View Full Version : The Further Adventures of Graham Spiers

23-07-2010, 11:33
Gog and Magog

After the relative peace and quiet of the close season summer weeks since my last adventures, certain wine bar philosophers around the west end have been querying the role of my diary in the startling turns Scotland took last season, asking would there have been as much bloodshed and would Rangers have won the league if it hadn't been for the creation of the diary? Curiously, while the diary has lain dormant in my corduroy satchel, everything has been fine with nary a grotesque lurking to launch yours truly into any astonishing adventures. That was until I decided to record my trip to Verbier with Herr Lawwell and the Devine Brothers as Celtic yet again laid down how they wanted to see the coming season reported, and the moment I stood on the balcony of the casino and put pen to paper when Souness came racing out of the woods on skis, pursued by a helicopter while behind me James Traynor dropped his drink, howled and made for the trees (see blog: http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.com/2010/06/strange-interlude.html.)

With this existential conundrum spinning around my head I put the diary away, maintaining I'd consider it before writing again but I forgot all about it while putting on Graham Spiers the Musical at the Partick Burgh Halls as I got caught up in a maelstrom of Elton John and Take That classics while ogling lithe young male dancers and I got quite lost amidst the after show parties at the Speakeasy pub in the Merchant City where astoundingly I bumped into my old beaux, Stephen Purcell, wandering around in a daze with his manhood hanging out of his trousers - just the one time indeed! I'm just glad his part in my great story is over.

So I was sitting in the Common Rooms, a common little bar on Byres Road when I decided to write the first paragraph above when the ground shuddered. Everyone in the bar looked around at each other and it happened again, this time dust fell from the ceiling like in some great disaster movie so I got up from my table and looked out of the window. Shudder, the walls moved and a pane of glass in front of me cracked. The barman left his post and joined me by the window, along with Hugh McDonald who had been buying a cafe latte, the three of us straining to see down Byres Road, trying to work out what was causing the very earth to shake when suddenly there was a great explosion of dust and rubble as a blurred figure landed at force on the road outside, tearing up the tarmac and ricocheting into a tenement building, knocking a hole in the wall and sending bricks and cement dust sprawling all over everything in sight. People screamed, car alarms sounded and next to me Hugh McDonald soiled himself. Then another figure dropped from above and stood amongst the debris, looking around. He was wearing a mask over his eyes, had a noose tied round his neck with some strange symbol on his chest. I only got the most fleeting glimpse of him though before the figure who had landed in the building next to us recovered and flew out of the hole in the wall at great speed and landed a mighty punch square on the chin of the man standing outside, sending him flying into the air. This new figure was wearing a dishevelled hood over his head and long flowing white robes, torn and mucky now from being thrown into the road and through a tenement flat. He didn't stand for long before launching himself through the air in the direction of the other fellow he'd just knocked into the sky.

Well here was a turn up for the books, two super powered idiots fighting each other in the streets of Glasgow. I later found out one was going by the name of Master Mason while the other was Torquemada, two super heroes or villains, depending which side you were on. One thing is for certain though, their appearance here, wreaking destruction over Glasgow as they make battle can mean only one thing, the Scottish football season is about to kick in.

26-07-2010, 11:18
The Alphonse Karr Factor

We're not even into the beginning of the season yet but there we were, lined up in Lawwell's office at midnight as he paced up and down in front of us in his Wehrmacht uniform, flailing around with his horse whip and screaming instructions to us about tomorrow's editions. Meanwhile, Neil Lennon sat whirring and clicking behind him as we all pretended not to know that he was a robot and that the real Lennon was lost in the west end somewhere with a pack of wanton hottentots. Apparently Lawwell had the robot Lennon's circuits over-ridden to wrest control of him from Walter Smith and was persevering with it until his agents could track down Lennon who, scared of going head to head with wily old Walter, was hiding behind the petticoats of the republican girls.

So, in the aftermath of the Celtic fans rioting in Lincoln, Lawwell put out a three line whip and we all fetched up in his office as he dictated our reports on the singing of the Rangers fans in Australia - yes, that old chestnut. No mention was to be made of the Celtic fans in Lincoln - the twenty arrests, the banning orders, fights within the stadium or the disgusting pro-terrorist chanting and compliant to the last, we all took notes and recorded his ravings on our dictaphones, some of us even seemed to be aroused by the process and at least one charming young journalist had a commotion going on inside his corduroys. As I was leaving Parkhead, I noticed the Traynor howling into his mobile phone and felt pity for the poor subby at the other end who had to translate that into copy. Lawwell needn't worry though since such is the Daily Record, the subby would probably be at that very moment, wearing a Celtic top anyway and no matter how insane and deranged the Traynor's rantings, it'd still read Rangers bad, Celtic good.

By the time I got home it was very late and the wife was in bed, seemingly having cried herself to sleep beside a picture of Aamer Anwar which was a turn up for the books as I thought she'd got over him judging from her behaviour since I turfed him off the ledge at the City Chambers last year, since when she'd been consorting with Bishop Joe Devine's arse puppet, Jason Allardyce and coincidentally also being seen on Devine's brother's arm, the monstrous Tom Devine. This of course was all very disappointing to me as one expects more of one's beards. I removed the photograph from her sleeping arms, tore it up and put it in the bin in the kitchen where I noticed an unopened letter addressed to me sitting on the worktop. I opened it and out fell a single white feather which was strange. I put it to the back of my mind and toddled off to the toilet with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook under my arm and iPod tuned into Elton, looking forward to knocking one off when I noticed a face peering in through the window. Since it was only Alex Mosson, I opened the window and shooed him away and he scrambled over the fence and went off to burgle someone else. This put me off my stroke somewhat and I ended up going to bed quite frustrated. I also posted copy on my latest piece for the Scottish Times but since no one buys the paper and now that the online version charges for access, no one reads it either, I doubt anyone will ever know.

So, as another season approaches and it looks like nothing much has changed, I look forward to many more adventures although I hope that this time I'm not dragged into quite as many hair brained schemes which see my hide in danger of a roasting and not in a good way.

private ryan
26-07-2010, 11:30
"looking forward to knocking one off when I noticed a face peering in through the window. Since it was only Alex Mosson, I opened the window and shooed him away and he scrambled over the fence and went off to burgle someone else. This put me off my stroke somewhat and I ended up going to bed quite frustrated."


Sasa's Barber
26-07-2010, 11:47
good work so far :):) :)

27-07-2010, 15:23
The Lawwell Letters

'So if Neil Lennon's in hiding and the robot is still taking his place, then who is buying all these players? You know, Gary Cooper, Neil Hooper, whatever his name is, and Ephraim Juarez or Zac Efron or whoever and erm, all those other guys whose names I can't quite remember right now (and no-one will remember again in a years time) - who's choosing and purchasing that lot?' asked Harrison Ford as he sat on the edge of my bed discussing the current football climate in Scotland. The wife had got up early and gone to work but my old friends who appear to me every now and then, Harrison and Sylvester Stallone were waiting for me to wake up to chat about Celtic.
'I'm not really sure but since you mention it, perhaps it's something worth investigating?' I responded, getting out of my corduroy nightdress and into my corduroy action suit. I looked around for a response but they were gone so off I skipped on my own to begin sniffing around Celtic in search of answers.

My first port of call was the Chip. As ever, if you want to get a handle on anything going on at Parkhead you only have to hang around there and listen into the banter of the Reporting Scotland and Scotland Today bhoys. The faces have changed since their ill advised charge during Walter's Last Stand at the end of last season when they were all but wiped out by the 80s Rangers Squad Commandos during their valiant defence of Smith's Compound but BBC Scotland and STV made sure their replacements met the usual criteria: liberal/left leaning, Celtic supporting, west end trendies with a penchant for shovelling huge amounts of cocaine up their noses and bragging about their Celtic Minded mischief too loudly in Ashton Lane pubs. The place was empty however, which was odd so I toodled off to Parkhead itself to have a mooch around.

Upon arrival I witnessed the most curious thing - I'd been led into the waiting room outside Lawwell's office and the place was full of Hugh Keevins lookalikes, apparently being interviewed for the new position of Keevins since the last one came to a sticky end in Verbier after getting on the wrong side (again) of Lawwell during the close season seminary for journalists. I'd missed the whole thing having been too busy watching Graeme Souness outrun a helicopter with only his skis and a brilliant new moustache. I didn't want to miss this though and rather than announce my arrival, I slunk around watching the Keevins look-alikes go in and out and wagering with myself who I thought would get the job. Eventually there was one left and as all the others were put on the waiting list and sent home, I listened in at Lawwell's door as the successful Keevins was given his briefing.
'Now you understand,' began Lawwell, 'that previous Keevins have gone off at a tangent, thinking they were more important than Celtic and we've had to put them in their place?'
'Erm, yes,' replied the nervous new Keevins.
'And that place is usually at the bottom of the Clyde,' said Lawwell.
'And the Alps,' interrupted Father Wormwood.
'And occasionally the Eaglesham moors,' added Father Screwtape.
Fathers Wormwood and Screwtape were Lawwell's new side kicks, recommended by Mario Conti as a vicious pair of b*stards who were very reliable when it came to certain inquisitory tasks. He'd taken them to his bosom during the close season and now they were very rarely far from his side although no one had quite seen them yet, only heard them.
'You can count on me,' said Keevins.
'I'd better be able to count on you or else you won't last, you hear me?' threatened Lawwell. 'Now your predecessors had a habit of taking over the Daily Record phoneline and making up the comments to suit a Celtic agenda...'
'Oh I won't be doing that' butted in Keevins, and I took a sharp intake of breath because I knew what was coming.
'Oh yes you f*cking will! That is your prime directive, that if things aren't going our way then you print lies in order to get our message across, got it, idiot? There's still time for me to change my mind about you and employ one of the other guys you know'
'And you will disappear,' hissed Father Wormwood.
'And no one will know you were ever here,' slithered Father Screwtape.
'So leave at once,' screamed Lawwell, 'before I have the Fathers take your skin off with a pencil sharpener.' And with that Keevins hurried from the office to begin his new job ready to conjure up some lunatic comments and attribute them to football fans.

As he left, the door didn't quite close behind him and I went to take a peek in the gap to have a look at Fathers Wormwood and Screwtape but just as I was bending towards the door a huge scream exploded from within as if a man were having his very soul ripped from his body - it was excruciating and I couldn't bear it much more so turned to leave and as I did, I heard a voice dripping with evil whisper, 'So Kevin O'Hare, it's too late to stop your report in the Daily Record about Celtic fans rioting in Lincoln, is it? Let's see how late we can keep you here tonight then and how long you can stay alive with all this burning.' That whisper played around my ears and my hair moved as it physically whirled around me, a black, twisted sound that was almost taking shape and dragging me back towards the room. I closed my eyes and covered my ears with my hands and it stopped suddenly and I fled Parkhead wondering what ancient and stinking malevolence Lawwell had invited into the world of Scottish football this time.

Know Your Enemy
27-07-2010, 15:26
Im sure it was funny mate but Im just too damned lazy to read it....

27-07-2010, 16:02
Im sure it was funny mate but Im just too damned lazy to read it....

I'll laugh for you then, it was hilarious :D

Absolutely brilliant, wish I could write stuff like that

27-07-2010, 17:05
that was brilliant mate sitting here psml very clever

29-07-2010, 11:36
New Wine in Old Bottles

I'd popped into Hampden this morning to await the announcement of the new Chief Executive of the SFA when who do I bump into but George Peat, covered in wallpaper paste and paint with smoke rising from the top of his bowler hat. He was tip toeing around the hallowed corridors with an enormous ear trumpet, occasionally crying out, 'There, can you hear it? Singing, b'gawd - I can hear it as clear as you're standing here before me!' He started singing, 'Laaaa daaa, da da da da da da, is heeeeere.... tum te tum tee tum.... Hear it now Spiers, eh? What's that? Speak up man!'
'I didn't say anything George, still after your phantom I see - still think it's Gordon Smith?'
'I don't think, I know it's Gordon Smith,' he barked, 'bloody idiot didn't hand in his keys when we fired him and now he's using them to haunt the bloody place; skulking around singing at all hours of the night. Wait..., hear him now? La la laaaaa, the yada da of the niiiiiight.... The confounded swine, if I catch him, I'll fire him again!'
'Well I'm not sure you can do that,' I offered. 'But tell me George, this new Chief Executive of yours, who is it? Come on, you can tell me, it's Spiers - the only journalist in Scotland with an ounce of integrity.'
I thought he was choking on a grape the way his face went purple but he was only laughing at what I'd just said. I didn't like this one bit, the biggest laughing stock in Scottish football was laughing at me! I turned on my heels and flounced off to try and find Darryl Broadfoot, leaving Peat's guffaws to echo down the corridor and drown out the sound of someone singing in the rafters.

As I was searching for Broadfoot, I passed a strange little man dressed all in black with a top hat and carrying a net. At least I think it was a man as he moved with the strange gait of a ballet dancer with piles and he too was listening intently, seemingly to the walls. All very odd. I later found out his name was Stewart Regan and he was at the SFA to run their new members bar or something. I left wondering who the next Chief Executive was going to be and prepared myself for the Celtic Braga game on the internet since after all, the Scottish Times had no money to actually send me to games anymore. So I sat down in front of my laptop and at first I thought I'd stuck on a DVD of the Keystone Cops but it turned out it was only Celtic attempting to play football. This presented a problem though, how to report this disaster without drawing down the wrath of Lawwell? I considered this for a moment then remembered that absolutely nobody reads the Scottish Times anymore so I just wrote what I wanted and hoped for the best.

Dougie Gray
29-07-2010, 11:37
Great stuff Flashy old boy.

11-08-2010, 13:08
Back in the Old Routine

I woke up this morning and was intrigued to find Tom Devine lying between me and the wife. They were both covered in red wine and out for the count and I can't remember them coming to bed, only that the wife was supposedly out with her friends last night. I shook them awake and the wife wailed and ran off and hid in the loo while Devine took his time getting dressed, told me to deal with it and left, slamming the door behind him. Oh well, it wasn't the first time I'd been in bed with a Roman Catholic bigot and it wouldn't be the last.

So, off to the Chip to celebrate with the BBC Scotland bhoys after our latest kicking of the Rangers aired on Radio Scotland today. We made it so one sided that even I, Spiers, Champion of Celtic and hater of all things Rangers, began to worry that perhaps we'd gone too far. When I got there though, looking for reassurance, there was no-one at the bar, however, a cursory glance downstairs at the toilet found that they were all powdering their noses and slapping each other on the back at how they'd laid into the 'establishment' team and it wasn't long before they were celebrating their diversity by singing songs about the murders of protestant farmers in rural Ireland. They soon told me not to worry and that there hadn't been anyone within BBC Scotland willing to listen to complaints of anti-Rangers bias since at least 1989, so I relaxed and had a few Guinness, a couple of lines and it wasn't long before I'd been cornered in the loo by Tom Devine who had obviously spent his time since fleeing my bedroom getting sloshed on port as he was sodden in it. He grabbed me by the lapels of my corduroy jacket and thrust my head into the corner of a cubicle and took me violently from behind as I squeaked in semi-protest. Then he sneered, said 'two in one day - back of the net!', spat on me and left me gibbering on the floor.

11-08-2010, 13:13
brilliant - Grahame you have excelled yourself.

11-08-2010, 13:17
Bhitter disappears and Spiers re-appears. Like a bad smell.

God I sincerely hope that tarrier infested station got a huge fine from OFCOM following our complaint. We (FF) managed to get Bhitter Martin the sack. But it is obvious this most RC radio station/celtc fanzine has allowed Graham Spiers (the discredited journalist) (the discredited journalist) (the discredited journalist) (the discredited journalist) to continue with just a rap on his knuckles.

I am going to complain again to OFCOM about his reappearance on the same radio station and programme that was found to be in breach - surely this is Radio Clyde sticking a middle finger up at their judgement. On the day the programme re-started. I think this might be a fatal error on their part.

It might be more mopery to some – but in Bhitter Mhartin’s case that mopery was successful in removing another poisonous enemy of Rangers from the rhabid radio station - it might just work now if we pursue his co-comentator.

He is a journalist as well - perhaps OFCOM was not the body we should have lobbied - any ideas Bears? He did make it plain on air who he voted for – it was the closest thing to canvassing you would have heard on polling day.

We must not relent in our pursuit of this abhorrent self-publicising creature.

We MUST hound him out of ANY AND ALL OF HIS ‘jobs’.

His raison dêtre is to sully our great Club’s reputation.


13-08-2010, 15:21
The Lawwell Rides Out: Prologue

The phone began to ring around four in the morning, it was still dark. I was tired so I let it ring and it stopped. Five minutes later it rang again, and again and again until the wife complained and Tom Devine leaned over from the middle of the bed and answered it. 'It's for you,' he said and dropped it on my chest. I got up and took the call in the en-suite cursing myself for rising, knowing fine well that Devine would stretch out and take over my side of the bed.
'Jamaica Bridge, Clyde Street, now' said a mysterious voice and hung up.

Half an hour later I was stepping out of a taxi and approaching a group of men huddled under the Jamaica Street bridge, all of them looking up. One or two were police, I didn't recognise the others and one tall man in a long, black coat stayed in the shadows so I didn't get to see his face. I joined this group and squinted to see in the dark what it was that kept their attention and prevented even one of them from looking at me and wondering what I was doing there. Then I saw something that will stay with me forever; hanging from the pigeon netting under the bridge was a body, it's chest torn open, rib cage parted, ribs protruding horribly through the netting and innards hanging down, dripping gore onto the ground. One of the uniformed cops turned and ran towards the Clyde but was too late and vomited into a puddle, retching so much that he ended up on all fours. This set me off and I too turned but also couldn't hold it down and I fetched up puking all over my corduroy trousers and corduroy hush puppies.

As I mopped my mouth and chin with a hanky, I could see the man in the black great coat saying something to the others and whatever it was, they listened intently. I could just about make out his short blonde hair but that was all I saw before the next wave of nausea hit me. As I sat there, spitting the awful taste from my mouth, I overheard just the one word, 'Wormwood', then the man in the coat strode off from the main group and walked past me. It was at this point that I saw who it was and as I recognised him, he dropped a business card onto the ground before disappearing into the darkness beyond the bridges. I reached out and picked it up and gazed at it. It had a phone number and said simply,
'Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter'.

16-08-2010, 11:26
The Lawwell Rides Out

Well the increasing madness of late indicated that the football season was about due to kick off and it did and what a curious weekend I had. Another article in Saturday's Times which no one read since its circulation in Scotland is less than that of the Beano and since they started charging for online access, my fan group among Celtic fans has disappeared. Still, I made my way to Inverness along with every other prominent member of the Scottish sporting press, all under strict orders to ignore the unfurling of the league flag at Ibrox while praising Neil Lennon and his collection of hod carrying foreigners as they huffed and puffed and took one goal off Caley Thistle. The main talking point of the day though was the Celtic fans as they celebrated their culture by singing obscene songs about Irish terrorists. As we sat in the press box, sweating as the chants became so loud that we couldn't ignore them, we all realised that considering our behaviour when the same thing happened at the same ground with Rangers fans a few years back, we'd be accused of hypocrisy if no one attempted to intervene, so at half time we got together over our complimentary lunches and Celtic scarves laid on by Lawwell and discussed who was going to approach the SFA observer. Since he had volunteered to clipe on Rangers before, we had no option but to send old Two Face himself, Chick Young. He squealed and chirped in protest but once the Traynor stepped forward and growled at him, he realised there was no backing down and off he sloped to the main stand to ask the SFA observer what he was going to do about the chanting from the Celtic fans. We didn't see him again.

We later heard rumours that Hugh MacDonald had passed Young as he made his way up the stairs towards the main stand and had heard a most awful sound from behind him and turned just in time to see an awful black shadow engulf poor Chick before he disappeared. That night I cornered Hugh in the Chip and asked him to explain what had happened. His eyes bulged and a dark patch appeared on his trousers as he gripped his glass of whisky and told me what had happened.
'Chick didn't look too happy to be chosen to approach the observer, he remembered the last time he'd crossed Lawwell and fetched up in a bamboo cage, hanging from a tree for a fortnight and was afraid Lawwell would see him before he could make his point and get out of there. As it turned out, he didn't even make it to the top of the stairs. I'll never forget that noise, Spiers; it was awful - like a cross between a sheep and a cow only deeper, it fair gave me a start so I turned round to see what ungodly creature had made such a sound and I saw what looked like a cloaked figure, only it seemed to be made of smoke - don't laugh, it's true! It enveloped Chick, he squeaked and then disappeared leaving behind only the faint scent of wormwood.'
At this I heard a chair scrape behind us as it drew back and a tall blonde figure in a long black coat got up and left the pub. I told Hugh to wait there and got up and chased after him, thinking I recognised him from the other morning at that scene of horror under the Jamaica Street bridge but when I got to the bottom of the stairs he was gone and there was nothing to see but Neil Lennon brawling on the cobbles with a couple of teenagers, nothing unusual there I thought and went back upstairs but when I got to our table, Hugh MacDonald was gone, leaving behind his whisky, a damp patch on his seat and the faint, almost imperceptible smell of, yes, wormwood.

One day into the new season and things are taking a turn for the weird already but this seems to be just a little more sinister than the events of last season. I finished my drink and thought of going home and phoning the number on the card I was given on Thursday. Perhaps Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter would be able to explain things since it was surely he who had been listening to MacDonald's story before they both disappeared. On the way home I came across Ewan Cameron who was whistling down Byres Road with an empty leash in his hand. I bade him a good evening and asked what he was doing.
'Alan Rough's slipped the leash again,' he sighed. 'The last time this happened I didn't see him for days and it turned out he'd pupped some bitch on heat out in Hamilton. Honestly Spiers, anymore of this and I'll need to have him neutered, you'd think at his age...' he paused, smiled apologetically, shrugged and off he went, whistling away and shouting for Alan Rough to come back to him.

16-08-2010, 11:27
Brilliant as usual!

16-08-2010, 13:22
Much appreciated. Keep going.

Jan Fabel
16-08-2010, 13:29
Im sure it was funny mate but Im just too damned lazy to read it....

I wish you were even lazier then we would not have to put up with your stultifying 'insight' into Flashman’s satire.

17-08-2010, 10:18
Playing With Fire

The thing about creaking floorboards is that they always sound much louder to the one making them creak than the one in the next room who's not supposed to hear them. John Reid and Peter Lawwell were in the dining room of Reid's country mansion discussing Aiden McGeady's departure. It was easy for me to overhear as I sneaked past the door with Jorg Albertz who had brought me here to investigate the evisceration of the most recent Keevins (for that was who was found under the Jamaica Street bridge) and the disappearance of Chick Young and Hugh MacDonald when they got too close to Alan Dick's silence over the Celtic fans' sectarian chanting at Inverness on Saturday.

'The f*cking little pr*ck,' growled Lawwell. 'Thought he was better than the club that made him, well I showed him - let's see how he likes Siberian winters on the Russian Front.'
'Keep an eye on the fans though please Peter,' said Reid, 'you know how much they love him, not for his playing skills of course but because he's a bitter little scrote who, like them, claims to be Irish even although the closest he's been to Ireland is a day trip to Girvan beach with his mammy last weekend. No, we must be careful as I've said in the past, we don't want a return to car park protests - we need to keep the car park clear for secret meetings, remember?'
'Don't worry about the fans, I've already thrown them a bone in the shape of a couple of exclusives to the Record and the Herald where they'll state that McGeady left Scotland because of the bigotry and the nightclub beatings. No one needs to know that the beatings were all by his own fans when they approached him to shake his hand only to find he was a despicable little scumbag who had no time for them. And the bigotry? Well, we'll lay the blame for that at the feet of Rangers fans as usual even although it was every fan of every other club in Scotland who hated him for turning his back on the Scottish national team. The Record and the Herald will lap it up, you know how they love to hate Rangers.'
It was at this point that the floorboard beneath my corduroy deck shoes creaked and I froze, not wanting to move my foot off the offending board lest it creak again but Jorg Albertz reached back and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and motioned for me to continue. I stepped off and the floorboard gave a slight sigh and we continued on up the wooden stairs while Reid and Lawwell continued their palaver unaware that they had company.

