They Horse Whip Donkeys, Don't They?

“Thank fuck we’re playing somebody this week, else the press might start sniffing around yet another fucking fine thanks to those morons in the crowd” snarled Lawwell.

“Who re you playing anyway?” I asked, rather mischievously considering I knew fine well.

“Fucked if I know,” he replied a little too honestly which was entirely unexpected.  “I leave that sort of thing to the manager.”

“And the manager is?” I prodded, chancing my luck.

“Delia Smith?  Ronnie Corbett?  Who gives a toss?  Just as long as you lot continue ignoring our lot and concentrate on hounding that lot, I’ll be fucking happy.”

“And what if we are accused of only holding one team in Scotland accountable for all the ills of society?” I asked.

“Then you remember your fucking training!  Jesus Christ almighty, do I have to give you fuckers refresher courses?  You accuse them of whataboutery and refuse to answer the fucking question.  Ever.  It’s not rocket science, Spiers.”

“Hold on,” I said.  “Have I missed something?  Have you already issued orders on this one?”

“Didn’t you get the memo?” he asked, smiling.

“No, no I didn’t” I said, feeling ever so slightly left out.

“Well lucky for you, Spiers, I have one right here.”

“Oh good,” I squealed, clapping my hands and hopping from foot to foot with excitement.

“Pucker up, loser, here’s your memo” and he punched me right on the mouth.  I went down whimpering and he laid into me with his horse whip until he tired, then he spat on me.  Phew, for one horrible moment I thought I was out of the loop.