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)