Albertz led me to a huge room at the back of the mansion and we entered and closed the door. The room was dark, illuminated only by the lights from the garden outside, the leaves from the branches of trees swaying in the wind by the windows throwing eerie shadows across the room which was empty except for one large Indian rug spread across the wooden floor. Albertz put a finger up to his lips to keep me silent and motioned for me to shine my torch to the floor and as I did he bent down and rolled back the rug to reveal a strange pattern painted onto the floorboards.
'A magic circle,' whispered Albertz, more to himself than to me.
'What's a magic circle?' I asked, puzzled.
'Demonology,' he whispered, this time to me. 'It can protect you from evil or it can be used for evil. I suspect the latter in this case. I've long suspected Celtic had been playing with fire when I heard rumours of two priests newly joined with Lawwell for the new season to ensure Neil Lennon got off to a successful start. These priests, recommended by Mario Conti no less, are called Father Wormwood and Father Screwtape. Wormwood and Screwtape are two second level inquisition demons and I've met them before but never on the physical plane and yet here they are now, almost certainly holding Chick Young and Hugh MacDonald and responsible for the cruel murder of Hugh Keevins.'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about Hugh Keevins if I were you, he gets murdered usually every week, Lawwell will soon find another,' I chipped in, a little too loudly only to be met with a steely glare from Albertz.
'Less of your prattling, Spiers,' he hissed at me but it was too late, my voice had carried and we could hear Reid and Lawwell downstairs wondering what the noise was.
'Sh*t, what are we going to do?' I panicked, 'Reid will have his guards on us in seconds!'
'You can run if you like, Spiers, I'm going to take my time and leave by the front door,' said Albertz, calm as you like.
'But how will you get away by doing that?' I almost screamed at him.
'By making myself invisible to them of course.'
And at that, I realised I was dealing with yet another maniac and decided to leg it. I opened the window and as I was about to launch myself onto one of the trees outside, I turned and saw Reid's guards run into the room, straight past Albertz as if he wasn't there and run directly at me. I jumped and crashed through the branches, missing nothing on the way down before landing in a heap on the ground. I was up in a twinkling though and absolutely sprinting across the lawns before Reid could release the hounds. Now in the old days I used to be able to call on Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos to get me out of a pickle like this but they'd disowned me at the end of last season. Even Donald Findlay who was also my occasional saviour had taken up bee keeping in exile recently so I knew I was on my own. In the distance behind me I could hear barking and see torches scanning the grounds and still in front of me there was no sign of a fence over which I could scramble to safety. I was beginning to sob like a woman now, fearing that this time it was all over and cursing Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter for getting me involved in this when suddenly in front of me there appeared a cloud of dense black smoke, rising from the grass and forming into some hideous, malignant shape, hissing and filling me with a dread I hadn't felt since I'd accidentally walked into the Glaswegian Bar on match day. I stopped, paralysed with fear and just as the cloud took the form of a cloaked figure with burning red eyes, I felt two strong hands grab me under the arms and suddenly I was airborne. I was lifted up, higher and higher, through the clouds, and across the countryside before being deposited on my backside in some bushes just outside Larkhall. I just had time to spot the mask across the eyes and the square and compass on the chest of my rescuer before he soared off again into the sky and disappeared, leaving me wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end from here.

17-08-2010, 13:35

You should get this published.


20-08-2010, 11:09
The Old Man and the Quay

After all the excitement of the previous night, I'd popped into Hampden for some light relief and found it in George Peat running around the corridors of power in his long-johns, carrying a blunderbuss and threatening to shoot anyone who even sounded like they were singing Andrew Lloyd Webber songs. I loafed around for a bit but he didn't claim any victims, instead he slipped on a puddle of milk and let off the gun which blasted the ceiling, bringing plaster down on his head. He sat there covered in plaster and spilled milk and started crying so I left to visit the BBC Scotland bhoys to see if anything more interesting was happening at Pacific Quay CSC.

BBC Scotland's Celtic Minded Nerve Centre was a hive of activity. All around me, the BBC bhoys were running to and fro, updating websites, ceefax, and writing copy for the radio and television news, expurgating any mention of Rangers two new signings. By the time they were finished and had all sat down in the canteen for skinny latte and a wee rendition of the Fields of Athenry, you would never know that Weiss or Jelevic even existed, never know that Rangers even existed. Meanwhile if Neil Lennon even farted, it made headline news (although Neil Lennon farting being a negative news story, obviously Lawwell would issue some made up on the spot good news to encourage everyone not to run with the fart story - so everyone was happy; the BBC bhoys got their Celtic headline, Celtic spun over a fart and Lawwell rested easy knowing he had knocked the Rangers off the news again). After such a busy day, it wasn't long before they were all in the Chip, comparing sandals and backpacks, taking too much coke, drawing straws on who gets to spit roast Jackie Bird and celebrating their diversity by singing anti-protestant songs even although half of them were born Church of Scotland. I joined them for a few pints but left after Professor Tom Devine came in for a pint of port and sat at the bar, growling at David Leggat who sat at the other side with a pint of sherry and a measuring tape which I found strange, was Leggat indicating he had the measure of them all? I took a mental note of this and vowed to investigate Leggat at a later date.

I sauntered over to Jinty's and found the republican girls holding a wake, crying into their Guinness. It turns out Neil Lennon had given himself up allowing Lawwell to put away the robot Lennon for the time being but as the real Lennon fumed and smoked trackside as Celtic played Utrecht in front of a few dozen of the greatest fans in the world, no one noticed any difference. I reported on the match from what I heard on the radio and wasn't worried about any fall out from this since no one reads the Times anymore anyway. I mean no one. It's beginning to concern me. After the match, report submitted, I headed for home but as I was walking down Ashton Lane, who came striding towards me but Matt McGlone and Roddy Forsyth, arm in arm. They pretended not to see me but that was impossible since I followed them to the door of the Chip, tugging on Matt's sleeves, sobbing. Then I ran all the way home and cried myself to sleep, waking this morning, vowing to revenge myself on Roddy Forsyth who for too long now has been trying to take over my crown.

Dougie Gray
20-08-2010, 21:02
Great work again Flashy!!!!

20-08-2010, 21:31
Ha Ha superb stuff, the business indeed.

24-08-2010, 14:52
Thus I Refute Lawwell

The thing about the Green Brigade is that no matter how many of their heads Donald Findlay pulled off or how many of them fell on the bayonets of the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos, there are always more spotty faced youths to take their place. They resurfaced like Hydra again on Sunday, waving some badly illustrated banner and haranguing the bigots of Rangers while utterly failing see the irony in their hatred of the Rangers fans. Of course I was in amongst them, singing along like a good 'un and why not, it's refreshing to celebrate diversity in this manner and who out there is going to chastise me? Certainly not the Scottish press who almost to a man, missed the Celtic match due to the impromptu meeting Lawwell called after watching Rangers take three off Hibs at Easter Road. Lawwell, never one to miss an opportunity to tell the media how to do their job, had watched Kyle Lafferty receive a red card and figured that there was no time like the present for another campaign of intimidation against the Northern Irish protestant. Since being hunted from John Reid's mansion last week, I'm not sure if they know it was me or not and have been keeping a low profile anyway, just in case. So I lurked around the back of the queue to get into Lawwell's office and then when no one was looking, ducked down a corridor and hid in a cleaners cupboard.

I stood there in the dark, appreciating the silence after the din of too many fat journalists smelling of Scotch and yapping in excitement when suddenly from behind me, I heard a match being sparked up. I almost jumped out my skin and would've shrieked like a girl had I not been even more scared of Lawwell hearing me. I turned and there behind me was Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter, lighting up a cigarette. The small flame of the match illuminated his face briefly then he shook it out and blew cigarette smoke in my face.
'How did you get in here?' I whimpered, holding my chest and trying to keep my lunch down.
'Quite by accident,' said Albertz. 'I was poking around the City Chambers and finally found the secret tunnel that leads from there to Parkhead. I've always suspected it existed, indeed Donald Dewar tried in vain to find it in his final years as he attempted to rid the Scottish Labour Party of institutionalised bigotry and we all know what happened to him. So now I've found it, it's quite a walk and I chanced upon some sights to chill even me to the marrow - in the tunnels below, there are creatures; foul, dank creatures, descended from those Glasgow City Councillors who got lost in their hurry to get from the Chambers to Celtic home games and remain scurrying around the tunnels in all that's left of their cheap suits and emerald green ties. They were easily avoided, I reached the steps leading up here and found you hiding in the entrance which looks like it's disguised as a cleaners cupboard. So I take it you're avoiding Lawwell?'
'Too right I'm avoiding him, he's briefing the press right now, to not let a day go past without lingering on the Lafferty and McGregor incidents today. He's also heard somehow, that Kenny Miller hasn't got long to go on his contract and has everybody primed to cause him unrest with strategically placed subterfuge about who is interested in buying him and anything else that might unsettle his game, especially after he pumped three goals past Hibs today. But how did he find out about Miller's contract? I mean, I know he has moles everywhere but surely not inside Ibrox?'
'Screwtape,' said Albertz.
'I don't know if I even know what that looks like, how about cellotape? That should be around here somewhere,' said I, looking around the cleaning cupboard.
'No,' said Albertz, 'Father Screwtape. That's how he found out and guess what Spiers?'
'He's coming in through the ducts right now and is forming at your ankle.'
I looked down and shone my keyring torch at my feet and Albertz was right, there was a disgusting brown mist coming through the ducts and swirling around my leg which froze at its touch.
'Don't worry,' said Albertz, 'he can't hurt you without physical form, he won't even be able to possess you - no, these demons need someone with no will power of their own, someone with the intelligence of a cretin, someone unable to resist the power of evil... Come to think of it Spiers, we'd better get you out of here.' And with that, Albertz opened the secret door into the tunnels and we disappeared into the darkness to escape the malevolent spirit of Father Screwtape.

What we didn't realise as we ran down the steps was that having lost us, Screwtape's essence had slithered into the corridors of Parkhead where coincidentally, right at that very moment, Neil Lennon was passing on his way to the changing rooms. The malignant brown smoke enveloped him and entered through his nostrils and Lennon's eyes turned a bright, burning red, he fell to the floor jerking, his arms and legs in spasm, green bile vomiting out of his mouth and ears. Although such is Neil Lennon's behaviour these days, no one noticed that he'd been possessed.

24-08-2010, 15:05
Brilliant stuff :) Loving the Albertz role

24-08-2010, 15:12
Id imagine this gets more views than spier's column in the times :)

its certainly better written

24-08-2010, 16:23
Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad

We splashed through the tunnels for almost an hour in the pitch black, the only light coming from the occasional lighting of a cigarette by Albertz and every time he lit one, he'd contrive to blow smoke in my face. Every time. How did he know where I was in that stygian darkness? We came across the occasional slow mutant: lost Glasgow City Councillors, moaning and grappling to get a hold of us for what, food? We didn't stop to find out. Soon we reached the City Chambers which was empty of course, there being a Celtic match on, and we stepped into the light. What we saw had us scrambling for the dark again - there waiting for us was Torquemada, the Celtic minded super villain dressed head to toe in white robes with a pointed hood through which his green eyes glistened with hatred. He moved with lightning speed, aiming a punch at Albertz who disappeared as if he had never been there in the first place, and Torquemada turned to fix on me but I was haring back down the stairs and splashing along those dark tunnels, heading back to Parkhead, howling and fearing that I'd do a Hugh MacDonald and soil my corduroy pants.

I didn't stop running and by the time I reached the stairs to the Parkhead cleaning cupboard, I thought I'd lost him since I hadn't seen or heard a thing during my frantic flight but then the tunnel lit up in an eerie green glow and my heart sank as Torquemada appeared in front of me, his arms folded, robes billowing as he levitated at the bottom of the stairs. I sank to my knees and began to sob, there was no strength left in me to flee again down that disgusting tunnel and I was beginning to accept that it was the end of the road for old Graham Spiers, champion journalist and defender of the great oppressed when there was a crack of thunder and Master Mason appeared behind Torquemada, tapped him on the shoulder and as he fell for the oldest trick in the book and turned his head, Master Mason landed a punch such that would fell a mighty elephant and Torquemada's glow disappeared with him down the tunnel, landing with a crash miles away under the city centre. Master Mason looked at me and I saw those blazing blue eyes through the mask that covered his face, he winked at me and shot off into the darkness to pursue his mortal enemy. Well you didn't have to ask me twice so I was up and out of that tunnel in a twinkling and continued fleeing until I'd run all the way through Parkhead and in my panic, I fetched up in amongst the Green Brigade and that's how I came to be singing and dancing with them and how I came to have their superb banner stuffed up my corduroy jumper and ushered out of the ground to safety by sympathetic Celtic stewards.

As I made my way home I popped into the offices of the Scottish Times and gave the banner to the editor and it now has pride of place in his office. While I was there, I switched on the radio and listened to the rest of the Celtic match and wrote my piece right there and then, trying to hide what I was doing as the editor passed me on his way to dinner with John Reid. He sniggered. 'No one reads it anyway Spiers, I don't care if you're there or not,' and he left.

mike myers loyal
24-08-2010, 22:23
Brilliant as ever, Flashman. Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter. Quite superb!

25-08-2010, 13:15
Father Screwtape! :clap: Letters to come? ;)

It just gets better and better.


28-09-2010, 22:45
Spiers's Lady

September was coming to an end and the low sun cast long shadows across the fields which flashed past me as I hurtled towards Inverkip in a black Range Rover accompanied by the Rangers 90s Squad Marines who sat around me checking their weapons and wondering what the poontang was like in Largs but I’m getting ahead of myself – how did I fetch up in this latest of extraordinary pickles? Well it all started at a party at John Reid’s house…

Reid had thrown a party to celebrate the return of Willie Haughey back to the fold, Mr Freeze himself, having realised that everyone had now forgotten the tens of millions he had fraudulently been gifted by Stephen Purcell who he’d then had spirited away while Lawwell had unwittingly done Haughey’s dirty work for him by taking out any of the admittedly few Scottish journalists with an ounce of integrity left to ask questions about the whole seedy affair. It’s all documented in my diaries of last season if you care to have a look. Suffice to say, Reid was buoyant about the return of the prodigal son and had thrown a huge bash with all the great and the good of Scottish local and national politics, journalism, law and police, all of them united in one thing: Celtic.

I was there by the skin of my teeth, having been in and out of favour recently to the extent that even Lawwell wasn’t exactly sure if I was in his good books now or not and since I didn’t have a clue about my standing either, I kept a low profile, attending with the wife, although it wasn’t long before that sneak Charlie Gordon sniffed me out and stood grilling me while I cast an uneasy eye over proceedings. In one corner sat Neil Lennon, simmering like a boiled pot of potatoes, under the vile influence of Screwtape who’d possessed him only a few weeks ago although of course, such is the behaviour of Neil Lennon these days that no-one had noticed anything different when his head spun, bile spewed from his mouth or he crawled on all fours on the ceiling. Nearby was Jack McConnell, also back in favour briefly since being freed recently by the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos for some reason known only unto them. Tom Devine was by the bay windows drinking quarts of port and challenging the Celtic team to press ups competitions. On a small stage at the other end of the vast room, sat a few well known faces playing traditional Irish reels, Glen Gibbons on the bassoon, Kevin Smith on the mandolin and Michael Martin on the fiddle. Lording it at the top of the table were Reid and Lawwell themselves, whispering conspiratorially to themselves until suddenly a fight broke out. Now, at a normal gathering of such distinguished people you’d expect everyone to try to break it up but as Alex Mosson pulled a flick knife on Michael Martin for some perceived slight, a circle was formed and everyone urged the pair of them into action.

Mosson lunged at Martin and cut him with his knife just above the left eyebrow, blood immediately flowing from the wound, blinding the old Speaker in one eye but Gorbals Mick was fast and pulled out a steak knife from his jacket and swiped it at Mosson who shrieked as it cut his trouser leg open to reveal a red suspender belt and stocking underneath. They circled each other for a bit before Mosson made another slash, catching Martin this time on the ear but as he took the wound without a sound, feinted to the left and as Mosson tried to parry, old Gorbals made a move with a sneaky punch with his right and knocked Mosson over, gore spilling from a wound somewhere on his face. The crowd screamed in delight and gave a round of applause while baying for more; that’s the thing about the Celtic Minded, they love the sight of blood, the more the better – just don’t sing songs about being up to your knees in it as that offends them.

While all this was going on I didn’t notice that the wife had wandered off and joined Tom Devine and not liking the look on the randy old goat’s face as he talked to her, I sidled over and stood beside them.
‘Oh darling, the most wonderful news,’ gushed the wife, ‘I’ve been invited by Professor Devine to join him on his yacht for a spell, I’m sure you won’t mind, do you darling?’
I stared at the pair of them, appalled, not at the thought of this disgusting old Satyr alone on a boat with my wife but at how public they had made it – the way she announced it, the whole party had heard, putting me in an awful position where on the one hand I wouldn’t really mind getting rid of her for a few weeks, leaving me to get busy with my Martin O’Neil scrapbook and Elton John collection but on the other hand, my cuckolding was now going to be made public. No, for the sake of my reputation I had to refuse her so I shook my head and gave her as manly a look as I could muster and said, ‘Sorry my sweet, you know this is a busy time for both of us, it wouldn’t do, I’m sorry, Professor Devine will have to sail on his own or with some other young thing.’
The pair of them protested but I’d made up my mind and couldn’t be talked out of it especially now that Mosson and Martin had been taken away in an ambulance and the crowd had now gathered around us to listen in to what was going on.
‘You’re a sporting chap, aren’t you Spiers?’ said Devine, a sly glint in his eye. ‘Why, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a challenge then, something football themed since that’s your purported specialist subject – how about shooty-in? Five penalties each, I win and your good lady wife accompanies me on the St. Bernard, you win and she stays at home with you. What do you say old sport?’
The bastard had cornered me as the gathered crowd thought this was a whale of an idea and were giving three cheers while the Celtic squad set up some goal posts outside in the grounds and I had no option but to agree. What worried me though was that although I report on football, I’ve never played it in my life, I don’t even know that much about it whereas from the way Devine was playing keepy uppy with a ball which had been produced from nowhere, I could see he’d at least spent some time playing in some capacity. Within minutes, Artur Boruc had been spirited in from another room, looking upset and hinting that he'd been dragged from some orgy or another and we all made our way out to the grounds where the penalty kick competition was to take place.

We tossed a coin which I won and allowed Devine to take the first penalty and I was lucky, Boruc guessed right and stood his ground and Devine’s first attempt was booted straight at him, caroming off his belly and bouncing straight back out at Devine in so fine a line that he actually caught the ball. I then stepped up to take mine and waited until the crowd had hushed, hearing only the rustle of the trees and slight whistle of the wind as everyone gazed at me as I took my first long run at the ball and sliced it so hard that it flew into the audience and hit Kenny McAskill square in the face knocking him out so that another ambulance had to be sent for.

Devine’s second was well placed in Boruc’s bottom left corner and he had no chance of getting it especially since he made no effort having been distracted by the sight of a pretty faced young man in the crowd who was blowing him kisses. I stopped flirting with him and strode to the penalty spot for my own attempt and this time got the ball on target although my foot booted the ground first before hitting the ball, I howled in pain from a sprained ankle but fortunately for me, Boruc had dived to the right while the ball trundled slowly to his left and crossed the line for a goal. I limped off to watch as Devine’s third attempt went over the bar giving me the chance to take the lead but my ankle was swelling now and it was difficult to put my weight on it never mind kick a ball but I must, so I gathered up my reserve and hobbled towards the ball and hit it poorly that it rolled along the grass so slowly that Boruc had time to have a fag before picking it up and throwing it back at me as the crowd laughed and cheered on Devine as he came on for his penultimate penalty.

Devine’s rocket soared past Boruc’s shoulder and almost burst the net and I groaned as I tightened the laces on my corduroy loafers and decided to try to hit this one with my left foot. It worked! I caught Boruc by surprise and the ball floated to the top left corner and the crowd let up an ironic cheer, it was all even with one penalty each to take. With only a brief pause for stewards to remove Jackie Bird who had streaked onto the park, Devine walked past me to take his run at the ball and as he did, I asked him if he held his breath or breathed out as he prepared to take the penalty. As he faced the ball I could see he was mulling this over, in or out? His face contorted and he shot me a look of sheer hatred as he realised I was playing mind games with him and it was working. He ran at the ball and sclaffed it so high that it flew over Reid’s stables and another ball had to be found. This was it, I only had to score and the wife couldn’t go sailing with Devine, leaving my reputation in the gutter. I took the new ball and placed it carefully on the penalty spot and took six steps back, gazing at the ball and trying to keep the thought of all those people watching out of my mind. A great rushing noise coursed through my head as I jogged up to the ball, the pain in my ankle now forgotten as I ran and with increasing horror realised that I didn’t know which foot I was going to kick with – the talentless left or the useless right? I half stumbled but at the last second managed to hit it with my right, screaming in agony as the ball sailed through the air straight at Boruc who was gazing right at it, a certainty to save it. Then something odd happened, Boruc although watching the ball come straight at him, dived to the left and the ball hit the net, I’d scored. The crowd went wild and invaded the makeshift pitch, hoisting me up on its shoulders and carrying me into the house where everyone toasted my victory by getting horribly drunk and celebrated their diversity by singing songs about republican Irish terrorists. Later, I sidled up to Boruc and asked him why he’d deliberately missed the save and he told me in that odd mincing accent of his, which coming from me is saying something, that it didn’t matter who won, that Devine was going off with my wife anyway. I asked him what he meant and he laughed in my face, and said ‘can you see your wife or Devine anywhere at this party now?’ and he was right, they were nowhere to be seen - gone, the pair of them. Then I realised that everyone was looking at me once again only this time they weren’t cheering, they were ridiculing, their grotesque faces contorted in vicious amusement at my predicament: Devine had kidnapped my wife and was right now driving towards his yacht in Inverkip

28-09-2010, 22:57
The discredited one and box-heid Devine ... great stuff.

Thanx mate.

01-10-2010, 13:48
Tell it to the Marines

Since I don’t drive, I couldn’t set off after Devine who’d made off with my wife while I was too busy being lauded by the great and good of the Celtic Minded who it seemed had only been amusing themselves by keeping me occupied while Devine bundled my darling into his car and sped off into the night. Just when you think you’ve finally been accepted by that lot. So I sloped off from the party and headed for the nearest village where I might find a bus or a train station but as I left the gates of Reid’s manor I noticed a familiar figure standing by the gates, wearing a long black coat and puffing on a cigarette in the shadows, it was Jorg Albertz.
‘What are you doing here?’ I exclaimed.
‘Oh don’t worry about me, Spiers,’ he said, exhaling smoke, ‘I’m not Souness, I’m not here to look after your miserable hide – no, I’m here for another reason altogether and your little display with the penalties just so happened to cause a big enough diversion to allow me to get away with a little bit of burglary – got myself a little relic Reid had spirited out of Iraq when he was in Defence, so I reckon I owe you one. A small one, since I’d have pulled it off anyway, so here’s what I’m going to do…’
And that was how I was introduced to the Rangers 90s Squad Marines and how I fetched up in a black Range Rover hurtling towards Inverkip sitting alongside Andy Goram, Stuart McCall and Ian Ferguson, all captained by the brooding figure of Richard Gough dressed in his white fighting coat.

We got to Inverkip with the St. Bernard long gone but the Rangers Marines sprung into action and loaded up their own yacht, the Walter Smith, with weapons and provisions. I gazed at their flawless work and wondered why the need for all the heavy artillery only for Richard Gough to appear by my side on the jetty and tell me that the Rangers Marines never ventured forth without being prepared for any eventuality, ‘Ready, that’s our motto – always has been, always will be,’ said Gough, proud and wise as Solomon, standing there gazing out to sea and as I stood there with him, watching the ominous thunderheads gather in the sky above us, I wondered why it was that even although all I ever wanted in life was to be accepted by the Celtic Minded as one of their own, they always treated me abysmally and why it was that although I treated Rangers appallingly, they always somehow came to my rescue. Do none of them actually read my articles?

08-10-2010, 14:25
Odyssey Part One

We patrolled the Kyles of Bute for days, myself and the Rangers 90s Squad Marines in HMS The Walter Smith but there was no sight of Devine or his infernal boat with my wife on board. We even sailed pretty close to Largs a few times, with Andy Goram tied to the mast of course lest the sirens of that village lead him onto the rocks, dominos and cards in his back pocket, and we weighed anchor once in Rothesay until the Galatea Bar emptied and we were chased by the natives along the front, throwing spears and bricks and it was only Captain Richard Gough forming the marines into lines and seeing them off with musket fire that prevented a disaster. After that we vowed never again to get off the boat.

One calm night when the winds had gone and we were resting just off Tighnabruiagh, I left Gough and Goram smoking their cheroots and went aft to see what Stuart McCall was up to. I found him in the cabin watching television and paused to hear news from the mainland. I could hear Jackie Bird's voice coming from within, 'Good evening and welcome to Reporting Scotland. Tonight, three weeks after the Pope visited Glasgow, how brilliant was that? In sport, Rangers, what a bunch of Orange bastards, eh? And how great are Celtic? Later, we'll have some parochial idiot reporting from a denominational school pretending that it's a top performer when it's not even in the top fifty and from Ayrshire we have that comedy double act, Howson and MacMillan telling us how lovely it is to be a Roman Catholic.' I sighed with relief, nothing much had changed at home then.

