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.