To the End

Graham Spiers sat in front of Peter Lawwell, a rictus idiot grin spread across his face, his head nodding in time to every order enunciated by his master.  He looked pathetic; fawning and flattering, looking for any way to ingratiate himself with Lawwell, in fact it made me want to vomit; now I knew how neutrals felt when reading the rot, the anti-Rangers bile he passes for journalism.  It pained me to my very soul to witness this because, well because I am Graham Spiers.

So how did I fetch up spying on myself as I agreed to yet another Lawwell agenda in the heart of the Daily Record building which had been annexed by Celtic at the beginning of the season; Parkhead and Hampden not being enough for Lawwell to lurk and plan, thrash and punish?  Well I blame it on Lawwell’s time machine which turned out not to be just a time machine but a device to transport us across realities, through the thin curtains between universes.  When we returned to this earth we all assumed we’d arrived home but what Lawwell didn’t tell us was that for each and every one of us: Lawwell himself, Souness, Donald Findlay, Tom Devine and me, there was another one of us out there already.  It turns out everyone else figured this and made it work to their advantage: Souness teaming up with himself to menace various Celtic puppets in Harper MacLeod, Devine to plough into as many demented Celtic Minded trollops as possible, and Findlay to move in more shadows than normal, gathering information and plotting against Rangers’ enemies.  Me?  I sloped through life not realising, never meeting myself and missing an opportunity to have a threesome with myself and Gordon Matheson in the back of his car.

And so the season came to an end, Rangers survived and won the third division which was enough to see Celtic fans take to the internet in their thousands and Erskine bridge in their hundreds to either harass journalists into always referring to Rangers as a new club or to launch themselves off the bridge because they couldn’t live with the target of so much hatred and venom having made it through times when most thought (hoped) they would perish.  Of course I was smart enough to pander to the bigots and stab at Rangers often, referring to them as a new club on Twitter and in print – they lap it up, the Celtic fans, and I’m often invited to Celtic functions at supporters clubs, Parkhead itself and BBC Scotland where I’m lauded and only occasionally spat on. 

Celtic of course won the SPL championship but nobody noticed.  Then they apparently won the Scottish Cup which even I might not have noticed had the Daily Mail CSC not devoted an entire paper to it, Stephen McGowan and John Greechan running up and down Buchanan Street in their Celtic tracksuits handing out free copies of the paper so people would know that Neil Lennon is the greatest manager since Alex Ferguson hung up his Chateauneuf du Pape.  Talking of Lennon, it had been a quiet season for him with no sign of demonic possession, rising from the grave, having his head sewn onto a Frankenstein’s monster or being kidnapped and replaced by a robot.  No, it seems that without Rangers to occupy his every waking moment, Lennon can behave himself.  It also seems that without Rangers he can also win a league.  Granted, he did have a few blips and misbehaved but Lawwell had his man Vincent Lunny working tirelessly behind the scenes at the SFA to punish him with half match bans and other comedy penalties.

Who needs to work on behalf of Celtic behind the scenes at the SFA though when Lawwell’s other man, Stewart Regan is there, picking up wage rises every year for doing nothing more than ensuring Rangers remain hamstrung.  Even I, a purblind idiot if ever there was one can see that Regan only pops his head above the parapet when he can scent Rangers blood.  All the rest of the time he lies under Lawwell’s desk scratching his ears and occasionally whining for food.

 

And so as the season came to a close, it was with great disappointment that I realised not only would there be no end of season drama with Rangers and Celtic punching it out till the last minute for the league title but also that there was no action played out in the background either.  Past seasons have witnessed Celtic Armies marching on Walter Smith’s outpost, Lawwell launching a nuclear missile at Ibrox and the following year revealing himself to be the devil.  Then this season came to a close with a whimper.  Or so I thought until I was snatched from Byres Road, hooded and tied and then driven to the Daily Record to witness myself listening to Lawwell give me orders for this season’s final outrage.