I coughed and let McCall know I was there and he waved me in, frowning at the television. I was just about to ask him if things were the same in his days playing for Rangers when we heard Gough sounding the alarm and it was all hands on deck. By the time we got upstairs, Gough, and Goram were standing to, rifles in their hands with Ferguson steering the yacht and I hoped that they'd spotted Devine's boat but although it was a vessel, it wasn't the St. Bernard. No, it was Peter Lawwell and Stewart Regan in a gunboat and they were chasing Alan McGregor who was in a power boat with some screeching harpy with blonde hair. McGregor was making a decent fist of avoiding the harpoons but then Lawwell brought out some heavy cannon and started showering the little boat with grape shot. This was all very rum, what was the head barman of the SFA doing alongside the Celtic Chief Executive attacking the Rangers goalie and just before a Scotland match too? Gough yelled, 'hard to starboard' and Ferguson wrenched us round so that the Rangers rifles faced Lawwell's ship and one quick volley scared him off, McGregor giving us an acknowledging wave before speeding off towards shore, his girlfriend all the time screaming like a fishwife and offering to take on Lawwell and Regan in a square go.

08-10-2010, 15:21
Odyssey Part Two

The night after our skirmish with Lawwell and Regan, we anchored close to Otter Ferry and visited the Oystercatcher to have a few drinks and let Andy Goram have a leg up with the local bikes. To everyone's surprise, when we arrived, there sitting in the corner was Jorg Albertz, Demon Catcher, dressed in his customary long black coat and taking his time over a pint of local ale.
'What are you doing here?' I asked and he put down his newspaper and blew smoke in my face.
'Been tailing a werewolf along the coast for the past few days and his trail led to here. More to the point, with such evil abroad, what are you doing here Spiers, and in such great company? I thought you were chasing that old Stoat Devine before he pupped your wife?'
'Well I am but he's totally off the grid, can't find him anywhere. I don't suppose you'd care to help us with a bit of your black magic?'
'Keep away from that stuff, Corduroy Boy, there's enough darkness in your life without inviting more in. Anyway, I've got to go, the trail of dead sheep leads to another yacht moored off Portavadie and I'm popping in tonight to set it on fire. The local livestock should be safe from Delahunt for a while after this little prank.'
And with that he was gone. I mean really gone, he walked out the door and quite literally disappeared into the darkness. I know because I chased him to the door in an effort to find out what he meant about Jim Delahunt savaging sheep up and down the Fyne coast but he'd gone, just like that.

After Albertz left, we supped a few ales while Goram took the local farmer's daughter over the jumps out back and were ready to leave just before midnight. We boarded our dinghy at the jetty outside the pub and Richard Gough rowed us in on his own. We were climbing aboard HMS the Walter Smith when all of a sudden a great yell went up from the port side and dark figures pounced on us. 'Pirates!' yelled Gough, pulling out his cutlass but they were on us in seconds and a great clash of steel was heard as the Rangers 90s Squad Marines battled what looked suspiciously like a band of cut-throats led by..., yes, there was no mistaking it, led by Michael Paton and Zander Diamond.

'Kill the Protestant bastards!' screamed Diamond.
'Cut their Orange throats!' yelled Paton as they crossed swords with Ferguson and McCall who stood their ground while Ferguson broke open the musket locker and threw one into my hands. Now here I was in a right old quandary; do I fire on Paton and Diamond even although I agree with everything they're saying or do I protect my mission to save my wife by siding with Rangers? In the end I didn't have to bother as Andy Goram was bringing up the rear on his own in a rowing boat having been left ashore to finish off the farm girl and he appeared on the scene levelling a small cannon at Paton and Diamond's freebooters who, seeing that they were totally outgunned, apologised, said their fathers were Protestants and that it was all either a big joke or a misunderstanding and they all slinked off the sides of the boat and into the water to swim to the shore where they were met by the police who had arrived to arrest them for sectarian crimes but upon finding out it was only Protestants they were attacking, decided to let them off and sent them on their way with a chuckle.

08-10-2010, 15:39
Absolutely brilliant!

12-10-2010, 09:46
Odyssey Part Three

It was six am and as usual I was wakened not by the sound of the gulls or the gentle rolling of the boat but by the noise of Richard Gough doing squat thrusts. There was a definite routine to the mornings on board HMS the Walter Smith: Gough would be up first to exercise, then Ian Ferguson would take a rifle to the top deck to let off pot shots at the birds, Stuart McCall would always sit and watch the news and read newspapers while Andy Goram would surface around midday if he was lucky, scratching his arse and complaining of a sore head. Me, I stayed in my bunk for as long as I could before joining McCall in reading the papers and wondered how on earth football reports were appearing in the Times under my name without me having written them but since no-one reads the Times anymore anyway, I didn't worry too much.

We had been sailing around the west coast for weeks now with no sign of Devine or his boat. I was beginning to think my wife was lost to me which wouldn't be the first time considering she'd already run off with Aamer Anwar and Jason Allardyce - I got used to lonely nights with my Martin O'Neill scrapbook then and I'll get used to them again and I was just about to say as much to the Rangers 90s Squad Marines and tell them that I was ready to jack it all in when Ian Ferguson spotted movement in the distance and called for a telescope. I left the fo'c'sle with Stuart McCall bounding up the stairs in front of me and joined the whole crew on the bow and squinted at the horizon where Richard Gough was studying something through the telescope.
'It's definitely Lawwell,' he said. 'I can make out half a dozen others and they have someone on the plank - I can't believe it, Lawwell has someone walking the plank at the point of the sword. I can't make out who it is though, here Stuart, have a look - you're the one who's up to date with current affairs, who is that on the plank?'
And McCall stood silently concentrating on the small boat in the distance then he gasped,
'It's Ian McGregor!'
'Who?' burped Andy Goram.
'Ian McGregor, Chief Executive of PoppyScotland - Lawwell's making him walk the plank! McGregor's shaking his head to whatever it is Lawwell's demanding but the swine keeps prodding him further out with his cutlass... Now McGregor's nodding, he's agreeing to something, now he's being brought back in and Lawwell and his men are celebrating. What could all this mean?'
'I don't know,' said Gough, 'but we're putting a stop to it - all hands on deck, hoist the anchor, back and fill gentlemen, let's get over there and put some pepper in Lawwell's pipe!'

12-10-2010, 10:25
Thanks for that Flashman.. Very,very clever and very entertaining

12-10-2010, 10:35
Very Peter Pan. Is Spiers Wendy in this tale?

12-10-2010, 10:46
Brilliant stuff as usual. Can't wait for the next episode

12-10-2010, 11:47
Just read from the start of this season - great stuff!

12-10-2010, 12:34
You really should get this published, Flashman.

Fantastic stuff.


12-10-2010, 15:52
Odyssey Part Four

We came out of the mist, the sun behind us and caught Lawwell completely by surprise, Ian Ferguson letting loose a fusilade of chain-shot which took down the Celtic Chief Executive's masts and rigging and a few of his crew who were sitting atop them, spitting at McGregor. Lawwell screamed when it happened then straightening his Dienstanzug, pulled out his horsewhip to encourage his crew into action and started bawling orders as HMS the Walter Smith fairly skipped across the waters towards him, Gough's rifles at the ready. I was watching everything from the safety of a porthole on the starboard bulwark and could see from my binoculars that Lawwell didn't seem to be worried - but he should have been, his ship was static and he was outgunned so why did he appear so calm? I crossed to the port side and checked the horizon and to my horror, there in the distance were three more vessels heading straight at us on the flanks. Gough obviously hadn't seen them, so intent was he in rescuing the man from PoppyScotland.

I ran screaming up to the Rangers 80s Squad Marines and pulling at Gough's white fighting coat, I pleaded with him to look behind him and when he did he turned the colour of his coat, fixed his telescope on the oncoming ships and cursed.
'It's BBC Scotland coming to Lawwell's rescue, dammit! And not just them, there are two Daily Record vessels there backing it up, we're in for a hot one here lads, run up the red duster and let's see if these scoundrels have what it takes to take on Her Majesty's Jack Tars - Fergie, there's a good lad, prepare yourself for a club haul!'
And at that there was great commotion about the Walter Smith as everyone found their place and waited as we sped along the Clyde coast, let off a volley at Lawwell and then just as the BBC Scotland destroyer was bearing in on us, Ferguson let go the anchor and we turned on a sixpence until we were scudding alongside the BBC Scotland cannons which fired just as we disappeared round their starboard side, their port side cannons rattling into the Daily Record ships which had been sneaking up behind us before Gough's remarkable manoeuvre. We just had time to see the astonishing sight of Keith Jackson waving his stetson hat in anger before the two Record ships went down gurgling. In a twinkling we were planing across the sea away from BBC Scotland and Lawwell but unfortunately, we couldn't rescue McGregor who remained in captivity.

Later as we idled off Kames, sitting in the Gluepot bar and mulling over the day's events over a bottle of rum while Andy Goram had a ride at the hotel manager's wife, Gough wondered aloud what Lawwell had been doing threatening the Chief Executive of PoppyScotland. Stuart McCall sighed and held out a copy of the early edition of the Daily Record and it was there for all to see.
'Just when you think Celtic and their apologists in the media couldn't sink any lower,' he said, and maybe it was the camaraderie of being with these Rangers men all these weeks at sea, maybe it was the rum or maybe it was just the outrageous lies which were as plain as the nose on my face, but I found myself agreeing with McCall. He looked me in the eyes for the first time on this voyage, clapped his hand on my back and said, 'there's hope for you yet Spiers.'

12-10-2010, 22:07
Thank you for some great writing ! :D
When is the book being published ? :) The only problem I had was the line about spit roasting Jackie Bird !:eek:
I nearly threw up ! :D

12-10-2010, 22:15
Excellent read.

12-10-2010, 23:39
Quite amusing but not a patch on the original.

12-10-2010, 23:49
;)Work slow at the moment Flashy?

26-10-2010, 11:55
Odyssey Part Five

You can witness many strange sights after a month at sea. In my short time searching the coast of Scotland for the vile Devine who had run off with my feather headed trollop of a wife I have seen ships on the horizon stretching into the heavens like sky scrapers, while other evenings I've seen ships upside down in the sky. Those were tricks of the light though but on Sunday I really did see Andy Goram sitting naked on the roof of a Tarbert pub singing the Sash. He stayed there for hours too, until Ian Ferguson fetched a musket and threatened to shoot him off so we could be on our way.

We had stopped at Tarbert to take in the old firm game and unknown to my travelling companions, the Rangers 90s Squad Marines, I had been emailing my match report from the pub to the Times in Glasgow via a Blackberry. Anything to stop the Times from running with articles written by the cleaner which is what they'd been doing in my absence and such is the circulation of the Scottish Times these days, nobody had noticed. After the game had finished and we'd got Andy Goram down from the roof we set off again to search the seas for Devine. That evening we had a celebration dinner to mark the Rangers victory and as usual, Richard Gough sat at the head of the table beneath a portrait of the Queen and raised a glass to her honour and as usual I stood up for the toast to the disgust of the gathered sailors whose tradition it is to remain seated when toasting the Queen. I'd never get used to this as the only experience I have of this kind of thing is roasting a queen after a heavy night on the amyl at Bennets.

That night I received texts from my only friend among the Scottish sporting press and even he hated me really but Roddy Forsyth could never resist letting me know just how in with the bricks he is at Celtic so he sent me lots of photos of Lawwell's latest meeting with the football hacks after the game at Parkhead. They showed Lawwell wearing nothing but his Afrika Corps desert cap shagging Stewart Regan up the arse while ranting at the assembled press. It was then I began to miss my life back on dry land and began to scheme to get out of finding that pair of tramps and getting back to doing what I do best, sticking the boot into Rangers.

26-10-2010, 14:39
Odyssey Part Six

Although I'd been plotting to find a way out of these interminably long weeks at sea for quite a while, once I'd finally decided that I was definitely over ever wresting the wife from the disgusting clutches of Tom Devine it didn't take long for things to start happening in my favour. First, and this will shock my Celtic fan club, the Rangers humped my team right off the park on Sunday and as suspected, Lawwell went to war. I was kept up to date with events through the nightly appearances in my dreams of the malevolent demon, Wormwood. He'd been featuring in my dreams for quite a while now, normally reminding me that he'd be seeing me in hell very shortly and that Willie Malley had a chamber put aside for me. I put these dreams down to my lack of sea legs and even mentioned them to Stuart McCall one night as we sat in the library, McCall silent and buried in books as ever. He listened intently but offered no advice save for keep off the herring before bedtime and to 'for god's sake take a bath.' But it wasn't until after the Rangers victory that Wormwood began to issue me with instructions and a plan formulated in my mind.

I thought everything was going as planned and was taking a walk around deck yesterday morning, letting the sea spray wash the sleep from my face when Stuart McCall loafed up beside me and asked if everything was okay? I reassured him that I was tip top but noticed him eyeing me in a peculiar manner as he strolled off to catch up on the morning papers. I began to tremble at the thought that somehow McCall had rumbled me but my reverie was soon disturbed by Ian Ferguson firing a blunderbuss at the seagulls and I disappeared into my berth to continue my preparations. Monday night then passed without incident and nary a sighting of Devine's boat which wasn't unusual, if you'd told me that BBC Scotland had reported fairly on Rangers then that'd have been unusual but not seeing Devine or my wife was becoming the norm by now.

Then this morning it happened. I was awoken earlier than usual by the sound of running from all quarters and got up to see what was happening. Everyone was gathered in the radio room and not a word was said until the full message had been received. Gough looked up, 'Well there we have it gentlemen, we're at war again,' and the others looked at each other with a weary resignation which seemed to stem from the burden of too many campaigns similar to the one ahead.
'From now on,' continued Gough, 'we're on a war footing - Fergie, I want all weapons primed and ready; Stuart, I want full background on how this came about and where the first assaults might come from; Goram, you need to sober up and get rid of that barmaid from your cabin and check all engines. Spiers, our quest for your wife is at an end, I'm sorry - we tried our best.'
I tried manfully to look as if I gave two damns and then everyone left to carry out their orders. I found out later that Lawwell had annexed the SFA and put George Peat under house arrest, was keeping Stewart Regan as his personal sex slave and had launched the full might of the Green Brigade against the Scottish refereeing fraternity. All other Scottish football teams had objected to the United Nations while Rangers said nothing as usual and sat in the Blue Room discussing butter while the green hordes swept across Scottish society wreaking havoc. Of course nothing about this was mentioned in the press due to Lawwell's vice like grip and the lads over at BBC Scotland were too busy issuing death threats to Willie Collum to do anything else and so for the first time in decades, the BBC went off the air in Scotland and a test card was transmitted with the Fields of Athenrye playing in the background.

Storm clouds were gathering over this little country, figuratively and literally as thunderheads gathered across the Cowal peninsula as we attempted to come into Glasgow through the Clyde and by eleven o'clock this morning, the place was as dark as Lawwell's soul, illuminated only occasionally by great streaks of lightning as Andy Goram guided us through the driving rain and the Port Glasgow Fenian Navy's blockade. Meanwhile I gathered my belongings and readied myself for the coming storm.

26-10-2010, 16:28
Odyssey Part Seven

The wind lashed rain the size of rocks off the barely visible figures of the Rangers 90s Squad Marines as Ian Ferguson negotiated HMS the Walter Smith through waves higher than our mast. All lights and engines were off so that no sound could attract the attention of Lawwell's agents as we approached the Clyde but if you ask me we could have been blasting down river all engines full on and playing Kanye West on the loudspeakers and no one would have heard us above the storm. I mentioned this but Andy Goram just smirked and suggested that since all we had on board was the Billy Boys and if we played that then no matter how loud the storm, someone somewhere would hear it, be offended and call the police.

As I clung on to a rail, I could see Gough in his white fighting coat standing proud at the front of the ship, Ian Ferguson straining at the wheel, Andy Goram covered in oil and sweat and rain, running from deck to engine room and back, and behind me was Stuart McCall keeping a silent eye on yours truly for some reason. We'd made it safely past the advance pickets of the Port Glasgow Fenian Navy and were passing Dunoon on our port side when I thought I saw movement ahead near Hunters Quay and put a telescope to my eye and shouted, 'Devine, it's Devine!'
Gough came running to me asking where and I pointed through the dark rain but although he scanned the horizon, he could see no sight of them.
'Can't see a thing Spiers, are you sure?' he bawled above the wind.
'I'm sure, I'm sure, I swear I saw my wife waving from a porthole.' I shouted back, offering him my own telescope as if this would make a blind bit of difference. He continued to gaze through his own glass but shook his head, 'Still nothing Spiers, I can't risk it.'
'Please Richard,' I begged, 'She's my wife, I saw her. Oh I know the boat's probably out of sight now but I swear I saw her!'
Gough glanced over at McCall who shook his head, then looked at Ferguson but he was too busy to notice our little commotion then Andy Goram passed and Gough asked him his thoughts and with an oath, Goram told him that if it'd been up to him he'd have had me overboard on the first day.
'This man's wife's honour is at stake, hard to port Fergie, we still have time for one last attempt - we chase Devine!' and I breathed a sigh of relief as Gough strode again to the front of the boat to stand ready then we changed direction and headed away from Glasgow up the Firth of Clyde between Blairmore and Cove.

'Can't see a damned thing skipper,' shouted Ian Ferguson through the wind as he struggled to keep us on course, the weather worsening.
'I can! Spiers, is that her?' shouted Gough as we spotted lights through the clouds. I took a peek through my telescope and saw line upon line of Lawwell's heavily armed war frigates. 'Yes, that's her,' I shouted back and we headed into the eye of the storm.

26-10-2010, 17:12
well done sir!! you may be very busy in the next few days and weeks. :):):)

27-10-2010, 12:36
Odyssey Part Eight

I kept a keen eye on the horizon with my telescope and watched as Lawwell's frigates disappeared in and out of sight amongst the swirling maelstrom of rain and clouds and waves. My luck was holding as the plan would never work if Gough twigged it was a trap too soon so while the weather remained as wild as this, I was in with a chance. Then suddenly a dinghy fired up from the side of the Walter Smith, I looked over and it was Stuart McCall and he was taking off ahead of us and aiming straight for the frigates that Gough still couldn't quite see.
'If I'm wrong then I'll see you shortly, if I'm right then I'll be back for you Spiers,' he shouted and sped off into the storm. I knew immediately what he was doing; he was suspicious of me all along, poor bluff Stuart McCall with his silent ways and now he was sailing into the heart of an ambush knowing fine well that if he was right then he was going to take the brunt of the attack on his own. Gough had only just spotted him as he disappeared into the clouds ahead then there was silence for a few moments and then the flashes of dozens of heavy guns and the rumble of their noise came rolling over us and Gough immediately knew what had happened. He started shouting orders and the Walter Smith swung round just in time to head up the Clyde towards Glasgow, avoiding the ambush thanks to the courage and sacrifice of McCall. I could have wept, in fact I think I did, imagining what was going to happen to me once Ferguson and Goram got a hold of me but then from above, earlier than planned but just as welcome, came a harness dangling from a Sea King helicopter which was being tossed around in the wind above us. I jumped into the harness and was lifted off my feet and into the air just in time to avoid Goram's lunge at me with a cutlass.

I was bundled into the helicopter and pulled to safety as someone slammed the door behind me and there in front of me, grinning, was Jack McConnell.
'Welcome back Spiers,' he shouted above the din. 'We have lots of work ahead for you my boy, Labour will be back in power in Scotland before long which means the Sectarian Wars are back on and you can finish what you started. This little phoney war going on just now? Just a skirmish compared to what we've got in store for those Orange bastards.'
And he laughed. And I laughed with him, I was back. Graham Spiers, scourge of Rangers was back!

08-11-2010, 11:43
To the Devil, a Lawwell

Dr John Reid held the cock by the head as Lawwell ran a knife across its neck and warm blood gurgled out and over the naked body of Herald editor Jonathan Russell and at last he was consecrated as a member of the inner sanctum of Lawwell's sinister brotherhood. Then the chanting started and Father Wormwood materialised over Russell and rogered him senseless, everyone cheered and then repaired to the lounge to remove their scarlet robes, sip cocktails and celebrate their diversity by singing songs about killing British soldiers. Just another lively party at Schoenhausen then.

It was Saturday night and Lawwell had arranged the infernal baptism of Russell at short notice in order to hold him to the puff piece he required of the Herald to absolve the club of any flack heading its way over the Green Brigade's appalling display during the Aberdeen game. Once he'd been baptised in Lawwell's Satanic ritual, there was no way back and as expected, Monday's piece on yet another Celtic Poppiegate read like an article out of the Celtic View. Hurrah then, we all cried and everyone queued up to shake hands with Mark McGhee who was there accepting plaudits for handing Celtic a morale boosting 9-0 win. As McGhee was raised on the shoulders of the sports staff of the Daily Mail who these days led the field in their refusal to disguise their Celtic leanings, I heard someone say my name to my right and turned to see Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter standing there, brazen as you like.
'What are you doing here and in the middle of all this?' I goggled.
'Mass hypnosis, Spiers. It's easy. Nobody knows I'm here except you. This is all very interesting, the Scottish press selling their souls en-mass to the devil and here you are, right in amongst it, a very willing participant. A minor cog these days though, eh? After all, who reads the Scottish Times anymore?'
I ignored his attempts to rile me but noticed that I was receiving a few odd looks for as far as anyone else was concerned, I seemed to be talking to myself. Then again, since no one else usually spoke to me anyway, this was nothing new.
'So what are you doing here?' I asked, surveying the room to make sure that sneak Charlie Gordon wasn't lurking anywhere - he's the one you always have to look out for. He did for Wendy Alexander at Reid's bidding and I was sure he wasn't going to get me too thanks to an invisible Jorg Albertz.
'I have a feeling this gathering is going to need me tonight,' said Albertz. 'You and I know that the demon Screwtape has possessed Lennon and I'm sure Lawwell knows too but I've heard mutterings in the underworld that Screwtape's intentions and Lawwell's aren't the same. You can't trust demons, Spiers - they're liars by their very nature and I suppose that's why Lawwell thinks he can control them since there's no bigger liar than him (tour of Japan indeed) but they can't be controlled, they work to a different agenda and the infernal grapevine tells me that something big is going to happen tonight and I'm here to put all the bits back together once Lawwell's witless plan falls to pieces. Nobody wants an Inquisition Demon running amok in Glasgow. Well, nobody sane anyway.'
Then as if on cue, there was a scream and Neil Lennon stood up from the table where he was sitting having his nob stroked by Mark Guidi and all hell broke loose, Lennon's head rotated 180 degrees and he vomited all over Roddy Forsyth who was waiting on line to take over from Guidi. 'Your mothers suck cocks in hell!' he screamed and then fainted and wet himself as he lay on the floor although such is Neil Lennon's behaviour these days, nobody noticed anything odd about this. Except Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter.

10-11-2010, 12:14
The Lawwell and all his Works

Sitting on the 44 bus I find myself envying Bryan Young who although being a hack, has a captive audience of tens of thousands of commuters in that free daily comic, Metro. From there he can get his pro-Celtic message across to naive commuters who will read his puff pieces and believe that Celtic are the victims in all of these latest crises of their own making. And in doing this, Young will avoid another kicking from the Stasi - didn't I last see him tied and hooded, being dragged from his screaming wife and children the last time Lawwell set up the gulags for the Scottish press? My kickings aren't as easily avoided; since the Times started charging for internet access my readership has plummeted and if it wasn't for Costa Coffee stocking the Times and the bulk order for the Pacific Quay CFC then I'd be the only one reading my Celtic propaganda. Me and Lawwell that is.

So I was sitting on the 44 bus thinking about all of this and trying to piece together the end of Lawwell's little party at Schoenhausen on Saturday night when he baptised the editor of the Herald into his infernal brotherhood. The problem was, he and Reid underestimated their control of the denizens of hell - they're not exactly the Scottish media, there to be bullied and cajoled to do their bidding - it turns out it was quite the other way around.

Something happened, something diabolical. I don't know what started it but I came to dressed in a green and white cheerleader's uniform with a sore arse and covered in a sticky white substance. As the fog cleared from my mind and I looked around the chaos in that room where just minutes before the great and the good of the Celtic Minded were celebrating Mark McGhee's kind gift of a terrific goal difference, I recalled a frenzy of demonic activity as a mass possession took place and suddenly the room was alive with piss and shit and vomit as Scottish football journalists and Celtic FC employees waded in waste like maggots covering themselves in a stench that no amount of bathing would ever remove. I recall Reid handing me the cheerleader's uniform as he ran to Lawwell's chamber to produce some torture instruments and as I climbed into it willingly I was grabbed from behind by Stephen McGowan of the Daily Mail who f*cked me into next week before spitting on me, sneering and leaving me rolling around the floor speaking in tongues.

