A Tale Told by an Idiot

So where was I?  Oh yes, my bowels were dissolving and Lawwell was glaring at me with an evil glint in his eye.  Somewhere out there James Doleman was stinking up a court as he stalked Rangers and Angela Haggerty was bleating about double standards while indulging in the most outrageous hypocrisy.  So, that was this time last year and guess what, nothing’s changed!  It’s as if a whole year meant nothing because we haven’t progressed one bit.

Well, we have a little.  Celtic spunked a fortune on making sure Rangers didn’t reappear in the Premiership and win the bloody thing immediately while Rangers spent two bob and appeared blinking into the light feeling lucky just to be there.  Somewhere along the line Celtic won the league but nobody noticed or cared much because let’s face it, without Rangers they had a free run at it – I mean who else was going to mount a challenge, Aberdeen?  I said as much to Tom Devine and he snorted Port out of his nose.  “Ho ho, Spiers!” he chortled.  “Aberdeen?”  And that was it, that was all he said and for the rest of that evening he sat chuckling, supping from his bucket and casting horny glances across the bar at Haggerty who had popped in for a shite.

How could I possibly lose a year?  I’ve been asking myself today.  The answer lies in my meds of course, I’ve been taking them regularly now and so am no longer embroiled in outrageous adventures with fantastical characters from the world of Scottish football.  “Ye’ve run out of steam,” ventured Devine rudely without my asking and you know, I think he could be right but the mere fact that he was sitting beside me suggested that there was still something in my armoury, and of course that I’d gone out for a drink while forgetting to take my pills.

“What do you know of Stewart Gilmour?” growled Lawwell after Devine had got me drunk and into a taxi which took us to Hampden.  “The boss wants to see you,” he’d said and like a fool I thought he meant that rat-faced little runt whose name I can’t even remember.  I mean is he even still with the SFA?  “Regan’s his name,” said Devine as if he’d read my mind.  “Awful fellow, smells a bit odd and lives in the janny’s cupboard on the ground floor.  You’re going to see the real boss of the SFA,” and of course everybody knows who that means.

"Well?" pressed Lawwell.

“Stewart Gilmour?  I dunno, is he the new Celtic centre forward?” I said, trembling at the sight of Lawwell who was standing in the centre of his office throwing daggers at a target on the back of a door.  He was naked.

“Fucked if I know,” said Lawwell.  “Devine, is he our new centre forward?”

“No Peter, he’s the manager of St. Mirren.”

“Who are they?”

“Nobodies from Paisley, gifted us the league a few decades ago, we bought them a stand, remember?”

“No…  Oh yes, it’s coming back to me now.  That bastard Gilmour’s only come out and said I’m running Scottish football and…  What are you smiling at Spiers?”  He shot me a glance, one dagger still in his throwing hand and I did not like it one bit.

“Nothing,” I said.  “Except, here you are in an office that takes up two floors of the SFA headquarters in the national stadium.  You’ve got Stewart Regan hanging from a hook from the back of a door with a target on his chest and you’re throwing knives at it and well, you kind of, erm…  You’re the establishment now, Peter.”

Devine roared with laughter all the way back to the west end.  “Oh Spiers, you should’ve seen your face when that dagger hit your thigh!  Oh my goodness, I thought I’d die from laughing!”

“I didn’t find it funny, Tom” I said.  “It took the paramedics an hour to stop the bleeding, and then there was all that piss to clean up.”

“It’s too funny Spiers, when do you think he’ll give you your balls back?”

“Only once I’ve seen to it that the Daily Record removes that headline from their back page, shouldn’t be too much bother, the editor’s a pussy.  Lawwell would’ve horse whipped him himself but apparently Nicola Sturgeon’s taking care of that these days herself and nobody else can get a look in.”

Later, job done, headline gone, and back at the Ubiquitous Chip, Devine ordered a Pina Colada for me and four pints of whisky for himself and as we clinked glasses he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little bag.  “What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s your medicine, son.  Now gulp it down like a good boy, this was fun and everything but I was right the first time, you’ve run out of steam.”