Barad-dûr

"Where the fuck are they?" roared Lawwell as he smashed up his own office, pulling drawers out and emptying their contents on the floor and pushing over filing cabinets.  I had turned up to his office at Hampden where he'd been living since annexing the SFA a few years back, he had summoned me by telephone with a call full of imaginative expletives that would have meant nothing to anyone outside of the Scottish press and in spite of being pretty much outside of the Scottish press myself these days, I knew exactly what it meant and so my corduroys were a blur as I rushed over there. 

When I arrived, I wished I hadn't.  The office was a mess of papers, books, curious instruments of torture and jars full of gore.  On the ceiling was Stewart Regan, nailed there by the arms and legs, his stomach cut open with his intestines hanging down like some obscene tree swing.  "Regan, what are you doing up there?" I asked.

"Bleeding to death!  Spiers, you've got to help me, I've lost too much blood, if you can't help him find what he's looking for then I'm going to die up here."
"But what's he looking for?  This place is a mess, I've never seen him like this" I squawked, feeling that familiar feeling in my bowels as Lawwell emerged from a cupboard.  "Tom English's balls," he screamed at me.  "Where are they?"
"Surely hanging from Tom English?" I suggested, thinking I was being helpful.  Five minutes later as I was hanging from the ceiling beside Stewart Regan while Lawwell looked for a knife, I contemplated how one should never try to be smart with Lawwell.

"What's got him in this state anyway?" I asked Regan.
"First of all there was the Tonev thing, he didn't take to kindly to having signed up to the balance of probability approach to disciplinary procedure without having considered for one moment that we'd dare use it against Celtic."
"Well I'm surprised you did, I mean you go after the boss of the SFA of course you're going to fetch up hanging from the ceiling with your guts spilling out."
"It wasn't me, Spiers; the thing is, I can't remember doing it, telling anyone else to do it or even approving the bloody thing - God knows how it got this far, I mean there are procedures to stop this kind of thing happening."
"And by this kind of thing, you mean Lawwell's rules to pursue Rangers for any old thing being used against Celtic?"
"Exactly, listen Spiers, you've got to get us down from here, I don't think I can last much longer - I think he's looking for revenge on Tom English for his BBC article this morning, you've got to think of something and fast."
I thought for a moment and came up with a plan, a plan so simple that I'm surprised Regan himself hadn't thought about it.

"Excuse me, boss?" I called out to Lawwell as he tossed papers around the floor ranting about his blade being here somewhere.  "I have an idea."  Lawwell stood up and looked at me, those baleful eyes staring right into my soul as he pulled out his cock and pissed on the floor.  "I'm listening," he said.

"Let us down and I'll find Tom English for you, you seem to think you had his balls..."
"In a jar," he interrupted.
"You seem to think you had his balls in a jar but I saw them only last night - how is not important - and I can find them again for you but not if I'm nailed to your ceiling."
"That's not much, what else you got?" he growled, finishing off his urination and tucking his penis inside his trousers.
"To take the heat off Celtic, Stewart here will fine Rangers a hefty wedge and that'll give the press something with which to run and a good excuse to ignore the Tonev result."
"And what excuse does he have to fine Rangers?"
"Who gives a flying fuck?" screamed Regan, running out of time.  "I can say any old thing, who are Rangers to argue?  I'll fine them half a million just because I can, are you trying to say anyone out there will object?  Any newspaper or television journalists will raise one question about what the fuck we're doing?  Just get me down from here and to a hospital before I die!"
"Fine," said Lawwell.  "But make it two hundred and fifty grand, we want to stretch this out a bit."

 

 

The Devil in the Detail

I was interviewing Stewart Regan in his cupboard at Hampden at the weekend when the door crashed open and Lawwell stood there glowering at us, twisting his riding whip tightly between clenched fists.  "You, cunt-squeak, my office now" he raged, pointing a finger at Regan before turning to go without even looking at me.  "And Spiers," he shouted back.  "If you want to see a grown man cry, feel free to join him."  That's the thing about sociopathic bullies like Lawwell, they just love to humiliate their victims in front of others and that's great for crusading journalists like me because here I was, on the front line again, gathering up facts which I could then discard and print the usual disingenuous nonsense.  Aye, it's great being a journo in Scotland, you get paid far too much for little talent and not very much work.

 

We scampered along the corridor trying to catch up with Lawwell as it doesn't do to keep him waiting when he's in this type of mood as it just allows him time to think up nightmarish new tortures.  As we got to the door to his office we both stopped, "You go first," offered Regan.

"No, you go first" I replied.
"Please, I insist."
"I insist more, after you."
"Look Spiers, just get in there," and he started to jostle me so I jostled back and before I knew what was happening, he'd overpowered me and pushed me through the doorway into Lawwell's office where I tripped over the SFA carpet, landing with a thump right on the Celtic crest.  I looked up and Lawwell was naked except for a pair of jackboots - see, this is why you should never linger outside his door!  Regan came creeping in, "Yes, master?" only to have Lawwell leap across the room surprisingly quickly and press the end of his whip against the tip of Regan's nose.  "It's time for you to go after Rangers again, they're nearly done and all we have to do is tip them over the edge.  Ashley's the weak spot, go after him, you won't find it difficult."
"But boss, my reputation is in tatters, no one will take me seriously, not even Rangers."
"Christ," exclaimed Lawwell, taking a slice at Regan's cheek with the whip.  "Do I have to do all the thinking all of the time around here?  Then we do something about your reputation, I know: you're being considered for the English FA job."
"Am I?"
"When you leave this office you're going to apply which means you're being considered, right?  Right Spiers?" he looked at me.
"Oh yes, sir.  We can certainly word it like that to make it seem that this clown has a hope in hell..." I'd gone too far and was rewarded with a boot to the throat.
"Pip's right, the press will report whatever the fuck I tell them to report so get to it; today you apply for the English FA job, tomorrow you batter into Rangers.  Right, where are the disciplinary committee?  I want to speak to them about this Tonev business and when I say speak to them, of course I mean stretch them on the rack until they agree that Tonev is completely innocent of racism."
"Erm, sir, they're hiding" squeaked Regan, and that was the moment I sneaked out, fearing that I might fetch up on the rack with them.  As I scurried across the Hampden car park I heard a crash and a scream, it was Regan going through Lawwell's window.  Lucky for him he had a soft landing on his head but as I watched him stagger up the steps back to his desk in his cupboard, I thought there was no way he was going to find that disciplinary committee in time.  I was right.