Then just as things began to get really weird with the place beginning to resemble a Borgian orgy, Jorg Albertz made himself known and exorcised everyone, leaving us dazed and watching as he carried out the final exorcism to Neil Lennon. Lennon's head spun, he vomited green bile over the party guests, he crawled on all fours on the ceiling like some obscene spider and he pissed on a hardback copy of Casualties of the Great War while bellowing like a horse but eventually Jorg Albertz had rid him of the final demon in that room of horror then he lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in my face and left.
'Bloody hell,' said Lawwell, 'that was magnificent! What a party, shame it had to end early.'

I limped home and still wearing the Celtic cheerleader's uniform, penned a piece on why everyone should leave Celtic and their fans alone and let them defile Remembrance Sunday if they like. Shame that no one will read it though, they'll all be reading Bryan Young.

10-11-2010, 19:15
Had it pointed out to me that yesterday was the first birthday of the Diary and a cursory look at it from this time last year shows that nothing much has changed:

12-11-2010, 15:19
The Pit and the Smelly One

I had come to, lying on the edge of a great pit with a wall behind me impossible to scale to escape the horror below. I could feel pain shooting up my left arm and with a gasp realised that I was tethered to a rope which spanned the mouth of the pit and ended at the other side from me, tied to Tom English who was also stirring. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I had hung up my cute little Celtic cheerleader's uniform and put away the green and white pom poms and was sitting in my usual seat at Ibrox - the cleanest seat in the stadium considering they have it disinfected and washed after all of my visits, something that pleases me no end as it's good to know that no matter how much I lay into the Rangers, they will always make sure my seat is nice and clean. So a jaded looking Rangers took a hiding from Hibs and I headed off to the Brazen Head for a knees up with the Green Brigade as I fully expected everyone to be there celebrating a win over Hearts but if only I knew enough about football to check the results before jumping to conclusions and heading into the night full of hope.

When I got there everyone was debating whether or not Neil Lennon had been exorcised at Lawwell's Satanic shindig on Saturday night after all since after losing to Hearts he'd vomited bile and his head had spun while mouthing obscenities but having been there in person at Schoenhausen, I reassured them that he had indeed had the evil Screwtape cast from him by no less than Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter himself. The Green Brigade visibly flinched at the mention of his name and I had to ask why. One wizened old wreck of a man, he could have been no more than twenty one, leaned over a candle and in hushed tones told me, 'Jorg Albertz has gazed upon the walls of heaven and blazed at the gates of hell; he bottled the devil in a bar in Bangkok and has the head of the angel Gabriel in a box in his flat. You'll do well to avoid him Spiers, the man is a menace, especially to us - we took him on in 1997 and he hypnotised us into eating our own shite, it took us two days to notice where the smell was coming from.'
I sat back and considered all of this for I'd met Albertz and he'd been perfectly nice to me, just like most of those at Rangers which has always surprised me considering how much trouble I've caused them over the years. Of course we used to be lovers until I touched up Michelle Mone at Murray's orgy in Paris that time but after he threw me out the clique, I've been hunting him and his club ever since. The fact that my crusade against Rangers has brought me into contact with such fine champions of liberty and freedom of speech as the Green Brigade and Jeanette Findlay is just a bonus.

Talking of Findlay, I later came across her in a lane off Byres Road where she'd been pishing in the street, her petticoats hoisted just out the way enough to avoid being soaked and I asked her what she'd been doing since her patron, the vile Tom Devine had disappeared with my wife. I expected a breakdown of her continuing struggle with the west of Scotland Protestant establishment and how poor Catholics could never attain positions of power while such ingrained sectarian attitudes prevailed here, well that's her usual routine in spite of being in with the bricks at the oldest seat of learning in the city and how she's managed to do that and keep up her night time job of disgusting old whore peddling her arse in the gutters of Glasgow I'll never know. Instead she just sang a few verses of some old Irish terrorist song more suited to the dark days of the 70s, told me to stick my poppy up my arse, was sick on her stockings and collapsed in a puddle where I imagine she spent the rest of the night. Had I known the danger I'd be plunged into as a result I'd have tried to help her, give her a room for the night perhaps or just put some traffic cones round her but I wasn't to know and I walked right on, aiming to get home and stuck into my Martin O'Neill scrapbook as soon as possible and so I sealed my fate and that's the beginning of how I fetched up balanced on the edge of a pit, tied to Tom English, both of us trying to dislodge the other to fall into that gaping hole at the bottom of which waited the horror of all horrors, a hungry and demented Elaine C. Smith.

15-11-2010, 12:49
One Flew Over the Lawwell's Nest

I've noticed recently that I haven't been getting up the noses of the Rangers support as much as I used to which is obviously down to the fact that nobody buys the Scottish Times anymore and the paywall prevents anyone from reading my deliberately provocative writing. What's the use of being a football reporter if you can't lay into the Rangers and have everyone know what you're up to? Without a readership I'd be as well head butting the John Greig statue outside Ibrox at three o'clock in the morning (something I'm sure Neil Lennon told me he used to do before he was possessed by a demon and his behaviour improved considerably). So to rectify this I created an account on Twitter. Actually, I was forced to create an account on Twitter by the editor who reckoned that since every other Celtic Minded bigot in the Scottish media was using it to lay into the h*ns then I might as well jump on the bandwagon. The only problem now though is, I have a stalker. Some loony called Brian McNally seems to think I'm his soul brother and is not only tweeting me but has taken to hanging around outside my flat and following me to all my regular haunts, the Chip, the Brazen Head and Heraghtys. Sometimes in the dead of the night, if I peek out my curtains I can see him in the sodium glare of the street lights, naked save for the obligatory Mirror Group Celtic scarf and committing as they say in the business, a sex act. Strange behaviour indeed. If only he had the nerve to ring my doorbell he'd find a warm welcome, somewhere round about my arse.

Talking about my arse, it got a good pummelling last night off Herr Lawwell who had his minions remove the sandbags and barbed wire from around his bunker deep beneath Parkhead and let me in for a last minute thrashing as I was tied to a table and lashed with a horse whip as Lawwell dictated what my next column was going to be about. Obviously with the way he, Reid and all of Celtic have been appalling the nation with their insidious antics over this poppy business, it was my job and my job alone, to put the message out there that Celtic are the innocent party in all this and that it is, wait for it, yes, Rangers who are at fault. I was told to throw in a mention of the singing of the Billy Boys and when I squeaked that it's only reappeared thanks to the disgraceful sectarian chanting of his own support, he increased the speed of the strokes so that the pain was almost too much to bear.
'You think I haven't noticed our fans' chants?' he raved at me. 'You think I don't know that if we hadn't almost bankrupted ourselves with the whole Mowbray affair that we wouldn't have had to take the cheap option and employ Neil Lennon and if we hadn't employed him then we wouldn't have had to take to the schemes with the Celtic Republican Roadshow? How I regret that, those morons figured it gave them carte blanche to indulge in all sorts of singing, chanting and banners I thought we'd eradicated years ago. All that work to have the public believe we didn't have the same problems as Rangers is evaporating as we lose control of our own people so I need you Spiers, to get out there and blame Rangers for all the ills of the world, starting with the Billy Boys and since you have no shame, I want you to heap opprobrium upon them for their charity work surrounding Remembrance Sunday and don't worry about your editor thinking you've gone too far - I've already had him over and dangled him above Elaine C Smith's pit - seen Tom English since you managed to best him in our little game on Friday? No? I didn't think so, that bastard'll think twice before thinking he can talk about me like that again.'
He went on like this for an hour until I had no choice but to agree. To tell you the truth, I was ready to agree before the thrashing but there's nothing I like better than being whipped by a man wearing jackboots.

19-11-2010, 15:35
Welcome to Dystopia

Sting was right when he said the bed's too big without you but he didn't reckon on having to share it with Tom Devine for four weeks so when the blaggard made off with my wife it was more or less a relief. A month at sea with the Rangers 90s Squad Marines was more than enough for decent society to believe that I'd tried my best to retrieve her but to be fair, after being ravished by that horny old goat, who'd want her back? It was bad enough last year when she ran off with Aamer Anwar and then after I'd chucked him off a window ledge at the City Chambers, when she found a bed with Bishop Joe Devine's cock puppet Jason Allardyce, anyone would think she considered being married to the greatest crusading journalist in Scotland to be an embarrassment.

I was discussing this with Harrison Ford and Sylvester Stallone in my bedroom this morning and they seemed to think I was doing the right thing in forgetting all about her. 'Hey, you've still got your Martin O'Neil scrapbook,' said Ford and 'forgeddaboudit, you've always got Elton John,' added Stallone. I'm not stupid, I know that loneliness can do strange things to a man and waking up mornings to find two Hollywood stars sitting by my bed giving me marital advice is surely a sign that I should be getting out more and making new friends. My problem though is that yet again, there are too many shady characters out to get me so I daren't step out the door and if I did, I'd probably only trip over Brian McNally who has been camping out on my doorstep in more ways than one recently if you get my drift?

In spite of not turning up at matches I was paid to report on, I still managed to attend the Celtic AGM yesterday and sitting there with my fellow football journalists, all of us dressed in our matching green white and gold cheerleader uniforms, we were honoured to be witness to another tour de force from Dr John Reid where he completely glossed over his team's catastrophic failure on the park and lobbed a few insults Rangers' way before progressing to what we'd all been waiting for. He didn't disappoint and laid into referees and the SFA like Lawwell lays into any journalist who strays too close to the truth. A strange thing happened though, there was a journalist sitting beside me who I didn't recognise and I'm sure he had an English accent so I just figured he was from one of the proper newspapers down south. Curiously he kept mumbling under his breath but still audible all the time that Reid was speaking and it went like this,
Reid: 'we need bold, radical action to combat stories of lies, conspiracies and cover-ups.'
Mystery Man: 'all of 'em emanating from you, you old pervert.'
Reid: 'maybe Peter Wishart's proposals about referees declaring their allegiances should be considered as part of the process?'
Mystery Man: 'half of them are tims as well you know so where are you going with this and what are you holding on Wishart to make him come out with this rot?'
Reid: 'maybe we should ask about video technology to help referees?'
Mystery Man: 'what, and risk realising that referees are only human and occasionally make mistakes - where would that fit with your agenda?'
Reid: 'we lost the league last year because we weren't good enough,'
Mystery Man: 'at last, the truth!'
Reid: 'but we reserve the right to query decisions.'
Mystery Man: 'constantly as it deflects your idiot fans from the real issues.'
Reid: 'it's not sour grapes or paranoia,'
Mystery Man: 'yes it is.'
Reid: 'we have a new young vibrant managerial team led by Neil Lennon that will be here for a very long time,'
Mystery Man: 'so why are you sniffing around Martin O'Neil for a Walter Smith style return? Lennon will be out before the end of the season and you know it.'
Reid: 'we're not asking for special treatment, but neither will we be treated as less than anyone else. Those days are gone.'
Mystery Man: 'yes you are, you never have been and they were never here in the first place you dolt.'
And at this our mystery man stood up and said aloud, 'So Dr Reid, by saying that Celtic were treated differently from every other team you are obviously insinuating that there is a reason for this, a reason which you skip around and never mention directly. Can I clarify why you think Celtic are treated differently? Is it because,'
And at this the whole room goggled at him and as one took a sharp intake of breath.
'Is it because Celtic are a Roman Catholic club? Are you suggesting that there is a sectarian agenda at work within the SFA, amongst referees and indeed society as a whole, its sole purpose to keep down Celtic because they're Catholics? Because that's a very serious accusation and considering you've just claimed you're not paranoid, you obviously think it's true. Or is it just spin to distract the loony elements in your support from your failings on the pitch and in the board room because I'm not sure what's worse, actually believing in a bigoted agenda or taking advantage of your moronic fans' belief in it which leads to violence and misery - are you proud of yourself Dr Reid? Are you proud of the fact that your fans attack referees and their families as a consequence of your pronouncements? Are you proud of the fact that your fans get so paranoid after any setback that they take to the streets and commit all sorts of breaches of the peace? Oh this lot in here will never report it that way and Celtic's name will always be missing from any reports but we all know what's going on...'
And just as he took a breath to continue, at the nod from Lawwell, two uniformed goons grabbed him from behind, hooded and handcuffed him and dragged him screaming from the room and that was the last we ever saw of our mystery man. Five minutes later we heard two gunshots from behind the sheds so I can imagine what became of him.

Nothing more had to be said by Celtic since the fate of our brave Englishman was enough to remind everyone what happens when you get on the wrong side of Reid and Lawwell. Didn't I just know after finding myself teetering on the edge of a pit, Elaine C Smith snarling and grunting at the bottom and didn't she take the leg off Tom English after he dared question Celtic's motivations last week? I really should get around to recording how I bested English and escaped from the pit but that's for another day, right now there's just too much going on. That's the thing about waving the pom poms for Celtic, it's never ending.

19-11-2010, 15:46
Extraordinary writing...

24-11-2010, 12:21
The Garden of Heavenly Delights

Quis Custodiet Ipso Custodes. If you know your Juvenal, as my old Classics master used to remind us - who referees the referees you could almost ask? Well in Scotland obviously it's Celtic but this time Lawwell and Reid have gone too far and the buggers have gone on strike. This puts us all in a very difficult position in that the whole world and its dog knows there is one club and one club only to blame and that is Celtic but how to report the strike without naming them? BBC Scotland got off to a good start, reporting on the strike while showing Dundee Utd players surrounding the ref from their game on Saturday. We in the ink business however, haven't got the convenience of misdirecting footage to fall back on and so have to rely on our wits. Hugh MacDonald didn't even bother with this since the man doesn't have any and he opted for the simple hoot inducing 'nothing to see here, Celtic are right' approach. He had no choice though, I hear he wrote it in the basement of Lawwell's chambers in Celtic Park with a pistol at this head while sitting on a specially constructed chair with a stopper on it to prevent his waste from soiling the room (I quite fancy such a contraption - imagine the hours of fun I could have with what is basically just a dildo strapped to a seat). Old pissy Hugh wasn't alone though, beside him was Ronnie Cully who curiously held the gun to his own head while he typed with his nose and for all the nonsense he came out with, it showed. So there you have it, as usual, Lawwell was telling the Scottish press how to do their job and all in the darkness of the pits of Parkhead because if you know your New Testament, qui male agit odit lucem.

I said last week that there was just no room for catching up with my other adventures these days because merely reporting on Celtic's astonishing behaviour of late has become a full time job and after John Reid decided to put his Livy into practice - plus animi est inferenti periculum quam propulsanti - and went on the offensive against almost the whole of Scotland (because how else could you describe his antics?) it's become a real chore. Go down the Chip these days and you can actually get into the gents loo for a pee without having to climb over the Pacific Quay CFC snorting and snarling over shared lines of coke as they're all too busy covering for Celtic back at BBC Scotland. Pop into the Brazen Head and there's no sign of the Green Brigade as they're all hard at work attacking the houses of referees and intimidating their families. The only place to have some fun just now is Heraghtys because the Celtic Minded who drink in there have no tasks save for stinking up the place with their wild republican rants and as anyone knows, I wouldn't be seen dead in there these days since odi profanum vulgus.

Enough of the Latin lessons however, I could be here all day proving to the ignorant amongst my fellow journalists just how superior to them I am - I'm sure this is why they avoid me these days, it's my incredible intellect and moral superiority, nothing to do with the smell as alluded to by some.
So like I said, what a busy week it's been, what with Lawwell squeezing journalists until their pips squeak and John Reid sitting at home sacrificing hens and chanting, in between skinning up some major doobies while Scottish Football collapses around our ears, I thought I'd seen it all until last night.

I'd been relaxing at home, corduroys around my ankles, Martin O'Neil scrapbook on my lap when my door was kicked open and in rushed two of Lawwell's stormtroopers who tied and gagged me and were dragging me by the feet out of the room when there was a crash and in through the window came Stuart Cosgrove dressed as a bat. He dropped both of them in an instant and took me still gagged to the window where he shot a grappling hook onto the roof opposite. We heard a cry but by the time we'd been hauled onto the roof we noticed that he'd just impaled Alex Mosson who by chance was burgling the wrong flats at the wrong time. As Cosgrove tried to untangle his hook from Mosson's thigh he was taken by surprise by the Joker, Tam Cowan who came at him with an axe while the Piddler, Hugh MacDonald stood in the background soiling himself and pointing a gun. Next thing you know I'm being carried down a set of ladders by the Joker and the Piddler and being bundled into a waiting black van only for the Traynor to appear and with a roar, shake Cowan and MacDonald by the necks and fling them bleeding into some hedges. I was just about to ask the Traynor whose side he was on when Stephen Purcell jumped on his back shouting 'run Graham, run!' And I did only to run straight into a torch carrying mob of the Green Brigade who looked like they thought a Scottish referee lived around these parts. Seeing it was me they let out a cheer, hoisted me on their shoulders and were heading down Byres Road towards Jintys for a knees up when out of the sky swooped Master Mason who grabbed me by the collar and lifted me high into the sky only to be punched unconscious by Torquemada who caught me as I fell with Master Mason towards Kelvingrove Park. He put me down and was eyeing me suspiciously when suddenly he went limp and collapsed to the ground and I heard a jovial chuckle as Donald Findlay appeared beside us, in cape and deerstalker holding a cane tipped with blue kryptonite. 'Come on Spiers, we haven't got much time,' he said. 'We can't have you hanging around Kelvingrove Park at this time of the night, people might think you're cruising again...' but before he could finish his sentence he was lifted off the ground and into a tree by a net and out jumped Mad Joe O'Rouke, naked except for a Celtic hat.

'Woo hoo hoo! I got the great Donald Findlay! He thought he was brilliant and I got him! Woo hoo hoo!' was all he got to say before a black hood went over his head and he was wrestled to the ground by Graeme Souness who barked orders to his Rangers 90s Squad Commandos who carried away O'Rourke, bundled Torquemada into a blue kryptonite lined box and then let down Donald Findlay who looked a tad ruffled and annoyed that his pipe had spilled onto his whiskers.

'We'll be seeing you loser,' said Souness and winked as they loaded up their Range Rover and drove off into the night, Souness shouting at me as they left, 'And don't think we don't know what you're up to with your bum chums at UEFA!'

Then Darryl Broadfoot jumped out the bushes and rogered me senseless, sneered and spat on me, leaving me panting on the grass and wondering what had happened to release all of this madness.

06-01-2011, 21:02
Planet of the Papes

I hadn't yet got used to zero gravity so as the oxygen hissed from the torn pipe leading to my helmet, sending me spinning beyond the reach of the Republican Guard Stormtroopers, I knew that I couldn't right myself to even attempt to fix the leak and would soon be sucking vacuum and dead in seconds. Of course I wouldn't have been there in the first place if it wasn't for the outburst of madness (see blog: http://grahamspiersdiary.blogspot.com/2010/11/garden-of-heavenly-delights.html) which followed the referee's strike and led to every monster in my great narrative appearing that night when I eventually fetched up in Murray Park watching as Martin Bain and Donald Findlay tutted and removed the mask from Torquemada to discover that it had been Peter Kearney all along. But where did he get his super powers was the question on everyone's lips with Donald Findlay as ever, having the answer to that: a combination of years of religious indoctrination, hatred and bigotry building up into an uncontrollable urge to attack Protestantism in all its guises. Oh and misappropriated alien technology. Which is how I ended up in Kearney's star station, Inquisition 4 and treading space after a daring escape from the station having been found in possession of blue kryptonite, the only substance known to affect Torquemada or the bold Peter as we all know him down at Heraghtys.
I felt my lungs begin to give and had settled into my fate, relaxing and taking in the astonishing view that was the earth in all its blue glory (Kearney will have something to say about that, I thought) when suddenly someone grabbed my air pipe and gummed the hole and I could taste precious oxygen again. I got my balance back and gazed into the face of my benevolent rescuer and there was Graeme Souness, winking and signing that he'd see me later, loser. Then I floated around the earth's atmosphere for a while wondering how on earth I was going to get back to the west end from here.

07-01-2011, 13:03
Oh Mist Rolling in from the Sea

Have you ever seen fire in zero gravity? It comes at you in waves. I was fortunate because once the Inquisition 4 began to burn up thanks to some conveniently placed incendiary devices left there by Souness and his Rangers 80s Squad Space Commandos, I was grabbed by Stuart Munro and plonked unceremoniously into the baggage area of their re-entry craft and we hurtled towards earth while Inquisition 4 fell to bits behind us and with it Peter Kearney's latest plans for a Catholic insurrection.

We ditched in the sea just off the Mull of Kintyre and as usual there were jeeps waiting for Souness and his men while I was left to walk, soaking wet to civilisation but after experiencing Campbeltown I found that I preferred being in the sea. I didn't linger there then - too many furrow browed Rangers fans eyeing me up, trying to figure out how they recognised me so I bolted before they remembered and I received a thrashing. Not sure if news of my failure to support Kearney's last plan had reached Lawwell yet, I decided to keep a low profile and took lodgings in a cottage just outside Machrihanish and this is where I spent all of December in case you're wondering what happened to my diary over the past month or so - well I could hardly write it while fleeing for my life around a space station or stuck in an old farmhouse by the sea which was lucky it had electricity never mind the internet.

It was while holed up in the farmhouse that I decided to put my time to good use and pen my magnum opus on Scotland's sectarian problem or 'anti-Catholic bigotry' as we've all to call it according to the Catholic Media Centre and by extension, the Scottish Government. The problem was though, that without having my friends from Celtic, the Labour Party, the Green Brigade or the Republican Girls around to tell me what I think, my masterpiece stalled at the first page and I took to the bottle, getting drunk on Cinzano Bianco every night until one night and I think this was around mid-December when I was lying on the floor sobbing to myself and I heard a sound from outside. Being jumpy in case it was disgruntled Rangers fans or a Lawwell assassination squad, I dimmed the lights and scurried around the floor, peeking out of the windows every now and then in case I could see anything but although I heard the occasional bump, there was no one to be seen and I settled down for a sleepness night in a corner, listening to the wind howl and the snow battering the windows. The next morning I went outside to take in some fresh air and found foot prints in the snow.

That unnerved me, I can tell you. I spent a worried day pacing around the house until night came, too early in the day for my liking, it seems to get dark here two hours after it gets light! Not having slept much the night before, I figured that it wouldn't be a problem this time since I was exhausted and I was just settling down in bed and looking forward to a good night's sleep although I admit I did miss my Martin O'Neill scrapbook, when I heard noises from outside. It was a shuffling noise, a wet shuffling noise with every now and then a scraping sound like metal being dragged along stone. I sat shivering under my bedroom window and listened as foot steps passed me outside and carried on around the house and then there was silence. I refused to move until I was sure whoever it was had gone and was just building up enough courage to look out the window when the back door handle started turning. I heard it from the bedroom and panicked, not knowing if I had locked it or not and ran through to the kitchen where I saw the handle turning quickly from side to side. It was locked, thank god. Unable to resist, I had to know who was trying to get in, I approached the window and peered out but could see nothing and then it stopped. After another sleepless night I ventured outside at sunrise and found more foot prints and wet patches in the snow and alarmingly, seaweed lying around the back door. I felt a little more at ease now as this indicated that it wasn't Lawwell's goons but who was it? Or what was it? I never used to believe in the supernatural but hanging out with the Celtic Minded would make you believe in anything what with their holy ghosts and conspiracy theories not to mention demons doing Lawwell's dirty work for him, superheroes fighting in the skies above Glasgow, journalists and QCs turning into monsters, Neil Lennon managing Celtic and the mere existence of the Green Brigade - all of it quite extraordinary and beyond the realms of reality.

That night I decided to hide in the barn and keep watch for my night time visitor. It was a bold move and quite unlike me but it had to be done - if I was to stay here out of the reach of a vengeful Catholic church then I couldn't do it while scared out of my wits every time the sun went down. Oh how I wish when Kearney had shouted to grab Graeme Souness I had at least attempted it instead of pulling a Hugh MacDonald and soiling my space suit. It was too late for what ifs now though so I spent an hour in the barn in the daylight and then waited as it got dark and kept a watchful eye on the farmhouse and its surroundings. It was bitterly cold and the sound of the wind competed with the roar of the waves just over the sand dunes and almost drowned out the noise of a figure approaching from the sea. I spotted it glistening in the moonlight as it approached the house, dark and only just recognisable as a man, seaweed dripping from it and carrying chains which dragged along the paving stones as it eventually reached the house. It paused as it passed the barn and I almost vomited at the thought that it might know I was here but then it carried on and walked around the house before rattling the back door and to my horror, the door opened, bathing the thing in light and I nearly screamed as I recognised who or what it was - it was the ghost of Stuart McCall returned to exact revenge on me for betraying the Rangers 90s Squad Marines.

