Cronies O' Mine or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the SNP

“Ye see this, Spiers? Huh?  Ye see this?” bawled Tom Devine, waving the Herald in my face as we sat in Tennents pub on Byres Road this morning.  “This is what I call a front page!  Ah… look, there’s my name, “signatory on the Manifesto for Independence, Sir Tom Devine, Professor Emeritus of Scottish History”.  See, right there” and he shoved the paper under my nose, “under Robert Crawford, whoever the fuck he is…”  He would’ve gone on, but he burped a little and then swallowed it, it went down the wrong way and he spent the next ten minutes choking.

So the great and the good of Scottish cultural society have come out again for independence, there was no surprise there, they’ve not stopped banging on about it since they lost back in 14; I’m just glad it was a new independence manifesto Devine was showing me, for a moment I was worried that Neil Cameron was back at the Herald.

So, there we were, two idlers in a pub before midday and Tom’s choking apart, the place was quiet.  Pat Nevin wasn’t around to tell us his two stories and Angela Haggerty was hiding somewhere for a reason which Tom doesn’t like to discuss; indeed, he blushes whenever her name is brought up.  Janette Findlay has also gone to ground since she got caught sending bombs to her own university and got a slap on the wrist for it and told not to do it again.  All in all, it’s been very quiet, even Lawwell has been silent, not torturing any journalists in a while.  And just as I thought about Lawwell, the pub doors swung open and in he breezed, straight up to where we were sitting - he slapped his horse whip onto the bar and ordered a pint of ale.  The landlord brought it over and Lawwell picked it up and poured it over my head.  “Alright tosser?” he said.

“He’s fine Peter,” said Devine, his coughing fit gone now.  “Have ye seen this front page, eh?  Look, there’s me, right above Lari Don… I don’t even know if that’s a man or a woman, what say you, eh Lawwell?  Man or woman?”

“The SNP, eh?” growled Lawwell.  “Everything they know about managing the press they owe to me.  I wonder what fuck nuggetry they’re covering up today with this pish.  Hell’s bells, I thought the Scottish press were pussies when dealing with us, but they take cowardice to a whole new level with this bunch of fucking losers.”

“Not a fan?” I asked.

“Are you joking?  How the fuck are Celtic supposed to get a sniff of the big money of the EPL if we’re not even in the same country anymore?  Plus, I’ve seen enough useless arseholes in my life – remember Adam Matthews?  No, I wish I didn’t either.  How about Samaras?  Oh, he might have been a pretty boy and caught your eye more than once Spiers, but how many goals did he score?  Honestly, how many?  I don’t know, I wasn’t paying much attention back then.  Anyway, I’ve known enough hopeless parasites in my time to recognise them when they’re running the country” and at this he ordered another pint and poured it over my head.

“Who is Robert Hodgens, Spiers?” piped up Tom, still pouring over the list of creatives from the Herald.  “Is that the Bob the Builder chappy?  You know, used to be in Mary’s Prayer with the Rangers boy, erm, Danny Wilson?”

“Yes, Tom.  That’s the one” I humoured him.  I was almost certain it was actually Bob the Bluebell but with Lawwell around it doesn’t pay to remind him of anything to do with Rangers, not since they had gone top of the league and people started talking about number fifty five.  Oh no, that’s a sure way to fetch up in the butcher’s yard, upside down with your guts for company.  I was just pondering this when Tom spat out his port.  “Ho ho!  This list is poppycock!  I know this mad old dame and she ain’t no writer and broadcaster, damn it all Spiers, I’m in the company of cranks!  But by God she was a pretty one back in the day, I had her over the jumps once, up on the Isle of Skye, at least I think it was Skye…” and at that his eyes clouded over and a dark mood of maudlin reminiscence washed over him like waves in the night.  I’ve seen this before, and it never ends well as he tends to self-medicate his way out of it by way of several gallons of whisky.  “Whisky, damn your eyes!” shouted Devine, as if on cue.

“Is this all you chumps get up to of a morning then?” asked Lawwell.

“Well there’s not much else to be doing when you’re both pretty much out of work” I said.

“In that case, I think I can help you there,” he pondered. “Now don’t think I’ve forgotten the fact that you singularly failed to intercept Steven Gerrard on the Orient Express a year ago,” he picked up the horse whip and twisted it between clenched fists.  “But I’m willing to forgive and forget, aren’t I known throughout Scotland as being a benevolent ruler?  Now here’s what I want you do…” and so he told me his plan, a plan so wicked yet simple that it would change the face of Scottish football forever.  But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.