading out the League Cup draw: "And the main news tonight is, Rangers and Celtic have been drawn in the next round of the League Cup..."

"Rangers, Celtic... Darling!" said Spiers, then he jumped out of bed and disappeared out of sight of the cameras.  I ran out to the drive and leapt into my Aston Martin DB5, it roared and kicked up dirt and I shot into the night to get to Spiers before Lawwell. 

End of Souness's Log (extract)

 

I'm back!  Me, Graham Spiers, crusading journalist and radio personality; smug denizen of Twitter and accomplished pianist - everyone's always telling me how much of a huge pianist I am.  Granted, I've had a bad month but the less said about referendum politics the better, mainly because I know as little about that as I do about football and as my old gran used to say, "it's better to keep your counsel than to open your flapping great mouth and confirm to everyone that you're a bloody idiot, now put on those corduroys and hold still or it's the hairbrush for you." 

So I came to in a hospital room having been jolted back to life by the announcement that my team had drawn the team I say is my team in the cup and even after a month in a coma, I knew that I had to act quickly before I was rounded up and taken to Parkhead where Lawwell would inform with menaces, the cream of Scottish football journalism, exactly how we'd be reporting the build up.  There was also the small matter of the approach of remembrance day weekend which as everyone knows, is the time of the year that Celtic fans act so outrageously that even the normally cowed Scottish press occasionally mention it.  All of this was going through my mind as I ran out into the car park, quickly becoming aware of the fact I was still wearing a hospital issue gown with my bare arse flapping in the wind, when a fist hit me in the face.  I fell backwards onto the gravel and knocked my head and I was just fading into unconsciousness when through the fog, I saw Lawwell looking down at me, grinning.  "Hello cunt-squeak, have you missed me?"  Then it all went black. 

 

Souness's Log (extract)

I got there just in time to catch Lawwell's goons loading Spiers into the back of a black Land Rover.  The DB5's brakes squealed as my little MG spun on the gravel of the great drive-in leading to the asylum gates and I was out of the door and rolling before the car had stopped moving.  My first shot hit the front goon who had turned towards me aiming a machine pistol my way, my second shot took a slice off Spiers's arse.  I'm getting old, I'd have never hit him accidentally like that twenty years ago.  A semi-automatic spat and I ducked behind the MG, the fire from the passenger door of Lawwell's Land Rover raking my beautiful motor -  I vowed he'd pay for it and returned fire.  A second goon fell to the ground; there, he'd paid for it.  There were too many of them though and two goons remained behind to keep me in cover from their gunfire while the Land Rover sped off with Spiers inside it.  I pulled out my smart phone and with the tap of the screen, opened the gun ports of the MG and dispatched the two remaining goons.  My tyres were blown though so I couldn't pursue Lawwell.  One day, he and I are going to have a reckoning.

End of Souness's Log (extract)

 

I came to with a sore bum but that's not unusual for me.  I also came to tied up beside every journalist in Glasgow in a dark and stinking hole which I recognised as the Skin Flats deep beneath Parkhead, just another of Lawwell's torture chambers where he kept the Scottish press under control, but then that's not unusual either.  Lawwell was lashing into Tom English with his horse whip until he noticed that I'd regained consciousness when he stopped and said, "Ah, Spiers, you're awake?  Good, now to business.  Right, you cunts:  Remembrance Weekend," and he sighed.  "I fucking hate Remembrance Weekend, it's always a royal pain in the tits for me because no matter how often I tell those morons in the support that they're not doing us any favours by singing Irish republican songs throughout the minutes silence, they never listen.  And it costs me ten grand which we can't afford.  I can't ban them, our crowds are small enough as it is...  So it's down to you fannies again to ignore it.  Ignore our fans and find some way to lay into Rangers at the same time and pretty soon November will be over and we can get back to normal, got that?"

"Erm,"  I ventured.  "What about Deila?"

"Who?" asked Lawwell, shrugging his shoulders and looking at me as if I was an idiot.

"Ronny Deila,"  I replied.

"Ronny Deila?  Who the fuck's he?" asked Lawwell.

"Your manager!"

"Oh, that prick?  What about him?"

"Well, he's not exactly Celtic minded.  He's not exactly of good old west of Scotland Celtic minded stock, so what if he's asked something about the fans disturbing the minutes silence and says something very quotable?"

"Simple," said Lawwell, tickling me under the chin with his horse whip.  "You don't quote him!  Jesus fucking Christ, have you cretins learned nothing in the last five years?" and he hit me a backhander across the cheek for good measure. 

A few days later everything had gone to plan: Celtic fans had disrespected Remembrance Day as expected, as they had every year for the past five years since it became their 'thing', but we didn't report it; Deila had indeed said something that we all could have run with but we buried it and flushed with the success of not only covering up Celtic misdemeanours, but also giving Rangers a hard time for daring to hold a solemn ceremony featuring the armed forces at Ibrox, I toddled along to Hampden where I'd heard Lawwell was having his office extended to take up the entire second floor of the SFA, to see how the land lay.  "What the fuck are you doing here, nob-jockey?" he growled as I arrived.

"Oh just looking for a few lines about your result yesterday," I said.

"Why, who were we playing?" said Lawwell, tugging at his sleeves and looking shifty.

"Aberdeen, you were playing Aberdeen."

"Were we?  What was the score?"

"You won, 2-1."

"Oh who cares?  It's all a fucking bore since Rangers left...  And if you quote me on that I'll skin your fucking bollocks and hang you from a tree by your cock!" 

Later, as I sat in the Chip with Tom Devine and Pat Nevin, I told them what Lawwell had said and Tom laughed, spilling port down the front of his shirt.  "Ho ho, Spiers!  Are you sure he said that?  Really really sure?  After all, I've got your meds here, had 'em since the 19th September.  I bet you've been imagining all sorts of things since you woke up, eh?  Seen Harrison Ford lately?  The Osmonds?"

"Well now that you mention it..." I stuttered.

"Aye, well, that's what happens when you don't take the tablets, here!" and he tossed me my bottle of pills.  "Take a few of those every day and things'll calm down again but hey, don't forget to stop taking them in time for the Old Firm match, that's going to be a fucking hoot!"

 

 

Souness's Log (extract)

 

He's back in their hands.  Spiers is back with Lawwell.  I told Donald Findlay this at his lodgings in Newlands and he chuckled.  "That's exactly where we want him, old friend.  That's exactly where we want him."

 

End of Souness's Log (extract)