12-01-2011, 13:43

As the ghost of Stuart McCall rampaged around my little farmhouse, he knocked over a paraffin lamp and set fire to the place before wandering out onto the snow to watch as the place burned and I suppose it thought I was still in there so I settled down by the door of the barn to try to take advantage of the heat from the blaze until the ghost decided it'd had its revenge and left me alone. My relative comfort didn't last long though as sparks from the fire soon drifted onto the roof of the barn and before you could whistle Boys of the Old Brigade without censure, the barn was ablaze too and I had to make a run for it. I ran screaming away from the flames, McCall turned and noticed my flight, groaned and started towards me, cutting off my escape into the mainland so I sprinted off in panic towards the shore, haring across a bridge and over some sand dunes until I realised that I was trapped on the beach with a vengeful ghost behind me and the cold sea in front of me. Just as McCall appeared over the dunes I heard a voice cry out above the sound of the waves and the wind - it was Hugh Keevins and he was in a rowing boat coming to shore. I scrambled through the waves and met him, tumbling into the little boat and looking back at the beach where the ghost of Stuart McCall was nowhere to be seen. As the Port Glasgow Fenian navy rowed like Billy be damned away from that horror, I slumped back in the boat and breathed a sigh of relief that I'd been saved once again from certain doom and it was only when I looked up to thank my rescuers that I noticed sitting there opposite me, the sea rotten figure of Stuart McCall, in the boat! I screamed and stood up, there was a melee as I tried to get as far away from that ghastly spectre as possible, the boat rocked and I felt myself losing my balance and plunging into the waves as people screamed above me.

I felt cold hands grab my ankle and then chains bashing against my shins and as I breathed water I could see the shape of two figures pass me into the black depths of the ocean then another hand pulled me onto the boat and I fainted.

I came to in the Inquisition 3, the official U-Boat of the Scottish Catholic Media Centre where I was offered hot cocoa by a member of the Fenian Navy. I asked him what had happened and was told that Pat Nevin would be along shortly to fill me in. For a brief moment my heart jumped but then I realised Nevin was only going to update me. He arrived looking like a Level 8 student from Strathclyde University in the 80s and I babbled all about the ghost of Stuart McCall, fearing he wouldn't believe me but he raised his hand to hush my blathering and told me that I wasn't the only one who had seen it, the navy rowers had seen it too and probably so did Keevins before he fell into the sea.
'What, Keevins fell in with me? Was he trying to rescue me? What a hero, my old friend Hugh - I owe him one,' exclaimed I.
'Erm, no you don't, uhmed Nevin. 'Keevins tried to push you into McCall to save himself, lost his balance and fell in. The spook got him and dragged him to the bottom, believing he was you. Still, I suppose he did save your life. In a way. And don't fret about him, losing a Keevins is not an issue - Lawwell has a never ending supply of them which is why we always carry a Keevins during our most dangerous missions as he makes a good sacrifice when one is required in an emergency.'
'So what now?' I asked, worrying that I was on board a Kearney vessel so soon after betraying him on board the space station.
'Oh nothing much,' continued Nevin. 'Our orders were simply to pick you up and take you back to Glasgow. Celtic have just beaten Rangers, the fans are on a high and the Parkhead car park is secure for the time being but Lawwell's got wind of a renegade faction within the SFA plotting to hand Neil Lennon a six week ban and draw us against Rangers at Ibrox in the Scottish Cup. He needs you back at the tiller - oh the Times janitor writing your columns while you're away is all very well but he needs your own unique brand of idiocy to get some of his latest messages across, so it's back home for you my friend.'

I sighed and lay back on my bunk and thought about recuperating the entire journey back to the city but then I noticed a saucy look in Nevin's eye and for the next hour it was a case of hello sailor!

12-01-2011, 14:55
The Return of the Ming

Now that my little December adventure was over I returned to the mean streets of Glasgow and found that with Celtic sitting at the top of the league, the madness had subsided and life for Scottish sports journalists (not forgetting self proclaimed anti-sectarian chroniclers) had become one big party. In speakeasies and jazz clubs throughout the city, glasses were clinking as the dirty inkies let down their hair and relaxed. I joined them and took a stroll down to the Chip for a few lines with the Pacific Quay CFC who were there in their numbers, living it up with the Scotland Today bhoys who were celebrating a return to the weekly dunking of Raman Bhardwaj in the river Kelvin for 'pretending he wis a Partick Thistle supporter but turning out tae be a hun'. Ah, the craic...

Next stop was Hampden where I found George Peat had employed the services of a couple of hairy musical specialists to help him identify the phantom singing coming from the SFA rafters - still chasing Gordon Smith around the place then, and Peter Regan dressed in a lilttle tu-tu, jumping through green and white circus rings (seems like I'm not the only one who enjoys jumping through hoops for Celtic then although my hoops are a bit more hairy). With nothing changed at the SFA I loafed over to Parkhead to visit Neil Lennon and check how he's been getting on since the exorcism of the demon Screwtape. I pressed the buzzer at the gates of Celtic Park and when asked who was looking for Lennon, I replied simply 'a gentleman caller'.
'Oh f*ck off Spiers, not you again,' came the reply from the intercom then there was a pause and I was buzzed in. I couldn't find Lennon however and as usual, it wasn't long before I bumped into Herr Lawwell, in a darkened room, shovelling bullets into envelopes.
'What's that you're up to there then?' I asked.
'None of your f*cking business smelly now f*ck off before I set Wormwood on you,' Lawwell snarled then his face lit up.
'Hold on,' he approached me, putting an arm around my shoulders and walking me over to a table. 'You could be of some use to me right now - something big's coming up and I need a distraction (that's the bullets over there, you'll soon see what they're for), what do you say to a few nights on Twitter and a lovely big fluff piece on anti-Catholicism in your sports column?'
'You know me Herr Lawwell, if it's laying into the huns then you don't have to ask me twice.'
'Excellent,' he hissed and bent me over the table and laid into my arse with his horse whip. 'Just in case you think I'm going soft,' he said and sent me on my way with a really sore bum which couldn't possibly take another pummelling today - oh well, Neil Lennon would have to wait.

13-01-2011, 14:06
The Ass Menagerie

The relative peace and quiet, common when Celtic are top of the league, came to an end yesterday when John Reid was leaving Hampden after thinking he'd pop in to give the SFA a piece of his mind and George Peat, obviously having had enough of being told what to do by the Celtic Chairman, put on his boxing gloves and chased Reid into the car park where he felled him with one blow. The knock to the head obviously confused Reid who thought he was back on the bevvy again and promptly phoned Dawn Primarolo and told her she was a grown woman and that he was waiting for her in his bedroom. Something must've happened to Peat too as he then went on to go on record ridiculing Celtic's complaints and calling them tiresome but then Peat isn't a man to regret anything, if he did then surely he wouldn't still be roaming the corridors of the SFA with a blunderbuss, hunting a phantom Gordon Smith who he claimed was mocking him by singing from the shadows?

The comedy continued later that night at an entertaining post-match press conference when Neil Lennon was whining about the Accies goal and his own chopped off attempt in the obligatory six minutes of injury time; he asked, 'you tell me, you guys are the neutrals reporting on games... is it fair?' at which there was a lot of coughing and shifting in seats as every sports writer to a man tried to discreetly put their Celtic scarf in their coat pocket.

If you ask me, I don't think Lennon had any complaint about his last minute equaliser as if there'd been any chance of Collum giving it, he would've - Collum knows from painful experience what an Irish Republican siege of his house is like and how much it costs to replace double glazing - but since the ball was so out of play before Celtic scored that it was practically thrown back onto the park from the terracing, Collum would've risked ridicule and censure had he allowed it. But then no one asks me so I have to record it in this diary. Which no one reads. A bit like the Scottish Times really.

Celtic have the additional problem with Collum you see in that being a practising Roman Catholic working in a denominational school teaching of all things, Religious Education, Celtic can't possibly accuse him of sectarian bias. But they do. Like I said, comedy.

After the game and when everyone had filed their copy and gone to the Brazen Head, I heard from a source a little about Lennon's hearing in front of the Disciplinary Committee the other day. Apparently Celtic had taken a big shot legal advisor who was to remain nameless as he is supposedly mortified to be seen devoting his time to such rubbish. Not knowing what 'off the record' means I can tell you that it was Paul McBride QC who shuffled and had the decency to look embarrassed having been forced to attend after being blackmailed by Peter Kearney (apparently gays aren't going to heaven but Kearney can have a special word for those who help the cause). I sympathised with McBride as no one knows more than I how it feels to be sitting safely in the closet only to have someone threaten to out you if you don't do something that goes against the grain; in my case I was in a cosy dresser with Stuart Cosgrove, spying on Willie Haughey's kidnapping of Stephen Purcell when Cosgrove insisted I come out the closet with him to help Purcell - it's all in my diaries from last year if you care to look.

Interestingly, it didn't take long for what happened at the Disciplinary Committee to reach the papers so either Celtic were feeding this information to their pet journalists or the legendary Hampden Mole had struck again. It really is the worst kept secret in Scottish Football, who it is who is leaking all sorts, from panel proceedings to Hugh Dallas's emails and forwarding them to John Reid. Reid however, was still recovering from Peat's right hook when he put together an ill thought out and grammatically poor but anonymous statement on the official Celtic website as he managed to put something out there for the press which didn't include phrases like the 'Celtic story' or my favourite, the 'great Celtic narrative'.

It had been a long day and I was making my way home by bus to the west end when I was approached by two youths and an older man who should really consider the company he keeps as hanging around with such young boys is really creepy. Anyway, it was the Green Brigade and they sat beside me at the back of the no 59, the older rapey looking guy said, 'Spiers, we need to do something about Bill Leckie.'

04-02-2011, 19:32
On Days Like These

I was buffeted from side to side, glad to be wearing a helmet as our little blue mini bumped down the steps at Park Circus followed by the white mini and the red mini and a little bit behind them, the green and grey armoured cars of Lawwell’s Stasi. Over kerbs and through red lights we went, screeching into Sauchiehall Street and racing the length of the road before mounting the pedestrian precinct and onto Buchanan Street, leading the Stasi cars a little circular dance as the minis orbited the tube station before veering off down a lane towards Queen Street Station.
‘You’re not going into the station, are you?’ I screamed at Souness just before he clipped the automatic doors entering the station, the other minis and the Stasi still tailing us.
‘Watch this,’ smiled Souness as he pulled the mini into a tight turn towards the George Street exit, reaching out the window and grabbing a coffee cup from an unsuspecting commuter then spilling it over me as we tumbled down the steps onto George Street.
‘Didn’t think that one through,’ he laughed as I squealed from the pain of a scalded lap.
Our little red white and blue minis then pirouetted around George Square and just as the sirens of the Stasi cars who had tailed us from Great Western Road seemed to be catching up and my bowels were carrying out the usual polka in anticipation of what Lawwell would do to me if I was found consorting with Souness again, we darted past the cenotaph and turned hard towards Ingram Street while behind us members of the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos appeared from nowhere pulling a ramp out the back of a truck - the Stasi cars couldn’t swerve or stop in time and they went hurtling up the ramp and twisted in the air before crashing into the main doors of the City Chambers.
‘Those Celtic goons will be quite at home in there,’ chortled Souness as we relaxed and made our way towards Murray Park and safety.

04-02-2011, 21:30
The Self Preservation Society

If I hadn’t been caught in a west end gay bar with Camp Freddie Ljungberg by Graham Grant, the Daily Mail’s Celtic Minded homophobe and so called political editor who told Jason Allardyce who of course is Bishop Devine’s cock puppet and once stepped out with my wife in a hissy fit over my snubbing him one night in the Polo Lounge. So Allardyce whispered of my indiscretion to Devine who informed Lawwell and he filed it away in his blackmail folder for future use. Well if it hadn’t been for all of that, I wouldn’t have been hounded by the Lawwell’s Stasi and eventually cornered on Great Western Road after being dropped off by Andrew Smith at the end of a fabulous evening of burning crosses on the lawn outside El Hadje Diouf’s new house in Bothwell. You should have seen us, it was most exciting with Craig Burley or the Clansman as he now likes to be known, in his pointed bedsheet hood, whipping the Scottish footballing press into a frenzy as everyone donned the robes and hurled rocks through Diouf’s windows. Then the police arrived, mob handed and ready to make some arrests but upon discovering that it was only a Rangers player we were attacking, sent us off with wink, telling us not to do it again and one of them, a Chief Inspector even telling someone that he’d see him down the Knights on Saturday.
After all that, Andrew Smith offered me a lift and after stopping briefly at the side of the M8 to defile me, let me out on Great Western Road, I was then spotted by the Stasi and just as I was about to be bound, gagged and taken to Lawwell, Souness roared up in his blue mini and that’s how I ended up being driven to Murray Park in the middle of the biggest storm to hit Glasgow since, well, since Diouf arrived.

04-02-2011, 22:41
Blow the Bloody Doors Off

I’ve been to Murray Park many times but only in the last two years has a more sinister aspect about the place become known to me. It was here last season that I watched in astonishment as the Rangers scientists probed Neil Lennon and discovered he was an android although such was his behaviour then that nobody noticed that wily old Walter Smith had switched Lennon for the robot. It was also here that I gazed in wonder at the careful study Rangers made of Peter Kearney after it had been discovered that he was the Torquemada super freak flying around Scotland wreaking havoc in the name of the Catholic church. Of course Kearney escaped and the chase led to his Inquisition 4 space station which I’ve hinted at before but the full lurid story of what went on up there will have to wait for the publication of my collected diaries in the near future.

My visit this time to Murray Park though was less grand, fallen on hard times Rangers had sold off most of the secret underground lair where Martin Bain and Donald Findlay used to plot the saving of the western world from Lawwell’s fiendish plans and my meeting with Bain this time took place in the canteen where in the background, a man in an emerald green tie checked the dishes being given out to players and counted the beans to make sure no one got any over the dozen allowed.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked Bain.
‘That’s the man from Lloyds Bank,’ replied Bain wearily.
‘I’m sure I recognise him,’ I noted and Bain said he wasn’t surprised as he’s a regular in the VIP section at Parkhead.
We sat in silence after that until we were joined by Souness who’d been changing out of his rally driving overalls and shortly behind him strolled in Donald Findlay, resplendent in evening wear and top hat, diamond topped cane tapping the floor as he sat down beside us.
‘So what’s this all about?’ I asked, looking around at these faces who had sworn off ever helping me again after my usefulness to them had come to an end at the end of last season when I was left holding the can for Rangers winning the league.
‘It’s a big weekend ahead of us Spiers,’ said Bain. ‘We’re playing Celtic and although not under confident, we have heard rumblings of a plot to discredit one of our players in an effort to unsettle the team.’
I laughed, ‘Surely you should be used to this by now? Why this happens every time you meet Celtic, you can set your watch by it!’
‘Oh we’re only too aware of that,’ said Donald Findlay, leaning into the table and speaking in a barely audible whisper, all the while glancing up at the man from Lloyds. ‘Yes, we’re only too well aware of that but this time we feel that it’s time for pre-emptive and punitive action – our enemies will never suspect it coming from a Rangers who are in a position of weakness. Your office is in the same building as the people who are hatching this scheme so we need you to be our inside man. We need you to be our way into the News of the World.’
‘Me?’ I squawked, arse dancing a tango at the thought of it. ‘Christ, I barely make it in and out of that place with my dignity intact as it is, I’d be hopeless undercover, I’m just not made out for it.’
Bain fixed me a look that froze my soul, ‘You didn’t seem to have a problem working undercover for Lawwell on HMS the Walter Smith that time you betrayed Stuart McCall. We brought him back you know, Jorg Albertz demon hunter and master of the black arts brought him back from the dead and we installed him over at Motherwell, we could take you to see him if you like?’
I recalled my close shave with McCall in Machrihanish and shivered.
‘No thanks, I’ll do what you like, just don’t let onto McCall that you know where I am – bad enough that my editor is wondering why I wasn’t at Fir Park for your last game there, the bastard docked my wages when he found out, gave ‘em to the janitor again. Let me know what you need me to do and I’ll be your man.’

And that was how I fetched up dangling by the ankles from a hot air balloon above Ibrox, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

10-02-2011, 12:46
The Adventures of Brigadier Bill

Few people can say that they've seen the grandeur of Ibrox Stadium from above and even fewer can say they've seen it while swinging upside down from a hot air balloon. Naked. Well, I was wearing a kilt but of course that doesn't provide much cover when you're upside down so as I swooped past the press gantry, all of my colleagues in the football press would've got an eyeful of the Graham Spiers undercarriage if they hadn't been jumping up and down with joy as Scott Brown had just scored the Celtic equaliser.

I'd been reluctantly involved in yet another hair brained scheme of Donald Findlays, the jovial old sociopath was concerned at rumours of a News of the World expose on a Rangers player to unsettle the team before the old firm match and persuaded me that it was in my interests to find out what was going on and who was mischief making. So disguised as a male model for some dodgy photo shoot with the Flower of Scotland girl, I mingled with a dozen other guys in kilts and infiltrated the News of the World office and just as the male models were beginning to sniff the air and wonder what the smell was, for some reason eyeing me up as the culprit, I decided to sneak into the cleaner's cupboard and weigh up my options. While in there though I came across the janitor having lunch and astonishingly he thanked me for letting him write my match reports over the last few months and offered me a sandwich to show his gratitude. I suppose I should've noticed that all of my lovingly written pieces weren't appearing in the Times but since even I don't pay to read it online or buy the paper, I hadn't.
At length, whatever stench had been bothering the models, began to choke the janitor and he had a coughing fit and had to leave the cupboard so I did too in order to avoid bringing attention to myself (as if fleeing a cleaning cupboard in a corduroy kilt with a spluttering man in overalls wasn't bad enough) and as I did, I came across Bill Leckie who'd just been dropping off his latest copy for the Sun and was preparing himself for going back out onto Queen Street by buckling on his sword.
'Hi Bill, where are you off to with that impressive side-arm?' I asked, he didn't seem surprised to see me.
'Oh just heading for home, I have a busy schedule of internet dating ahead of me and if I want to get home in one piece then I need the trusty blade at my side - ever since I laid into Celtic in my column I've been challenged to so many duels by Celtic fans that I barely have enough time to sext anymore. Indeed I'm just off to Glasgow Green to meet a couple of the Green Brigade just now, fancy being my second?'
It was just too tempting, perhaps through Leckie I could find out what the News of the World scandal was going to be.
'I'm your man, Bill' I chirped and off we went but we'd only got a few yards from the News International hub before we were attacked by two surly youths bearing knives. Leckie took the first thrust in his stride and parried, cutting off the fellow's hand at the wrist. I screamed like a girl as the blood jetted over my kilt and Leckie pinked the second youth on the chin, holding him en guard and asking what this was all about.
'Ye're nuthin' bit a bigoted hun basturd' he spat at Leckie with absolutely no irony whatsoever before Leckie lowered his sword and ran him through.
'See what I mean Spiers? I get that, oh say, a dozen times a day? And that's just the random attacks, I also get the ones like this one we're going to where they have the decency to call me out and we meet for pistols or swords on the Green. I'm telling you, anyone would think Celtic encouraged these morons in an effort to put journalists off writing anything derogatory about their team - well no one silences Brigadier Bill Leckie, best swordsman in all of the Scottish football press!'
And he went on like that for the remainder of our journey to Glasgow Green, lopping off the odd limb of random Celtic supporters who attacked him as we walked.

10-02-2011, 14:20
The Exploits of Brigadier Bill

And so it was that I accompanied Brigadier Bill Leckie as he boozed and caroused around Glasgow and every day began the same way, with a trip to some park to line up against Celtic fans with a grievance and what other type is there as Leckie used to say? He'd dispense with them in good order and usually defend himself against a few more random attacks over the remains of the day and so it was on the way to Byres Road where I planned to show him the delights of the trendy west end. I didn't think it through though. I took him to the Chip and as the door closed behind us, you'd think someone had turned the volume off the entire pub as the Pacific Quay CFC and the Scotland Today Active Column all turned and glared at us. Before you could say swords at the ready they were all attacking him but Leckie produced a virtuoso display and jumping from table to bar and swinging from chandeliers, he ultimately triumphed with various Celtic Minded media types fetching up inside barrels, thrown through windows and hanging from coat hooks but the noise alerted the denizens of Jintys across the cobbles and they are a rougher lot than the Ashton Lane pussies who drink in the Chip so when they came gallumphing up the stairs Leckie turned to me and said, 'time to cut and run Spiers, to the roof!'.
And there on the terraced roof of the Chip, astonishingly, was a basket blowing flames into a great hot air balloon which swayed in the wind as we clambered into the basket and just as the Jinty McGintys Republican Bhoys appeared on the roof, letting up a great halloo at the sight of us, Leckie leaned over, cut the grounding rope with his sword and we were gone.

10-02-2011, 16:28
The Downfall of Brigadier Bill

Unfortunately for me, although it looked great from the ground and confirmed Leckie's new reputation as a swashbuckler, he had no idea how to work the damned balloon and we fetched up floating around the sky for days until we ran out of fuel and happenstance brought a southerly wind which blew us over Govan on the day of the old firm match and tempers fraying due to hunger and exposure, I let slip that I didn't have a problem with the behaviour of the Celtic fans no matter how vile their behaviour and this sent Leckie over the edge. Well, it sent me over the edge as he reached for his sword and I panicked and fell out of the basket. My luck was in though and my ankle got caught in the grounding rope and stopped my fall but I was left hanging there, upside down, the kilt flapping around my face just as the balloon passed the press gantry in the Ibrox main stand but as I say, no one noticed because Celtic had scored and the impartial Scottish football journalists were all screaming and hugging each other in celebration.
We finally came to outside the Broomloan Stand which was bad luck for Leckie because he was just about to take a swipe at me with his sword when the gates opened and out swarmed the Celtic fans who chased him all the way to Anniesland where I hear he was only saved by the timely intervention of a green and grey armoured car so Lawwell's stasi got a hold of him then.
A few days later I was lurking around Parkhead hoping to goad Neil Lennon into another outrageous rant against Rangers when I heard muffled screams. Further investigation led me to Lawwell's underground bunker where I could hear the huffing of an old steam contraption drowning out the sobs of a broken man. I glanced in the door and there was Leckie, strapped to a table with Lawwell and Peter Kearney both standing naked behind him, curiously for all his beliefs, Kearney was not only wearing a condom but also harbouring gay tendencies given Leckie's unfortunate position - oh well, there's always something buried deep within the most bitter homophobes. There was certainly going to be something buried deep within Leckie in the next few minutes but then he screamed, 'Alright! Alright! I'll do it! A pro-Celtic puff piece to make up for my past indiscretions and I promise I'll never go against the Celtic machine again,' and at that he passed out.

I managed to slip out of the bunker without being noticed but as I passed the manager's office I could hear a hissing sound and wondering if was Lennon letting the air out of his blow up doll, I barged through the door shouting 'Caught you again, you randy devil!' only to find Lennon sitting behind his desk, staring at the ceiling with red eyes and black drool dripping from his chin.
'Neil, Neil, oh don't tell me you've been possessed by a demon again,' I cried and rushed towards him.

14-02-2011, 20:53
Dead End Street


John Reid must be slipping back into old habits as news reaches me that he was straight on the phone yesterday to Stewart Regan demanding clarification on why Mark Wilson wasn't red carded. When it was pointed out that Mark Wilson was a Celtic player and that the referee had followed Regan's instructions not to send off a Celtic player before such an important match against Rangers, Reid mumbled and hung up, presumably to phone Dawn Primarolo or something.

I wasn't at the game, spending my day on twitter instead where legions of my fans have been asking me to investigate the singing of Penny Arcade by Rangers fans. So I did what any pioneering investigative journalist and anti-sectarian campaigner would do, I immediately tweeted something ridiculous on Twitter. Yes, that's the way to get the message out there. Unlike Jack McConnell who is sign posting the direction another Labour Scottish Executive will take once in power when he complains of the SNP not taking anti-sectarianism seriously. The thing is, Joe Devine was telling me at the weekend when he hosted a naked card school at his mansion on Saturday night, using Jason Allardyce as the card table, that his church isn't too keen to resume the old McConnell summit on sectarianism as it sailed too close to the wind on the subject of denominational schools the last time and they fear they may not get away with refusing to participate if schools is brought up this time round. Everyone did agree though that Jack was very cute in citing 'vested interests' as if a Protestant establishment is putting pressure on efforts to protect the poor downtrodden Catholics. I found it telling that my card school friends all laughed when I mentioned the 'Protestant establishment'. Jack also ensured that his pets in the media quoted that lunatic, Peter Kearney, director of the Scottish Catholic Media Office who said that hostility to Catholics in Scotland was 'deep, wide and vicious' although I'll wager that it's not as vicious as Kearney when he puts on his robes and takes to the sky in the guise of Torquemada, Protestant hating, gay bashing super hero, responsible for more division in Scottish society than anyone else I can think of right now.

