Dawn of the Lawwells

“Spiers, come in here.  Come take a look at this.”  This was Tom English and he was calling to me from Lawwell’s office in Hampden.  We’d been lurking around trying to find some explanation for the madness that had gripped the SFA in allowing Dave King to be deemed a fit and proper person to run Rangers.  Tom had got himself into a bit of a state over the whole affair because, well because he really hates Rangers.  Me?  I was just loafing along, running with the crowd as usual and it never hurts ones career to be seen to be laying into the Gers. 

“What is it?” I asked as I peered tentatively into the room and then I gasped at what I saw: Lawwell had had the builders in and had opened up the whole of the floor into his own personal space – internal walls had been removed and you could see the length of Hampden from one end to the other and it was all Lawwell’s.  We could tell it was all his from the ghastly instruments of torture which lined the walls: a rack here, chains there, an iron maiden in the corner.  I was just taking all of this in when I almost jumped out of my shirt as Lawwell walked in and caught us.  “Hello boys,” he said, smiling.

“Eh?” chirped Tom.

“Er, hello Mr Lawwell” said I, wondering why we weren’t hanging by the balls from the ceiling by now.

“It’s so good to see you both here, it’s saved me the bother of inviting you over” said Lawwell.

“Tom, I don’t like this, he’s being nice” I whispered to Tom.

“Hold on just a minute, Spiers” Tom whispered back.  “I have a theory…  Mr Lawwell, can you name a current Celtic player?  Any current Celtic player.”

“Efe Ambrose of course.”

“Spiers,” Tom hissed at me.  “This isn’t Lawwell.  Lawwell wouldn’t know a Celtic player if one chased him down the street and bit him on the leg.”

“Then who is this?  What is this?” I rasped, too loudly as it turned out.

“Why, I am Lawwell 8.1” said Lawwell. 

Later, in the Chip, I was having a pint with Tom Devine.  Well, I was drinking a pint; he was guzzling from a bucket, port dribbling down his chin and soaking his shirt while wee Pat Nevin sat nearby telling the regulars his two stories.  “So what happened to the other eight then?” burped Tom.

“It seems once they’d completed construction, they brought them to life with a massive charge of electricity and every one of them to a man, got up and ran out the door.”

“All at once?”

“No, they built them one at a time.  They’d finish one, zap him, he’d run off and then they’d start again from the beginning.”

“This is all very rum, Spiers.  I mean, I’m used to things being a bit odd around you but this is damned perplexing.  I mean, what on earth were they going to do with another Lawwell?”

“Ah, now that’s an easy one: they needed one to sit at Celtic Park calling Hampden demanding clarification, and they needed another to sit at Hampden taking the call.”

Tom sighed.  “So why 8.1?  Why not Lawwell 9?”

“The one that remained, the one that didn’t get up and sprint into Kings Park, well he thought that 8.1 sounded sexy.”

“And now we have eight Lawwells on the loose out there, getting up to gawd knows what?  By Christ, Spiers, I preferred it when you were still on your medication.  Talking of which, what in blue blazes were the SFA on when they passed Dave King?  See, this is what happens when Lawwell is too busy replicating himself to pay attention to the task at hand.”

“And the task at hand is?”

“Making sure Rangers remain weak of course, I mean it’s not bloody difficult.  I’ll tell you what is difficult though, that slattern Haggerty.  I had her in bed last night and was canoeing into her when she suddenly took a strange turn and bucked me off – I landed with such a thump on the floorboards that I woke up Elaine C Smith and I couldn’t get her to stop barking for the rest of the night.  Ruined my whole day.  Anyway, Haggerty stood above me as I picked the splinters out of my arse and she put a high heel on my face and told me that there’d be no more dancing the blanket hornpipe until we were sure Rangers were going to remain in Division One, or the Championship, or whatever the bloody hell it is called these days.”

“Wow, they really are scared of competition these days, eh?  But this involves me how?” I asked.

“You can be damned,” he roared.  “What I want to know is how the hell it involves me!”

 

Then I heard a chuckle from over Tom’s shoulder.  “Oh it involves all of us” smiled Donald Findlay, straightening his tie.  Beside Findlay stood Souness, his moustache bristling.

“Aw for Christ’s sake,” moaned Devine.  “Not all this again.  Spiers, do us all a favour and get back on your meds."

"No thank you, Tom.  This is far too much fun, all of a sudden Scottish football could be becoming interesting again."