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.