I kept my thoughts to myself of course as it wouldn't do to be voicing concerns about the side I've chosen; my livelihood depends on that side and my health too whenever Peter Lawwell gets the bit between his teeth. So I played to lose at poker to keep old Joe happy and made sure I stubbed out my cigar on Jason Allardyce's arse.

19-02-2011, 11:18
The Post-Modern Prometheus


Silence. Two hundred and nineteen metres below the Corryvreckan between Scarba and Jura, a place known only as Silence. This was where I fetched up, tired and groggy after finding myself yet again reluctantly caught up in one of Peter Lawwell’s lunatic schemes, this time to fit Neil Lennon’s head onto a monstrosity composed of body parts stolen from the Forensic Department at Glasgow University. The horrible secret Lawwell had been keeping for weeks now and which explains his silence recently - everyone thought Celtic weren’t whining about conspiracies for so long because they were winning for a change but it turns out it was due to Lennon being decapitated in a freak training ground accident, the message that he was dead not getting through to his body which caught a taxi to Ashton Lane and went on a bender in Jintys before disappearing with the Republican Ghirls for a week of degrading sex (we’d later find they were delighted as it saved them a fortune in brown paper bags). Lawwell, left with just the head, summoned Peter Kearney who always seems to have a smart answer for everything and Torquemada used his super powers to blame Protestants for the accident and keep the head alive by encasing it in chewing tobacco until Jeanette Findlay could steal the body parts from the Glasgow University morgue. It was reported that security guards caught her in the grounds making off with the bodies but just assumed that she was taking the usual gang of students back to her west end boudoir for a gang bang – she’ll lift her petticoats to anyone, no matter how many, the filthy slut. So lucky for her then and she made a clean getaway – well, as clean as that grimy slattern could possibly achieve.

Lawwell and Kearney worked through the night and stitched together a decent enough body and although the torso was that of a woman, breasts and all, the finished result did actually seem to be more athletic than the real Lennon. Then John Reid turned up and summoned the demons Wormwood and Screwtape who welded the head on and injected the body with demon blood giving it life. As Lennon’s head lifted and black drool dripped from his mouth, he spoke in tongues and gibbered like a maniac, everyone present feared they’d made some awful mistake but Lawwell and Reid just smiled at each other and said, ‘perfect’!

19-02-2011, 12:01
Whirlpool's End

I strained to hear anything that would give me a clue to my whereabouts because when I first came to, I had no idea I was in Silence. So far beneath the ocean though, there is only silence. Then I heard a grunting noise from behind me, I turned and there was the Traynor, unconscious for now but stirring. I racked my brains to remember if we were on good terms but concluded that with a sociopath like the Traynor you don’t take any chances so I shuffled along the floor as far as I could to get out of his reach. Oh yes, I forgot to say, we were tied up and I suppose I should mention why.

Having been one of the few witnesses to the creation of Frankenlennon, I was sworn to secrecy by Lawwell. Lawwell’s favoured mode of swearing journalists to secrecy is to phone their editors and threaten to withhold access to Celtic. His second is to beat us senseless with a horse whip while dressed in his favourite Schutzstaffel fatigues – if we’re lucky. If we’re unlucky he does it naked, something he’s only started doing recently when Peter Kearney came on board, before then the sodomy was kept to a minimum. So I kept mum and watched with smug delight as Lennon gangled around the training ground, having difficulty coping with the new body and as he rolled around the ground, mouthing obscenities I observed that no one seemed to notice the change, such was Lennon’s behaviour in the past.

I carried the smugness with me all the way to Ibrox on Thursday night where Rangers were playing Sporting Lisbon. I was under strict instructions from Lawwell that no matter what the result, I was to lay into Rangers in my match report. Unfortunately for me my piles were giving me jip and I missed the match. Not only that, I missed an impromptu press conference where Walter Smith came out with something astonishing and I didn’t have a bloody clue what it was! I quickly got a hold of Roddy Forsyth and suggested he come back to mine for a quicky and perhaps share notes over a post-coital cigarette but the bitch refused which I suppose was for the best given the way the piles are acting up.

With my editor’s last warning still ringing in my ears, I was becoming increasingly frantic and decided that there was only one thing for it, I was going to have to kidnap Walter Smith and force him to repeat what he had said, beat it out of him if necessary. And that’s how I ended up bound and gagged and lying on the floor of Silence, Walter Smith’s secret under-water lair.

24-02-2011, 11:55
Spiers finds himself in Walter Smith's secret underwater lair in 'Silence':


24-02-2011, 11:56
Spiers and the Traynor are taken aboard the mysterious Nautilus in 'Heart of Darkness':


24-02-2011, 11:57
Into the Unknown

The Traynor's safe house in Dowanhill was a curious place; every room was empty, the floors covered in straw and newspapers. One room did have a drinks cabinet though, strangely well maintained and classy amongst all the chaos and dirt. I slept in a closet where I'm always most comfortable and the day after we'd been transported from Walter Smith's secret underwater lair to Glasgow in the Nautilus, a monstrous iron submarine crewed by Sikh sailors and captained by a mysterious dark captain we saw only in silhouette, we decided to hit Byres Road and shake things up a bit to find out exactly what was going on.

Our first port of call was the Common Rooms where we saw Raman Bhardwaj sitting at a table on his own drinking Stella.
'Beat it squirt,' growled the Traynor and Raman trembled.
'But the Scotland Today republican bhoys are out there looking for me,' he bleated. 'If they find me out in the open then I'm for another ducking in the Kelvin.'
'Boo hoo,' sneered the Traynor, sticking up two fingers at the chubby barman to indicate he wanted two gallons of beer. 'Now beat it before I rip a leg off.
So Raman left and was almost immediately pounced upon by the Scotland Today bhoys who let up a cheer as they hoisted him up and carried him off towards Kelvinbridge, celebrating their diversity as they marched by singing songs about beating up Protestants which is strange given that it was Raman they were carrying.

24-02-2011, 12:31
Der Sängerkrieg auf Wartburg

The Traynor's not as dumb as he seems. Oh yes, to most he'll always just be some blundering behemoth, out of time and lost in a world of young Celtic Minded turks taking over the Scottish football press with their laptops, their iPhones and their years of indoctrination but to me, now at least, he's much more. Sometimes on those dark nights when I'm alone in my bed in the dark, I wonder about him - did he know what he was doing when he tossed Raman Bhardwaj to the Ubiquitous Chip Celtic Supporters Club that is Scotland Today or was it just the act of an ignorant beast which accidentally exposed the greatest horror ever to be planned by Peter Lawwell?

Thanks to recent events though, I was perfectly happy to tag along with him as he was the only friend I had among my peers right now thanks to my little fluff at Ibrox the previous week, a fluff which led me to try to sneak up on Walter Smith only for the wily old fox to overpower me and take me to his secret underwater lair where for some reason he was also holding the Traynor and according to the Traynor's suspicions, he did something to us. I didn't feel any different so didn't share his concerns but as I said, having no other friends I was keen to cling onto the Traynor's considerable coat tails. Especially since we were now flying out to Lisbon to watch the Rangers play Sporting Lisbon.

I sat at the back of the plane, the Traynor being put in a box in the hold as usual, so it was a lonely flight for me and I sat quietly, minding my own business, writing my diaries - lips moving as I read back my astonishing brilliance, erection rising in my corduroys as I marvelled at just how wonderful I am. The rest of the cream of the Scottish media were dotted around the plane, drinking trebles, playing cards in little groups, chatting up the stewardesses and trying to keep their Celtic scarves tucked into their pockets. I only got up once and that was to go to the loo but when I got there Keith Jackson was standing outside.
'After you,' he smiled, too pleasantly for my liking then as I edged past him he pushed me into the tiny room and came in behind me locking the door, pushed my head against the mirror and rattled me roughly up the arse while I squeaked with surprise. Then he sneered, spat on me and went back to the party on the plane.

04-03-2011, 11:11
The Silence of the Lambs

'We're through the looking glass here Spiers,' grumbled the Traynor as we splashed through the tunnels which linked Celtic Park to Glasgow City Chambers. I'd discovered these by accident a short time ago while hiding from Lawwell in a cleaners cupboard when Jorg Albertz and I had a close call after Peter Kearney in his Torquemada guise had attacked us for some unknown reason but then again, Kearney doesn't usually need an excuse for attacking Protestants and no matter how much I try to persuade people otherwise, I am still one of them. So when Wednesday's old firm match ended in violence and recriminations and Lawwell's Stasi gathered everyone from the press box and led them to the underground bunker, I knew it wouldn't end well for the Scottish media. I whispered to my new ally, the Traynor that I knew a way out and we slipped away quietly, leaving everyone else to their fate. We later found out that every journalist was garotted to the point of death before submitting their reports and as a consequence, yet again Rangers got the blame for everything. This in spite of Lennon and Mjallby running around the tunnel at half time like a couple of rednecks who'd just spotted an uppity darky making eyes at the plantation owner's wife; all that was missing were a couple of burning torches and a noose. They really were the most astonishing scenes and as the world witnessed Diouf, Edu and Bartley turning in horror at what they'd just been called by the Aryan Mjallby, I wondered to myself just how would Lawwell talk his way out of this one.

Of course I should have known better. He didn't have to do much, even before his men had the chicken wire around their necks, the Scottish football press were already concentrating on attacking Rangers, Diouf in particular and ignoring the constant racist slurs hurled from the Celtic bench towards the Rangers players. This put me in a tricky position, being a fully paid up member of the Byres Road Liberal Elite, I should really speak out against this outrage but this is Celtic we're talking about - everyone knows politics, morals, family, indeed everything, goes out the window when it comes to Celtic. It's practically carved on the soul of every young Roman Catholic at birth, you will defend Celtic no matter what. But like I say, I'm a Baptist so it put me in a bit of a quandary.

The Traynor was with me not because of any moral objections to Celtic's behaviour but because he's a sociopath. At least having him with me meant that I'd be a little more safe from physical harm than usual and so it was as we escaped from the wrath of Lawwell, splashing through the secret tunnel and emerging at the City Chambers and out onto George Square where we caught a taxi to the west end and safety, or so I thought.

04-03-2011, 11:58
The Silence of the Lambs II

We got out the taxi near Ashton Lane, the Traynor fancying a bit of sport and suggesting we hit the Chip to rile the Pacific Quay CFC who'd no doubt be in there whooping it up (their noses) and glorying in their job being made easier by Celtic winning and three Rangers players being sent off. He was right, they were all there, queueing at the bar but mostly hanging around the toilets, ranting at each other, nobody listening to a word anyone else was saying and talking too loudly about how they were really sticking it to the huns these days. The fact that most of them were Protestant didn't seem to strike them as odd during these rants.

They went quiet though once they spotted the Traynor and their crowd parted as we approached the bar and the Traynor ordered a bucket of whisky and a small sherry for me and as we stood there drinking, the Traynor shooting evil looks at anyone who dared glance in his direction, one of the BBC Bhoys came over and cautiously asked me how I was doing.
'Fine thankee, yourself?' I replied, cocking a snook at the audacity of this upstart - he was one of the juniors and had no right approaching the likes of me, Jack McConnell appointed sectarian crusader and award winning journalist.
'I'm fine thanks Graham. Listen, we were wondering how you are going to approach tonight's developments because I've got to tell you, we have no problem glossing over Lennon's racism and blaming everything on Diouf but we're a bit worried that this in turn might leave us open to accusations of racism and that just wouldn't do within the BBC.'
'I wouldn't worry about it young shaver,' sneered I. 'BBC Scotland has carte blanche to do what it likes as long as it's laying into the Rangers. If that means coming down on the side of an insidious church then fine, if that means condoning racism then that's fine too. Just stick to what you do best and you'll be fine.'
The Traynor finished his bucket and demanded another one then leaned over towards me and growled, 'Giving 'em enough rope, eh Spiers?'
'Eh? What are you on about? I meant what I said,' I squeaked and the Traynor sighed and tipped another bucket of whisky down his throat told me he was bored in here and we should go somewhere with a bit more life about it. So we were walking down Byres Road, heading for Partick which was giving me no end of the fear since that's where the Rangers fans would be and they're never pleased to see me, no matter how much I pretend in print that they're always cheerfully disposed towards me on match days. It was while we were strolling down there that we noticed Stewart Regan of the SFA on the other side of the road and just as we were about to corner him for a statement, a black van drew up, men in black uniforms, their faces hidden with balaclavas got out and grabbed Regan and bundled him into the back of the van and then sped off.

'Come on Spiers, we're following them - hop on my back and hold tight!' shouted the Traynor and before I had time to say Lawwell's Stasi, we were gallumphing across the city in pursuit of what promised to be a terrific story.

05-03-2011, 11:28
Juvenal Behaviour

Even after two buckets of whisky, the Traynor could still keep up with the Stasi van, even with me clinging onto his back. We followed it through Partick but instead of heading down the Clydeside expressway towards Parkhead, it went through the Clyde tunnel and kept going until it pulled up at Ibrox, the men in black opening the back doors and bundling Stewart Regan in the main door and up the marble staircase. That was the last we saw as there was no way I could just wander into Ibrox Stadium without setting off Martin Bain’s patented Arsehole Alarm – the damned thing has made my life a misery; oh yes, he switches it off on match days but if I try to ask any questions during after match press conferences he switches it back on and everyone laughs at me and pokes me with sticks. There are no such problems over at Parkhead where the place is usually in such chaos that any fool can wander in and out, a policy from the old days when it was trusted to the usual gang of low lifes hanging around the car park to act as security.

So they weren’t Lawwell’s Stasi after all? So who were they and what did Rangers want of Stewart Regan who is generally considered to be Lawwell’s puppet within the SFA? We were just pondering this when a helicopter took off from within Ibrox and disappeared into the skies. The Traynor, looking up, sighed and said he was bored with this now and if I wanted a lift back to the west end then I’d better cling on. I told him to go without me and caught a taxi over to Parkhead, passing burning buildings and overturned cars on the way which only served to remind me that only hours earlier, an old firm match had played out here.

It wasn’t long before I was inside Celtic Park and roaming around unquestioned, listening to the sound of far off screams coming from Lawwell’s underground bunker. I didn’t know it at the time but this was his torture of the football press to make sure they were going to toe the party line on the night’s events; it was going on longer than usual so this was obviously a big one and no wonder, Celtic were wide open to accusations of racism which would be devastating to them considering their ongoing campaign to have 'anti-Irish racism' recognised as being real rather than just something made up by Peter Kearney to justify laying into the Protestants again. As more and more of the Celtic backroom staff passed me carrying burning torches and wearing white sheets, I began to feel something I hadn’t felt in my entire life: uncomfortable with something Celtic were up to. I would have to do something about this and quick so I pulled out my iPhone and promptly tweeted something stupid. That would sort it out.

I was just feeling the reassuring return of smugness and moral superiority when I heard a moaning from behind me and turned to see Neil Lennon stumbling towards me. Since his head was stuck on a Frankenstein’s horror of a body after his training ground accident, he’s not really been the same. Oh I notice it because I’ve been close to him for so long and have seen him naked more times than I can say but the transformation seems to have fooled everyone else because such is Celtic's behaviour these days, who’s going to notice another monster roaming around Parkhead?

I was just about to greet him with the usual girlish giggle when out of the shadows pounced three Ally McCoists. Younger, fitter Allys with curly mullets, they wrestled Lennon to the floor and bitch slapped him for so long that I was amazed no one appeared to try and stop it, then one of the screws holding on Lennon’s head came loose, the Allys stopped and walked calmly away, one of them tweaking my nose on the way past. This could mean only one thing, Walter Smith had let loose the mechanised Ally McCoists from his Newton Mearns warehouse. This was worrying, between the Rangers kidnap of Stewart Regan and the deployment of the McCoist robots, it meant that Rangers are again taking seriously the threat from Celtic. All that was needed now was a strongly worded condemnation of Celtic’s antics by Martin Bain. I didn’t have to wait too long.

05-03-2011, 12:07
Dead End Street


John Reid must be slipping back into old habits as news reaches me that he was straight on the phone yesterday to Stewart Regan demanding clarification on why Mark Wilson wasn't red carded. When it was pointed out that Mark Wilson was a Celtic player and that the referee had followed Regan's instructions not to send off a Celtic player before such an important match against Rangers, Reid mumbled and hung up, presumably to phone Dawn Primarolo or something.

I wasn't at the game, spending my day on twitter instead where legions of my fans have been asking me to investigate the singing of Penny Arcade by Rangers fans. So I did what any pioneering investigative journalist and anti-sectarian campaigner would do, I immediately tweeted something ridiculous on Twitter. Yes, that's the way to get the message out there. Unlike Jack McConnell who is sign posting the direction another Labour Scottish Executive will take once in power when he complains of the SNP not taking anti-sectarianism seriously. The thing is, Joe Devine was telling me at the weekend when he hosted a naked card school at his mansion on Saturday night, using Jason Allardyce as the card table, that his church isn't too keen to resume the old McConnell summit on sectarianism as it sailed too close to the wind on the subject of denominational schools the last time and they fear they may not get away with refusing to participate if schools is brought up this time round. Everyone did agree though that Jack was very cute in citing 'vested interests' as if a Protestant establishment is putting pressure on efforts to protect the poor downtrodden Catholics. I found it telling that my card school friends all laughed when I mentioned the 'Protestant establishment'. Jack also ensured that his pets in the media quoted that lunatic, Peter Kearney, director of the Scottish Catholic Media Office who said that hostility to Catholics in Scotland was 'deep, wide and vicious' although I'll wager that it's not as vicious as Kearney when he puts on his robes and takes to the sky in the guise of Torquemada, Protestant hating, gay bashing super hero, responsible for more division in Scottish society than anyone else I can think of right now.

I kept my thoughts to myself of course as it wouldn't do to be voicing concerns about the side I've chosen; my livelihood depends on that side and my health too whenever Peter Lawwell gets the bit between his teeth. So I played to lose at poker to keep old Joe happy and made sure I stubbed out my cigar on Jason Allardyce's arse.

The large arrow is the way to heaven for "The People", whereas the romanists are on their way to hell on a pushbike.

05-03-2011, 12:35
The Return of the Hellblazer

I helped Lennon to his feet after the attack by the mechanised McCoists and noting the damage done to him, pointed out that he had a screw loose.
‘Don’t you start, too’ he gasped and wandered off leaving me to continue sneaking around the corridors of Parkhead. I couldn’t help myself, I knew what horrors lurked in the pits of Lawwell’s underground bunker but I just had to get down there and find out what was happening. It was at this point that I discovered the Scottish media being gang-garotted, Lawwell pacing up and down behind them as they choked, shouting at them.
‘Diouf will be the man responsible for all of the violence tonight! There will be no mention whatsoever of anything said to the black Rangers players by Celtic staff! I want it reported that Neil Lennon now has a bodyguard to let the world know that he’s the victim in all of this! Chuck in something about the Sash being sectarian Greechan, that's always useful for the future! I want it reported that a suspect package has been intercepted by the police on its way to Neil Lennon and don’t worry, if there isn’t one then I’ll make sure there is by the morning! Bullets! I want bullets sent to him, oh yes, and reported! Erm, death threats painted on walls in Belfast… Anything else?’ he paused and looked behind him where the foul cloaked figures of Wormwood and Screwtape sat, wreathed in mist and stinking of sulphur – a bit like me in the office at the Times.
‘You must concentrate on events on the park – Rangers had three men sent off, we did not,’ hissed Wormwood. ‘Do this and no one need worry about our behaviour off-field.’
‘Good! Yes, do what the demon says!’ screamed Lawwell and as his minions squeezed the chicken wire tighter around their necks, the cream of Scottish journalism wondered what they’d done to deserve such treatment.
‘They’re here,’ rasped Screwtape, sniffing the air. ‘Salmond and House are here.’
And with that, Lawwell let the press go file their reports and took off to the Parkhead board room, me skulking behind them, skipping from shadow to shadow and making a decent fist of remaining unnoticed. Being a sneak sure has its advantages. Once they entered the boardroom though, I could go no further but stood outside listening and heard Lawwell kicking over chairs and laying into Salmond with his horsewhip then when Stephen House objected, he too took a slice across the face, sat back and asked Lawwell what exactly he wanted. It was at this point I felt a tap on my shoulder and nearly soiled myself.
‘Hello Spiers,’ smiled Jorg Albertz, demon hunter as he blew cigarette smoke in my face

31-03-2011, 09:25
The Red King Hypothesis

I haven't seen the Traynor in a while now but the last thing he said to me was 'remember, your memories and perceptions aren't always real'.
How curious. I thought about this when I was in the Chip restaurant with Graeme Souness and we were approached by some thug who turned out to be related to Jack McConnell of all people - Bridget's brother or something like that. He came up to the table and spat in Souness's dinner and called him an 'orange bastard'. I thought to myself, this can't be real; Celtic fans aren't sectarian and I'd stake my career as a crusading anti-bigotry campaigner (I can't really call myself a sports journalist these days as I rarely write about it, instead concentrating on my great war against sectarianism in Scottish society or as I like to put it, Rangers) on it but it was true nonetheless and Souness slowly rose to his feet and calmly whispered to the thug, 'I'll give you an opportunity to apologise for that.'
The background chatter died out as everyone in the place strained to hear what was being said.
'I'll no' be apologising to a bigoted hun bastard like you,' guffawed the thug without a hint of irony as he looked back at his table full of cretins who from their faces could tell that their friend had gone too far.
'I'll give you one more opportunity to apologise for spitting in my plate and if you don't then at least I'll give you a fair chance by knocking you out using only my thumbs but then, and here's the rub, when you're lying unconscious, I'm going to break the little finger on your right hand so that when you're looking at the plaster cast in hospital or years from now as the finger aches in the cold winter nights, it'll remind you that I offered you two opportunities to apologise and you didn't take them.'
The thug then tried to head butt Souness but the old Ranger was too quick and moved to the side before smashing his elbow into the side of the thug's head, knocking him unconscious and leaving him pole axed on the ground. Then Souness bent over him and as promised, broke one of the thug's little fingers with a sickening crack which sent everyone in the restaurant running for the door.
As we walked down Ashton Lane, I said to Souness, 'I thought you were going to knock him out using only your thumbs?'
'Yes,' he replied, turning to me and smiling a sneaky smile and in that moment I saw the mischief in the smile of a tiger.
'I did say that. I lied. I also told you we were going for a simple meal to discuss football. I lied about that too.'
And as he said it, Robert Fleck jumped me from behind and put a hood over my head and I felt myself being bundled into the back of a van and driven off.
The end game had begun.

31-03-2011, 09:25
The Red King Stirs

‘You’re walking through a desert,’ said Mark Hateley, ‘and you come across a tortoise,’ and while he was saying it, he was zooming in on my eyes with a camera and studying my responses. I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing and why he was asking me these ridiculous questions but then nothing much had made sense for the past few weeks, from Jorg Albertz catching me lurking outside the boardroom at Parkhead, blowing smoke in my face and saying, ‘you’re not what I’m looking for’ which I haven’t had said to me since rough trade night at Kelvingrove Park.

‘You notice the tortoise is wearing a Rangers scarf so you flip it onto its back and leave it lying there, baking in the sun,’ continued Hateley.
‘Look, I haven’t a clue what you’re on about Hateley, what desert? What tortoise and why is it wearing a scarf in the desert?’
Hateley studied my eyes on his screen and wrote something in his note pad and as he did, Ray Wilkins entered the room and whispered something in his ear. Hateley thought about this and stared at me as Wilkins left.
‘Did Walter Smith hand you something when you left Silence?’
‘Now that you mention it, he did – why, what has this got to do with anything and what about the tortoise, eh? What about the tortoise?’
‘Forget the tortoise, what did Walter give you?’
‘It was a piece of paper but I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned it there but I still have it in my corduroy trouser pocket.’
‘Let’s see it then,’ whispered Hateley, pushing his screen aside and leaning across the table towards me.
‘So we’re finished with the tortoise then?’

