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."