Enter the Others

Tom Devine was laughing, pointing at me and slapping his thighs.  “Oh you bloody great oaf, Spiers.  You’ve only gone and fallen for it again!” he roared as he tossed me a rope to pull me in out of the Clyde where I was bobbing around having fallen out of my banana boat.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all began when I wrote some nonsense about Rangers, you know the usual stuff: barely brushing reality, snide digs and a few in-jokes to keep my demographic happy.  Then it turned out that the Herald wasn’t too happy about all the whoppers and they made me apologise.  Now as you all know I’m not one for apologising even if I’ve been caught out good and proper like that time behind the Queen Margaret Union but the less said about that the better, so before the ink was even dry on the apology I was releasing a statement of my own and this is how it came about…

I was sauntering down Byres Road considering whether to have a pint in the Chip or go home to my flat for a quick wank when suddenly a van screeched to a halt on the road beside me and two masked men jumped out.  They made a beeline for me and I let out a girly yelp as they hooded me and bundled me into the back of the van and before I knew what was happening I was driven at speed through the streets of Glasgow.  The journey lasted around ten minutes until the van came to a halt and I was dragged out and forcibly marched up some stairs and into a room, then the hood was removed and I began blinking, trying to work out if my eyes were deceiving me because sitting in front of me were Phil McGillivan, Angela Haggerty, Alex Thomson and James Doleman.

“Welcome to the Others, Spiers” said McGillivan, mysteriously.

“Who are the Others?” I asked.

“We’re the Others,” said McGillivan.

“Who, you lot?” I persevered.

“Aye, us.  We’re the Others.  It’s a name we’ve given ourselves, alright?  It was going to be the Outsiders but Angela pointed out there’s a film wi’ that name and James didn’t want to be named after a piece of thick bread.  Anyway, enough of this nonsense, you’ve been brought to us because you have now joined the ranks of journalists who are being threatened by the Klan, the Herrenvolk, they Orange bastards…”

“Hold on,” I interrupted.  “I’ve not been threatened by anyone.”

“You were forced to make an apology because the Klan threatened to burn down the Herald building if you didn’t!” shouted McGillivan.

“Er, no.  I made an apology because I lied in print and the Herald found out, no one’s threatened anyone.”

“No Spiers,” spoke up James Doleman.  “You’ve been threatened by the Klan just like the rest of us journalists sitting here.”

“Journalists?  You’re not journalists, you’re a bunch of raving lunatics who are so busy crying about hatred and sectarianism that you don’t even notice your own prejudice – and you?  Doleman?  Stalking Rangers through the courts and tweeting about it doesn’t make you a journalist, it just makes you a sad man who likes to sit in court in the hope that something bad’ll happen to a football team you hate.  Alex?  You should know better” and Alex Thomson blushed and looked away.  “Look, this is ridiculous, if anyone sees me with you lot then my reputation is mud so I’m off…  Where am I anyway?” and as I said it the lights went on, the door opened behind me and the look of fear that shot over the faces of the Others told me that behind me was something so frightening that it could even scare these fearless crusaders for social justice and community cohesion, these haters of Protestants.

 

“Hello Spiers, it’s been a while” said Peter Lawwell as my bowels almost dissolved.