Things had been becoming stranger and stranger in Scotland of late so being interrogated by Mark Hateley at Murray Park after being bound, gagged, hooded and bundled into a van in full view of everyone in Ashton Lane on a busy Sunday night didn’t seem out of the ordinary. I’m just surprised no one noticed my kidnapping and thought to call the police although I was later told that Neil Lennon had been staggering around outside Jintys, groaning loudly with his arms stretched out in front of him – now I know this is because his head was recently stitched onto a Frankenstein’s monster of a body after a training ground accident but the trendy westenders of Ashton Lane didn’t notice anything different about his behaviour and just thought they were in for another drunken Lennon fight and were taking bets on how long it’d take before he pished himself. Ashton Lane was busy that night and fights were breaking out all over the place as Celtic fans came to terms with losing to Rangers in the only way they know how. The Chip was like a morgue, a big green and white morgue that sells Fursternberg on draught, and the usual chirruping of media types was replaced by a deep lowing sound, unique to when Celtic get too big for their boots, think they’re going to walk all over Rangers and then receive a good shagging on the park. So when Souness approached me and asked me to join him for succulent lamb downstairs I didn’t think twice and next thing you know I’m strapped to a chair at Murray Park being asked by Mark Hateley about tortoises. I really wish someone at some point would let me know what was going on around here.

31-03-2011, 10:08
The Red King Goes Back to Sleep

The following week was a remarkable one and never before have I witnessed such a quick mobilisation of Celtic agents to speak out against the bigoted singing of Rangers fans or as the Traynor put it to me, ‘deflecting from losing to Rangers’. No sooner had I been released from Murray Park having shown Mark Hateley my origami unicorn, given to me by Walter Smith which initially I took to be a sign of friendship but now I’m not so sure, than I came across Peter Kearney and Mad Joe O’Rourke streaking down Byres Road. I don’t even know where to start with this one – I know they’re strange bedfellows in the first place but to have someone like Kearney who is supposed to be an upstanding member of the Roman community mixing with someone so obviously deranged as O’Rourke indicates that something big is happening or as the Traynor said, ‘happened Spiers, happened. Their team got gubbed by Rangers so of course any tim with a platform is going to be wheeled out to deflect from it.’
‘But naked?’ I almost screamed at him but it doesn’t do to be screaming anything at the Traynor especially after he’s had a bucket of whisky.

Over the next week or so they all came out as the Traynor had promised: Kearney and O’Rourke were just the beginning, then came MacMillan warbling on about dogs with erections and how it was all the fault of those Orange bastards; Jim Sheridan talking about ‘that poison’ and making it clear to everyone that he was talking about one side of the divide alone and it wasn’t his side who wear green everywhere they go; Regan of course although he cloaked his words in clouds of ambiguity so that no one really knew who he was blaming but if you were a Celtic fan it certainly sounded like he was on your side; practically every newspaper obviously and leading from the front, me. Well, I don’t know how to do anything else, do I? I wrote a coruscating piece on the nasty Rangers fans and followed it up by tweeting garbage to my growing number of idiot followers on Twitter. If ever a forum was made for someone of my limited abilities, it was this. If I’d known that a simple tweet would lead me to being almost flayed alive in a cave off the coast of Ayrshire at the hands of a lunatic Scottish pretend journalist who thinks he’s Irish then I’d have thought twice about writing it but I didn’t and I did and the course of Scottish football changed forever.

14-04-2011, 18:43
The Ballad of Sawney Beanian

The rain stung my face as I left the final inn on the Ayr coast before the wildlands where few men dare venture. Being a crusading anti-sectarian journalist though, the wildlands held no fear for me – if you can lay into Rangers with impunity then dark and mysterious coastlines pose you no concern. I covered my face with my cape and held up a lantern to light the way and set off to look for the legendary Sawney Beanian who had been tweeting me suggesting we meet to discuss a forthcoming campaign to get Rangers into bother with UEFA again. I couldn’t resist.
I hadn’t left Dunure less than an hour when I could hear strange shrieks coming from the shore. I dismissed them as being gulls calling in the night by the cliffs but the closer I got to a particular point, the louder the shrieks became until eventually I recognised them as cries of pain, human pain. I’d heard enough similar cries in Lawwell’s dungeons at Parkhead to recognise a man in distress when I hear it so I dimmed my lamp and approached the path leading to the shore with caution. I thought I heard a match strike to my left and turned, gazing into the wind and swore I could see the faint glow of a cigarette but couldn’t be sure and who else would be abroad on such a God forsaken moor as this in a storm at midnight? I had only just dismissed my brief panic as the paranoid jumping at shadows of a man who had been in company with Chris McLaughlin for too long when a hand grabbed at my ankle and I felt myself sliding down a mud embankment and tumbling over rocks until I fetched up winded on the grassy sands with the spray of the sea whispering against my face. Then Phil McGillivan appeared before me and knocked me unconscious with a piece of driftwood.

When I awoke I was trussed against a dank wall in a cave filled with the curious smell of roast beef; a fire flickered in the corner casting ghastly shadows against the rocks until I at once was hit with a clarity so shocking that I almost soiled my corduroys – there were dismembered bodies chained to the walls all around me and over the fire roasted a human leg. I stifled a shriek and looked down in panic, breathing a sigh of relief as I realised I still had both of mine and as my mind raced to take in my parlous position, McGillivan appeared out of the gloom and cocked his head at me, looking puzzled as if he didn’t know me – how could anyone not know who I was, Graham Spiers, scourge of Rangers and serial ratter? Or was McGillivan perturbed that he had at last encountered a man with a more searing hatred of Rangers than himself? I didn't know at that moment but thought my supposition true so the story he told me that night chilled me to the marrow and now I don't know if I'll ever believe anything again that happens in Scottish football.

14-04-2011, 18:44
Paul McBride's Back Passage

'There have been rumours Spiers, that you are not now the man you once were,' said Phil McGillivan in a gutteral Glaswegian accent - not quite the lilting Irish brogue I was expecting.
'So I have set myself the task of checking you out before we continue.'
'Continue what?' I shrieked as he pulled out a carving knife and drew it across my right arm.
'So you bleed, ' he said, sounding almost disappointed. 'For a while there I thought I'd cut you and find stainless steel and oil under there and at last have access to one of Walter Smith's androids to dissect and investigate. We really could be doing with one of those you know - oh it's all very well having a plentiful supply of Hugh Keevins to die for the cause on a regular basis but an army of Irish Republican robots made in Scotland, now that would really be something.
'What on earth are you prattling on about man?' I whimpered, watching the blood run dripping from my elbow and onto the pebbles at my feet which I noticed with a start were already caked in gore.
'Surely you're not going to try and tell me you've never encountered Walter Smith's Android Army? Please Spiers, give me some credit, what do you take me for, some tattie howkin' bog trotter from Donegal?'
'You wish...'
'Silence!' he screamed and slapped me across the cheek, turning to a pile of limbs in a corner of that cave of horrors and calling out, 'Joe, you can come out now, it's definitely Spiers. See, he bleeds.'
And the mound moved, dismembered arms and legs tumbling to the side to reveal a man who had been buried, hiding beneath the bloody stumps. It was Mad Joe O'Rourke.
'Iggle piggle,' said O'Rourke.
'I agree Joe, I was just about to let our friend into our secret but first I had to check that he was indeed who he claimed to be.'
'Upsy daisy.' replied Mad Joe.
'So you see Spiers, the secret you have to know if you are to be of any help to the Organisation is this, I wrote the Famine Song.'
I was just goggling at the whole idiocy of this claim when a stone skipped towards us from the shadows at the back of the cave. Someone else was in there and from the shock in McGillivan's face and the speed with which Mad Joe buried himself in body parts, they obviously weren't expecting anyone to be lurking in there.
'Who's there? Come out, whoever you are and I warn you, we are armed,' shouted McGillivan and a dark shape stepped out of the blackness and there stood Paul McBride QC, taking a pull at a cigarette and blowing the smoke towards me.
'Hello, I'm Paul McBride QC,' said McBride.
'We know who you are, McBride but how came you here?' asked McGillivan, still holding , I noted, the carving knife.
'Oh it was simple really, I came down the back passage,' replied McBride with a smirk which got me wondering if it had been the first time.
'You can come out now O'Rourke, I know you're under there,' said McBride, regarding the trembling pile of amputations. 'Quite a little butchers' yard you have in here McGillivan, been setting upon lonely travellers as they pass your cave again? I thought we told you when we spirited you out of Glasgow after your last misdemeanour that we'd have no more deaths, it brings unwelcome attention upon the Organisation.'
As I wondered about this Organisation which had just been mentioned twice in as many minutes, O'Rourke reappeared from his hiding place and mumbled, 'Tumbly boo,' and cowered against the wall opposite me while McBride and McGillivan continued to regard each other with suspicion - it's true, they really are a paranoid lot.
'Ahem, ' said I, to get everyone's attention. 'Am I to stay chained to this cave all night or can you at least do me the courtesy of allowing me some comfort before you begin your lengthy exposition?'

And that's when McGillivan unlocked my chains and told me the reasoning behind a Rangers hating, Irish wannabe, Celtic supporting, IRA sympathising thug writing a song such as the Famine Song.

20-04-2011, 09:45
Call Me Ishmael

McGillivan was dribbling now, so worked up telling us about his great campaign to put Rangers to the sword that he had quite forgotten the rules of super villain exposition and was spending too much time explaining how much of a genius he is.
‘So dismayed that the Rangers fans had come up with a satirical song which in eight words ridiculed our obsession with Ireland so succinctly I vowed to not rest until I had added verses which would take the song from the realms of clever mocking to rancid racism – it took me five minutes. I know, it’s hardly a classic but there’s enough in there to get the liberal elite shaking in their Boden slippers and foaming over their Byres Road lattes. All I had to do then was mobilise the Celtic Internet Mafia who got to work emailing absolutely everyone to tell them how offended they were and before you could say begorrah, I had single handedly created a new offence: anti-Irish racism! Rangers fans were bewildered, how had their jolly little chant become an international incident? Me! It was all me, Spiers! Move over Ozymandias, Phil McGillivan is the new King of Kings! I was Muiredhach Tireach. The spirits of Fidach, Foltchain and Eochaidh Muighmheadoin filled my body and I vowed that no longer would I be plain old Phil McGillivan and from that moment on, bathed in the glow of a divine destiny, I re-christened myself Phil MacGiollaBhain and adopted the mantle of journalist – gone was the disgraced social worker, gone was the pathetic lone ranter on Celtic websites; born was MacGiollaBhain, the man who would bring down Rangers!’
‘And what then?’ interrupted McBride, causing McGillivan to splutter and turn angrily, eyes blazing, hand reaching for his carving knife.
‘Eh? What do you mean?’ he almost shrieked at McBride, spittle spraying from his overwrought mouth.
‘You bring down Rangers, what then?’ asked McBride again.
‘Well it’s not just the accusations of bigotry and racism – smearing the Rangers name won’t do it alone. No, we needed a war on more than one front – we had to keep them busy putting out the flames of sectarianism while our men in Lloyds squeezed them for cash, leaving Walter Smith with a threadbare squad to give Neil Lennon room to win the league which in turn would send Rangers spiralling into more debt from where our Lloyds men would allow them no wriggle room. Soon the Rangers would be out of business – denigrated as the greatest evil in Scottish society, pursued by a compliant media scared of Lawwell and Reid, attacked by politicians in thrall of Kearney’s Media Office and eventually, the public who after such an onslaught would believe every bad word said about Rangers, would turn against them. If all our plans come to fruition in this, the most important and bitter battle ever fought over a game of football then Rangers, that white whale of legend, that great obsession of the Celtic Minded, would belong to the pages of history. And even then it wouldn’t be long before our people in Education had those pages removed from the books. And burned.’
‘And what then?’ asked McBride.
‘Well then we don’t have to worry about being downtrodden ever again.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then Celtic win every trophy going for the rest of time.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then we can take this country back!’
‘And what then?’ asked McBride.
‘Eh?’ said I.
‘Ninky nonk,’ squeaked Mad Joe O’Rourke.
‘Now we’re getting to the bottom of things,’ said McBride, putting a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it and as he did so, McGillivan’s face changed from ego-maniacal glee to suspicion.
‘Hold on, since when did Paul McBride QC smoke?’ and as he said it, McBride looked at me, blew smoke in my face and walked towards the entrance of the cave and gazed out towards the sea. McGillivan and O’Rourke followed him, watching his every move, carving knives at the ready and with a sigh, I followed them.
‘Yes McBride, when did Pansy Paul start smoking?’ I asked, trying to get a better look at his face which strangely, seemed a little blurred which at the time I put down to the gloom.
‘So Rangers cease to exist, what then McGillivan?’ asked McBride as he stood at the mouth of the cave, rain lashing against his face, cigarette glowing as he paused to take a pull at his cigarette.
‘Who would you hate then? Your hatred of Rangers as you freely admit, is your obsession. Kill Rangers and what do you have left, who would you hate?’
‘Erm…’ croaked McGillivan.
‘Makka pakka,’ growled O’Rourke.
And then as if a fog had lifted from around McBride, I saw that it wasn’t McBride after all and McGillivan noticed too.
‘You’re not McBride!’ he screamed, ‘who are you?’
So I introduced them.
‘Phil, meet a man who is the master of auto-suggestion and hypnosis, meet Jorg Albertz Demon Hunter.’

20-04-2011, 10:45
The Dark is Rising


‘But I thought you were Paul McBride, how.., how? How did you do that? You looked like him, you minced like him, you exhude an air of entitlement and superiority like him, you seemed super sensitive to your parents ever finding out you’re gay… What, what…?’

McGillivan was confused. He had obviously never encountered Jorg Albertz before and wouldn’t know that the merest suggestion from him would have you believing he was the Archbishop of Canterbury. I knew straight away of course. Well, as soon as his spell started to wear off. It had taken McGillivan by surprise though and he wasn’t taking it well and was now leaping around the beach naked and tearing his hair out at the thought of giving away his plans to someone so closely associated with the subject of his hatred while Mad Joe O’Rourke had retreated back to the cave and was covering himself with half gnawed body parts.
Albertz, exhaled and turned from the sea to face us.
‘I just had to be sure. We suspected but you were such a nonentity we just had to be sure it was you who was getting up to all sorts of mischief, wasting peoples time by getting the Celtic Internet Mafia all riled up, sullying the good name of Rangers every opportunity you could get, stalking Leggo…’
‘So what are you going to do now, set the might of Rangers on me?’ sneered McGillivan, becoming slightly erect.
‘Oh no need to involve Rangers…’ said Albertz, ‘When one can get Celtic to do our dirty work for us.’
And on the horizon there was a flash.

‘You see McGillivan,’ smiled Albertz. ‘I have access to Lawwell’s emergency phone number for reporting anti-Irish racism and I called in the co-ordinates of the man who wrote the Famine Song. My guess is that’s the Port Glasgow Fenian Navy on the horizon and that flash was some heavy ordinance coming your way.’
It was true, after the flash came the report of a canon which rumbled over the sea towards us, a shell obviously following.
‘But it’ll kill you too,’ stuttered Phil.
‘I doubt it,’ laughed Albertz and from out of the waves reached two huge iron tentacles which wrapped themselves around me and Albertz and we were lifted off the ground and pulled away from the beach with a jolt just as an explosion rocked the shore. It was the Nautilus – the same underwater vessel which had spirited me and the Traynor from Silence, the same vessel captained by a mysterious figure who stood atop the grand iron beast watching as we were pulled in towards him away from the destruction by the mouth of the cave. As the smoke cleared I could just make out the body of McGillivan, pierced by shrapnel and pinned to a rock in an obscene shape which made him look as if he was having a wank. Joe O’Rourke had ventured out of his hiding hole in the cave and was rocking back and forward in front of Phil’s body and seemed to be trying to feed it a leg.
‘Should we put him out of his misery, Cap’n?’ shouted a sailor on the turret, aiming his long range rifle at O’Rourke.
The dark figure of the Captain gazed upon the harrowing scene and shook his head.
‘No, he’s more to be pitied than hated. He’s harmless now, leave him be,’ and as the tentacles lowered me and Albertz onto the deck of the Nautilus we looked up as the clouds parted and an almost full moon illuminated the proud figure of the Captain and Richard Gough looked down, smiled and winked at me.

20-04-2011, 11:04
A classic thread :)

22-04-2011, 13:58
The Man in the High Castle

The Nautilus had taken us as far as it could up the Clyde and dropped us off, then we were picked up by a dark windowed black Land Rover and taken to Parkhead where we got out and stood looking across the car park with the slow moving almost zombie-like figures of Celtic fans keeping watch over their own dark tower. I’d never felt fear like it, we were entering the heart of darkness which although it was a favourite haunt of mine, I’d never walked in with Richard Gough and Jorg Albertz before.
‘You’re lunatics,’ I’d whimpered when I heard what they planned to do and Gough just replied, ‘Who’s going to mess with us?’
Fair enough then.

The Celtic fans stepped aside unquestioningly as we strode towards the entrance, they formed a corridor of smelly green and grey hooped football shirts and only seemed to come to life once we’d passed them so that in front of us was easy passage yet behind a rabble of sudden hard men who knew that their immediate danger had passed. They hurled all sorts of foul and bigoted threats at us while a couple of policemen stood and let them – they were probably looking at Gough and Albertz and wondering how they could stitch them up for being dirty Orange bastards.

We reached the main door and a fat security guard blocked our way, for a few seconds at least before realising who he faced and disappearing into a cupboard. Albertz sniffed, ‘Unmistakeable. I can smell sulphur, we’re not far now – he’s here.’
He meant of course Neil Lennon whose head had been tacked onto a Frankenstein’s monster of a body after a training ground accident and to make sure it survived the process, John Reid had the demons Wormwood and Screwtape add their own demon blood. Albertz had reported earlier that it was his opinion that the demon blood was taking over and that Lennon posed a clear and present danger not only to himself but to others around him and since Rangers were playing Celtic on Saturday it was the duty of he and Gough to kidnap Lennnon and exorcise him. First though we had to get into Parkhead, past the slow zombies, past security, past Lawwell’s Stasi and grab a man who would have demonic strength and powers. It wouldn’t be that difficult said Richard Gough, ‘After all, who’s going to mess with us?’

22-04-2011, 15:16
The Grasshopper Lies Heavy

Of course I’d witnessed Gough’s prowess with a cutlass before during our odyssey around the coasts of Scotland in search of the old Satyr Tom Devine who had made off in his boat with my wife while I was basking in the glory of beating him at penalty kicks, but to see Gough now, his movement and thrusting, footwork and parrying, you’d never guess his age. He dismissed anyone blocking our way with a flash of cold steel until at last we’d reached Lawwell’s bunker which was shut off from the rest of Parkhead by an electronic security door, feet thick. Albertz put his hand on the keypad and closed his eyes.
‘F*cking morons make this kind of thing so easy – I shouldn’t have wasted any magic, the password is 1967, same as the alarm at John Reid’s mansion – and he wonders how I get in and out all the time,’ and as he said it, the door opened and we were through.

We passed various doors I recognised from when I’d been here many times before with the Scottish media, being told what to report and how specifically to lay into the Rangers but I’d not seen many of them open but since Lawwell wasn’t expecting us, the rooms were there for all to see and it wasn’t a pretty sight: one was full of Hugh Keevins clones in suspended animation; one had Steven House and Steward Regan chained to the walls; one was empty save for a huge steam powered contraption at the end of which was the biggest dildo you’ve ever seen with a spike on the end of it – that’ll be Kearney’s office then?

Finally we came to Lawwell’s office and without hesitation, Gough kicked down the door and swashbuckled into the room, pistols at the ready. We caught Lawwell off guard, he was standing in front of a large mirror dressed only in his undershorts which had a swastika sewn into one leg and a dazzlingly cut Wehrmacht jacket which he wsa obviously trying on for size – it fitted him perfectly. He jumped a little as we crashed in but then composed himself and made for the horsewhip on his desk but Gough cut him off and pinked him with his cutlass.
‘We’re here for Lennon,’ said Albertz. ‘But since you’re here, perhaps you’ll tell us why you’re sending bombs to anyone connected to Celtic?’
‘Oh cut out the melodrama Albertz,’ sneered Lawwell. ‘It’s hardly me sending these packages to any comedy Catholic I can think of – no, I have the Green Brigade for that and you can mop them up if you like, they’ve done their job for me, I don’t need them anymore.’
‘Oh we will,’ snarled Gough. ‘But first, where’s Lennon?’
And Lawwell started laughing, an insane laugh I hope never to hear again because as he did, he looked upwards and as we followed his gaze, there clinging to the ceiling like an obscene spider, was Lennon. He dropped on Gough and catching him by surprise, held his head in his hands and was about to rip out the Captain’s throat when Albertz spun round and threw something in Lennon’s face, Lennon screamed like a monkey with his balls in a trap and collapsed in a steaming pile. Of course such is Neil Lennon’s behaviour these days, who was to know that Albertz had opened a vial of God’s breath and sprayed him with it?
‘God’s breath?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Cost me a fortune, lucky I can afford it, eh?’ smiled Albertz. ‘Now come on, the demons inside Lennon won’t be out for long, there wasn’t much in the phial, I’m not that rich – we need to get Lennon to my apartment and the safety of a magic circle before we can exorcise him. And Lawwell?’
Lawwell looked at Albertz who said,
‘We’re taking you too.’

05-05-2011, 11:43

It wasn't until we got to the end of the secret tunnel linking Celtic Park to the City Chambers that Jorg Albertz turned to me, pulled deeply on his cigarette, blew smoke in my face and reminded me of the last time we'd run for our lives through the dank and horrible place.
'Whatever happened to Master Mason? Remember he rescued us just as Peter Kearney was about to render us unto the Holy Inquisition?'
'Don't know Jorg, haven't seen him since that business in Kelvingrove Park - makes you wonder, eh?'
Richard Gough butted in, 'Keep it quiet you two, we're passing the Council Chamber now, too much noise and we'll have the Glasgow Labour Celtic Militia down on our heads and the last thing we need right now is a fight with men in cheap suits and emerald green ties.'
I looked over at Peter Lawwell who was with us if you remember, having been taken along with Neil Lennon after Albertz disabled the demon within Lennon to allow us to take him away for an exorcism, and Lawwell just smiled that lazy eyed psycho smile of his which usually indicated that someone was going to be given a thrashing with his horse whip but he wasn't in the company of the cowardly Scottish media now, or politicians wanting to keep their VIP days at Parkhead - no, he was with Richard Gough, ex-Captain of HMS the Walter Smith, now mysterious captain of the freebooting Nautilus; and Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter. Oh, and of course me, Graham Spiers (the discredited journalist) (the discredited journalist), scourge of Rangers and defiant crusader against sectarianism (just as long as it's not Celtic fans).

We emerged onto George Square, the four of us pushing an unconscious Neil Lennon in a wheelbarrow, and Gough hailed a taxi. The driver looked at Lennon in the barrow and chortled,
'Pissed again? Jeez, does that man never learn? You'd think in the current climate he'd be lying low but no, he's out every night getting rat arsed and growling at people in pubs - I've helped him out my taxi three times already this week!'
'This isn't working,' said Gough. 'We can't leave so obvious a trail - Jorg, be a good fellow and steal us a car.'
Albertz sidled over to a nearby BMW and had it open in a twinkling and next thing you know we're haring across Glasgow, Gough driving with Lawwell beside him and me and Albertz in the back with Lennon sitting between us, out for the count. Sometimes I think about the fankles I get myself into and consider if I'd be better just finding another job but then there aren't many out there for pompous sneaks with divinity degrees.

05-05-2011, 11:43
His Dark Materials

As Gough drove us slowly through the gridlocked Glasgow streets, Albertz told us what was going to happen once we arrived at his flat in the west end. It involved lots of black magic and humping Neil Lennon up some stairs and I must admit that my heart jumped on hearing that we'd be humping Neil Lennon but it turned out I'd just misheard the Demon Hunter. It's difficult to concentrate on what other people are saying when you're used to hearing only the sound of your own voice; this is why Radio Clyde is my spiritual home - I get to talk over callers to the show so that everyone can marvel at my superior wit and opinions and if any Rangers fans manage by subterfuge to get through to the panel then we simply cut them off and steer the topic of conversation back onto the main agenda which is laying the boot into Rangers.

It was while thinking all of this that I managed to miss most of Albertz's important instructions and only zoned back in when he mentioned that Lennon seemed to be stirring and that Gough had better get a move on.
'Can't do a damn thing about it Jorg, the traffic's awful,' said Gough from the driver's seat.
'You'd better be careful back there,' said Lawwell. 'You think Lennon's teeth are disgusting when you see him on television? They're fake, open his mouth and pull out his teeth and see what's underneath.'
I looked at Albertz who looked back at me and nodded for me to do it but I shook my head in horror so Albertz sighed and reached over and opened Lennon's mouth. Black drool oozed out and dribbled off his chin, Albertz nearly gagged and reached in and pulled out a set of fake, mossy teeth - if these were the good ones then I wasn't looking forward to what was underneath them.
'Well at least this set are clean,' said Albertz as he pulled back Lennon's lips to reveal two rows of razor sharp teeth.
'He filed them down himself, after he was possessed you understand,' explained Lawwell. 'It suited us at the time to employ a rabid maniac with a tendency towards violence - it appealed to our fans when we couldn't afford another big name manager after last year's Mowbray debacle but even our fans aren't that stupid and many of them saw right through our little ploy so we took to the schemes with the Celtic Irish Republican Road Show and reached out to the scum of the east end gutters. A promise here to get in the faces of referees and a commitment there to start a war with the perceived establishment of the SFA and we soon had them eating out of our hands. The only problem was, no one thought to tell Lennon. He took it all seriously and began dragging the good name of Celtic into the sewer. Of course he met John Reid there and under his tutelage the whole of Scottish football was disgraced in front of the world. We've gone too far though, Lennon's a danger not only to himself but to others now and when he starts to put my neck on the line then it's time for something to be done - this, gentlemen is why I'm going with you voluntarily, please don't think you have me a prisoner, no one has power over Peter Lawwell. No one.'
'Aye alright Peter,' sneered Albertz as he held onto Lennon's chin, pulling back an eyelid and checking how long we had to get to Hyndland.
'I hate to say this Captain, but if we don't get this thing to my flat in the next ten minutes then the demon inside him will awake and there'll be a blood bath in this car.'
And almost on cue, Lennon stirred and we heard a sound from his mouth like rusty needles scraping together as more black tar bubbled from his nostrils.

10-05-2011, 11:33
Riding with Moloch

As Richard Gough and Peter Lawwell outdid each other in the keeping cool under pressure stakes, I sat in the back sweating and keeping an eye on Jorg Albertz because I figured that I'd be fine as long as the Demon Hunter showed no sign of panic but when Neil Lennon stirred and his skull seemed to take on a life of its own, moving around under his skin as if something awful was trying to get out, and a drop of sweat ran down the back of Albertz's neck, well that's when I really began to worry.

Tar dribbled from Lennon's mouth and his sharpened teeth ground together and as we left the city centre and at last approached the west end, Albertz nudged me and motioned towards Lennon's hands which to my horror had seemed to grow talons: rough, grey things which sprouted from his fingers like twigs from a branch, with no discernable pattern but looking sharp enough to rip someone's face off. Then his head rolled to the side to face me and I shrieked as one eye opened, looked at me and then closed.
'What happened?' shouted Gough from the driver's seat.
'He looked at me, he opened his eye and looked at me!' I babbled as Albertz turned the head around and studied it as what looked like a knuckle stretched out of Lennon's forehead until the skin could strain no more and then it retreated back into the head leaving a red welt the only evidence it had happened.
'It's not good Captain,' said Albertz to Gough. 'You've got to speed it up or we're never going to get him to the safety of the magic circles in my flat. The demons will be awake in minutes.'
So Gough put the foot down and we raced past Byres Road and up Highburgh Road just as Lennon let out a growl and opened his eyes again for a few seconds before his head drooped once more as I strained to stop myself from soiling my pants.
'Cards on the table here chief,' shouted Albertz. '**** the speed limit and **** traffic lights, if we don't get out of this car now then we're all dead!'
And as he said it, Lennon opened his mouth in an obscene yawn - his razor sharp teeth bared and black with tar, his breath a yellow mist which caused us all to gag as Gough brought the car to a sudden halt.
'What the f*ck?' cried a startled Albertz.
'Mummy!' screamed some coward sitting beside him which I realised was me.
'It's the police,' said Lawwell, looking in the mirror. 'They're behind us and the lights are at red.'
'F*ck the lights, f*ck the police, if we don't move we're f*cked!' roared Albertz as Lennon opened one burning eye that swivelled around before closing again.
'Sorry Jorg,' said Gough, keeping an eye in the rear view mirror and staying calm. 'If we cut a red then the cops will be onto us and how are we going to explain two ex-Rangers players, the Chief Executive of Celtic dressed as a Nazi and a discredited journalist in a car with an unconscious Neil Lennon? No, we wait. We have time, he's only stirring, not waking up.'
The car was silent save for the grinding of Lennon's teeth and the horrible noise coming from his arms and legs which sounded like bones twisting and breaking, muscle stretching and groaning. The car ticked over and the lights stayed at red. I looked at Albertz and he was really sweating now, his shirt soaked at the neck. I felt my corduroys dampen and hoped it too was sweat otherwise I'd be no better than Hugh MacDonald. Lennon's head turned again and eyes still shut, he lifted one hand and got it caught in the back of Lawwell's seat, one of the talons snagging in the material. I looked up at the lights and they were still at red, I turned and looked out the back and the police were sitting there behind us in their car, not interested in us. Not yet.

Lennon's hand raked the seat in front of him and came down on his own leg, piercing it and sending a jet of his blood squirting onto his face; his tongue flicked out, not a human tongue now but a black pointed tongue that licked up the blood from his chin and cheeks before disappearing back into that hideous maw.
'If you don't get moving Gough then I'm out, I'm sorry,' said Albertz.
I weighed this up - if Albertz was prepared to abandon the car then I sure as hell wasn't going to linger and I was just reaching for the door handle on my side when Lennon coughed and black vomit flew past Lawwell's shoulder and splattered the windscreen. Lawwell screamed at last, almost hysterically trying to get the bile off his pristine Wehrmacht jacket, Lennon's eyes opened and stayed open, I held onto the door handle and was just about to open the car door and throw myself out when the lights changed to amber and we took off, turning onto Clarence Drive with Albertz's flat on the corner of Lauderdale Gardens just ahead of us. We pulled in to the pavement and let the police car pass and then we were all out of the car, Gough and Albertz hauling Lennon behind them, his eyes still open but body thankfully unable to move. We bounded up the stairs, Albertz had the door open in a twinkling and we ran through the hall and into an empty room which had two magic circles painted onto the floorboards. Gough threw Lennon into one and Albertz got to work closing the circle with chalk at the one break in the pentacle and then we got into the other circle and he closed that one too just as Lennon woke up, stood unsteadily on his feet, looked at us, roared and pounced before being knocked on his arse by some unseen force.

'F*cking hell, that was close,' laughed Albertz then he sniffed and said, 'Is Hugh MacDonald in here, I'm sure I can smell shit?'

10-05-2011, 12:07
We are Legion

Lennon sat in the middle of the pentacle and hissed, his tongue darting out like a snake from between his rows of razor sharp teeth, and all the while he looked at us like a lion might regard an antelope and I'll tell you, I didn't feel safe at all even although Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter's magic pentacles drawn on the floor were supposed to contain Lennon and the demons within that were possessing him.

'I suppose I'd better get on with it then,' said Albertz, suddenly sounding quite chirpy.
So while I sat on the floor beside Lawwell and Gough, Albertz stood and faced Lennon and lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke in Lennon's face.
'Why don't you f*ck off back to where you came from? You don't belong here,' spat Albertz, talking to the demons but causing Lawwell to shift uneasily, storing this in his memory, considering if he could get Gerry Duffy to run with it in the Sun the day before a big Rangers match as an example of anti-Irish racism.
'I name you, demons!' shouted Albertz, warming to his task. 'I name you Wormwood and Screwtape, now f*ck off back to hell and leave us alone.'
Lennon collapsed writhing to the floor as black tar oozed from his mouth, nose and ears, his eyes bulged and his back arched as if in agony. All he had to do next was to kick over some bottles and anyone would've thought it was match day and Celtic were losing.
'Wormwood and Screwtape! I name you, begone!' shouted Albertz, taking another pull at his cigarette and turning to us and winking. Then Lennon roared and red bile fountained from his mouth, hitting the ceiling and dropping back onto him as he rolled around inside the magic circle, then he was still.
'That's the thing about black magic,' said Albertz, smiling. 'Any c*nt can do it.'
'Are we finished? Is he exorcised?' asked Gough.
'Yup. You can have Neil Lennon the man back now Lawwell, although I'm sure many won't notice the difference,' sneered Albertz but behind him Lennon was rising to his knees and was grinning at us, his eyes burning bright red, steam rising from his clothes. Then he bellowed like a deer and cackled, 'Oh Demon Hunter, did you really think there was only Wormwood and Screwtape in here? You didn't consider this mound of meat has been carrying other demons all this time? You didn't for one moment observe his behaviour over the years and consider there were already many of us in here? Oh dear, you're losing your touch Albertz and what makes me giggle is that you don't know any of our names so you won't rid this trash of us as you did so easily with those other two amateur denizens of the slums of hell.'

Now this really scared me but at the same time it explained a lot about Lennon and his behaviour but just as I was wondering if we'd survive this latest development Albertz just sighed and said, 'This'll take a while, lucky I brought a few packets of fags, eh?'

10-05-2011, 13:00
brilliant flashmen, laughing from start to finish.

10-05-2011, 13:20
There are no Ghosts in the Morning

It took just over a day; Albertz ran out of cigarettes two hours before it finished and became a bit grumpy towards the end, Lawwell and Gough sat impassively watching proceedings and I squirmed in my corduroys having soiled them three times - twice in fright and once just because I couldn't hold it in any longer. Eventually though the great Jorg Albertz, Demon Hunter had exorcised seventeen demons from Neil Lennon leaving Scottish football and society as a whole a much safer place.

'But why Albertz, why did you help them?' I asked later as Lawwell called for his Stasi who bundled Lennon's exhausted figure into a black van.
'Because Rangers take their social responsibility seriously, Spiers. I thought even you might have noticed by now that there's only one team goes on the offensive in Glasgow and it ain't us. We remain silent in the face of constant Celtic onslaughts because we know that to respond or to act in kind would be not only dragging ourselves down to their level but to allow the lunatics in our support the same carte blanche to act terribly in the same way Celtic's pandering to their own maniacs allows them to justify their own awful behaviour. Consider Paul McBride and his snide attacks and think about a similar QC on the Rangers side who has remained dignified and silent in spite of being hung out to dry for less than Celtic players and ex-managers get away with on a regular basis, indeed Findlay works studiously behind the scenes to keep a lid on this whole thing of ours while McBride spends half his life in the Polo Lounge and the other half attacking Protestants. What about Lawwell? While Martin Bain is constantly not just keeping his powder dry but throwing buckets of water over it, Lawwell practically dances around the gunpowder room smoking cigars and playing with sparklers. The batman? The media and police consider him a criminal when it's really Stuart Cosgrove keeping in place Celtic Minded grotesques such as the Piddler Hugh MacDonald, Chic Young and the Traynor. Kearney? His life's mission it to instigate a new Holy Inquisition in Scotland while our own Master Mason works diligently for charity. And don't get me started on Tom Devine who is wheeled out by BBC Scotland to drunkenly accuse the whole of Scotland of being vicious anti-Catholic bigots while Professor Steve Bruce who is a positive voice of reason is ignored, no vilified for daring to go against the party line and suggest that it's the sectarianism industry that's sprung up in this country and run by people with vested interests and secret agendas that is truly Scotland's Shame. So that's why I exorcised Neil Lennon, Spiers; because we work for the good of all people while Celtic have only their own narrow minded cause to pursue.'
'There must be some other reason though, surely?' I asked, certain that I was missing something.
'Of course,' butted in Gough. 'We need to keep Lennon safe and in a job because with him as manager that lot will never win the league.'

So I left that flat of horror in Hyndland with Gough's words ringing in my ears, vowing to somehow use them against Rangers the next time I was on Twitter - my only way of communicating my messages these days considering no one buys the Times anymore or reads on-line thanks to the paywall. I headed home, pausing only to pour a bucket of water over my stalker Brian McNally who sleeps rough on my doorstep and settled down in bed with my Martin O'Neil scrapbook to knock one off when suddenly I had a thought, an original thought for a change and not one given to me by some swivel-eyed Celtic supporter at the Brazen Head and it got me wondering that Peter Lawwell had something else up his sleeve, that he allowed Albertz and Gough free rein to interfere in Celtic affairs which wasn't like him. Looking back on things now, I wish that original thought had just stayed away because foolishly I pursued it and here I am caught up in the greatest outrage ever perpetrated by Celtic against Scottish football. But yet again I'm getting ahead of myself.

12-05-2011, 14:48
The Final Problem

I remember ludicrously, thinking that the moon looked beautiful as I slid down the rain wet rooftop and hurtling over the edge of the Victorian grandeur of some St. Vincent Street building. I was too tired to struggle anymore and had accepted my fate, the ground rushing up to greet me when I felt a hand grab my ankle and my plunge slowed to a halt feet from some mean looking iron railings and then I was heading away from the spikes and back up towards the roof. Stuart Cosgrove dressed head to toe in black leather and latex like some sort of bat-man steadied me and held a finger up to his mouth for me to be quiet and then pushed my head down with me briefly thinking he was looking for a blow job and I was just looking for the zip on that remarkable outfit when I realised he was hiding us from the Traynor who grunted on his way past as we hid in the shadows.

On a season such as this one where the real life events have been as crazy as any that might be alluded to in an imaginary diary should one exist, I should’ve understood that when Donald Findlay sent me a telegram saying that Tom Devine was back in town with my wife that I was being led into a trap. Shorn of the coward Murray, Rangers were on the offensive again and all over the city, enemies of the club were being reined in. As ever, I thought I was untouchable but hanging around a rooftop at midnight on a wet moonlit night only to be pushed off by an unseen hand can really steady the thought process.
‘I can see what you’re thinking Spiers,’ whispered Cosgrove. ‘It wasn’t Findlay or any of his agents – no, Lawwell got wind of this and sent King Bastard here to dispose of you as too many people are at last linking you to secret moves to bring down Rangers once and for all. Traynor’s just passed, the Piddler’s over on another rooftop cleaning the shit out of his trousers and the Joker, Tam Cowan is the one who pushed you off the roof. Lucky I was here to catch you, eh?’
‘So you’re here to take me to see Findlay? He has news of my wife apparently.’
‘Forget your wife, she belongs to Devine now. No, our task is the most important ever undertaken in the name of a sport – Lawwell senses the end game is near and is threatening to destroy Rangers once and for all. We don’t know exactly what he plans but he has three days to do it or they win the league and Lawwell could find himself out of a job.’
‘But where do I come in?’ I asked, a little too loudly because the Traynor stopped in his tracks, sniffed the air and turned towards us and growled.
‘Oh well,’ sighed Cosgrove. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this,’ and as the Traynor bounded towards us, Cosgrove pulled a gun from his utility belt and shot him in the chest.
The Traynor gasped and fell to his knees.
‘I can’t believe you just did that, what happened to Rangers sitting back and taking it? What happened to Celtic doing what they liked and Rangers maintaining a dignified silence? What, what, what…’

Lightning lit up the rooftops illuminating the Traynor as he sat in the pouring rain, water dripping from his nose as he looked at his fatal wound.
‘Spiers, come here,’ he gasped. I walked over to him and kneeled down, feeling sorry for the beast. He looked at me and beckoned me closer.
‘I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,’ he began. ‘Lawwell’s attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve seen c-beams glitter off the Gallowgate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.’
And he closed his eyes and as he did, something fell from his hand. I picked it up, it was a paper unicorn with my name written on it. Strange, Walter Smith gave me something similar in Silence when he held me and the Traynor there. I opened up the paper unicorn to find that it had written on it co-ordinates and one other word apart from my name: Schiehallion.


12-05-2011, 15:40

I stood atop the barren and snow cursed mountain and wondered how I was going to get back to the west end from here. I’d already considered the desolation and decided that Donald Findlay’s claims of Peter Lawwell having a secret mountain top hideout were just a load of paranoid bunkum, nothing survived up here without layers of fur and goretex which we were all wearing save for Stuart Cosgrove who persisted in dressing up as a bat. Our little mountaineering party consisted of Cosgrove, Findlay, Martin Bain and yours truly, the greatest pioneering journalist in Scotland according to Celtic Quick News and who am I to doubt their wisdom?
Things had been going fine for me since the exorcism of Neil Lennon: I’d somehow slipped away from that one with plaudits from Richard Gough and Jorg Alberz Demon Hunter but had to watch myself save the psychotic Lawwell considered my involvement there as collaboration; my pieces were still appearing in the Times thanks to the janitor and cleaning staff at Queen Street who were writing them – who was going to notice since no one reads the damn thing these days anyway? And I’d got wind that my wife was back in Glasgow which was interesting not because I wanted her back, no I was content to wank over my Martin O’Neil scrapbook but I did have a debt of honour to revenge myself against the drunken old goat, Tom Devine and I should’ve known he was back in town considering he’d been wheeled out by BBC Scotland for the election to sit and burp port sodden platitudes about sectarianism much to the amusement of fellow panellists who wondered why he was talking about a completely different topic from the rest of them during an election. So when Donald Findlay told me to meet him on a rooftop on St. Vincent Street I thought he was going to give me the opportunity to boot Devine a few times in the balls and didn’t think for one moment that Tam Cowan would launch me over the edge. Thanks to Cosgrove though I survived and after the cool headed murder of that beast, the Traynor, we got together with Findlay and Bain and set off in a small convoy to a mountain just north of Aberfeldy. The last time I was up this way was a wedding when Keith Jackson mistook me for a bridesmaid or so he says, and rogered me a good ‘un in the honeymoon suite but that’s another story.

This story though is concerned with Peter Lawwell and how he’d retired with John Reid to a supposed secret base atop Schiehallion to launch the Final Solution, whatever that was but knowing Lawwell’s Nazi tendencies, it wasn’t going to be an apology for employing Neil Lennon and the gift of an olive branch to all of Scottish society who wasn’t Celtic Minded. I was just considering this while watching Cosgrove struggle to take a leak by a rocky outcrop when something moved in the distance and I was just about to bring it to Findlay’s attention when I realised that my companions were standing with their hands in the air looking at me in consternation. I’d been the only one not to notice Lawwell’s arctic stormtroopers rise from their positions in the snow and level their rifles at us.

A lift that appeared out of nowhere was the first thing that amazed us and it took us deep underground into a space age headquarters similar in style to Jack McConnell’s moorland media centre – I suppose, no one saw McConnell build that monstrosity so who was going to notice Lawwell put this thing together?
We were escorted down a tunnel and into the Eye, an enormous room where a dozen men sat around monitors watching CCTV images from all over Scotland – so this was how Lawwell knew everything that was going on. Worryingly though, several of the screens showed images from inside Ibrox Stadium.
‘Did you know?’ I asked Bain.
‘Think we’d have allowed Celtic to get away with this if we did?’ retorted Bain.
‘Why yes, I think I do.’ I replied only to be interrupted by everyone standing to attention as in walked a man resplendent in brown shirt with death’s head insignia cufflinks and jackboots.
‘Welcome to Schiehallion gentlemen,’ said Peter Lawwell.

12-05-2011, 15:49
well .....that was to long for me to read and have to say it didnt capture my span of attention.....now in laymans terms,what the fek was that all about?????

12-05-2011, 15:53
Very good read, got a bit nervous at " Schiehallion to launch the Final Solution " . ' As we have been down that road before '.

12-05-2011, 16:14
Apocalypse Pending

'The tide is turning gentlemen, the national press are onto us – I can control those pathetic insects in the Scottish media but when it gets as big as this and hits London then it’s outwith my purview. Damned Green Brigade, we turned a blind eye to them singing sectarian songs, even excused them by claiming their filth was political and it was to be in exchange for them launching a campaign of intimidation against their own club that would be blamed on Rangers thus turning the whole of Britain against them. The problem is though, they’ve gone too far; didn’t know when to stop. Last night they attacked the police, treated the whole country to their IRA songs and then sent some more packages to Neil Lennon again this morning. That’s the thing about opening a can of worms, if you spill it then you’re going to need a whole bigger can to get them all back in.

‘Gentlemen, I want you to see my big can.’
Lawwell chuckled and two panels in the wall behind us separated to reveal the biggest screen in the room and it showed a missile being fuelled.
‘Lawwell you maniac,’ exclaimed Findlay. ‘Where do you think that’s going?’
‘Oh Donald, I think you know where we’re putting it, just be glad you came sneaking around here instead of sitting in the Blue Room drinking tea with your friends. It wasn’t our first choice of course, we had Dominik Diamond ready to drive a truck laden with explosives through the gates of Ibrox but he shat it at the last minute and told us he’d take care of Rangers in his own personal way and promptly ran off to hide in shame for a few more years. So we had to change plan and this is it…’
‘The Inquisition 5!’ shouted Peter Kearney, appearing from a door behind us.
‘Aimed straight at your field of dreams and about to put paid to this season. Let’s see you win the league now!’ cried Tom Devine, twirling round in a swivel chair, previously unnoticed to our left. He spilled a half pint of port over himself but it was still an impressive move.
‘You’d do anything to stop Rangers win this year, wouldn’t you Lawwell?’ muttered Findlay, taking a pipe from his pocket and stuffing it with tobacco.
‘What if we just gave it to you, eh? What if we just lose to Kilmarnock on Sunday then you don’t need to launch that thing and devastate Ibrox?’
‘Oh Donald,’ tutted Lawwell. ‘ The Inquisition 5 is big enough to devastate your ground but believe me, it is small enough to leave the surrounding area standing – we just want rid of you, not to create any lasting damage to Scottish society as a whole’
‘Well you could’ve fooled us,’ interrupted Cosgrove. ‘All season you’ve been so intent on winning a damned sporting event that you’ve caused immeasurable damage to this country – we’re a laughing stock all over the world thanks to you and your behaviour…’
‘Silence!’ screamed Lawwell, producing his riding crop and whipping it across Cosgrove’s face.
‘But Peter,’ offered Findlay, taking a pull at his pipe. ‘Surely this has gone too far, even by Celtic’s standards? You’re just about to launch a missile at a heavily populated area and don’t expect innocents to suffer? Come on man, it’s time to give it up, time to just start getting on with life in harmony with each other – Rangers have no truck with you and your people, we just want to play football.
‘Honestly Findlay, ‘just about to launch a missile’? I’m not some comic book serial villain, did you honestly expect me to tell you my plans if there was any way you could possibly affect the outcome? No, I launched the missile five minutes ago.’

12-05-2011, 17:00
Einstein Rosen Bridge

Lawwell had barely told us that he’d launched a missile on Ibrox five minutes before when there was a flash of light and a great crunching noise from above. It had been so sudden that we’d all flinched and by the time we’d recovered to look around to see what had caused it, Bain was gone leaving behind his clothes which lay in a smoking pile on the floor and a gaping hole in the ceiling where something with great strength had burrowed out of this place.
‘Where the f*ck has he gone?’ wondered Devine, aloud.
Findlay puffed on his pipe and giggled, ‘You don’t know what Martin’s capable of, switch to your flight monitors and watch to see what Rangers have in their armoury.’
Lawwell nodded and half the screens on the great bank of monitors switched to the view ahead of the missile as it careered through the sky towards Glasgow, the other half showed Ibrox sitting peacefully in the rain, outside the main stand entrance played two small boys while a mother pushing a pram smiled indulgently.
‘He’s not going to make it, whispered Cosgrove to Findlay.
‘Make what?’ screamed Lawwell.
‘Just keep watching old sport,’ said Findlay, puffing away.
‘There’s Stirling, not long now boys!’ shouted Kearney, an erection rising in his trousers.
‘Where is he?’ asked Cosgrove.
‘This thing can really travel, eh Peter? Look, there’s Glasgow. Say goodbye to your precious football club you disgusting bigoted Orange bastards,’ slurred Devine without a trace of irony.
The screen showed the city of Glasgow in the distance but coming up fast. I looked to the Ibrox screens and there entering the main doors was Craig Whyte, he paused as if he knew we were watching him, looked to the sky and seemed to listen then the screen took some interference, there was a flash where Whyte once stood and he was gone.
‘What the f*ck happened to Whyte?’ asked Lawwell.
Findlay turned to me and winked.
‘Just in case,’ was all he said before going back to puffing furiously at his pipe.
‘Lawwell! What’s that in front of the missile?’ exclaimed Kearney, pointing to the monitors and we all watched in amazement as what looked like the superhero, Master Mason flew towards the missile, raising a fist to punch it. But Master Mason had neglected to put on his mask in his hurry to get up there and the face full of determination to protect Rangers from this final outrage from Celtic was that of Craig Whyte.

Whyte didn’t get the chance to punch the missile though because just as the camera screamed in on him, there was a blur of blue and red and Martin Bain, his red cape billowing behind him appeared in front of Whyte, raised his hands and produced a flash of light and then the screens went blank

12-05-2011, 17:27
The Final Betrayal

‘What the f*ck happened?’ asked Lawwell, gazing dejectedly at the bank of fuzzy screens while the other bank showed the sun breaking through the clouds at Ibrox Stadium, the grand structure still standing.

‘Seems like we didn’t need Mr Whyte to give away his secret today as Martin had it all under control. You didn’t know he could fly, eh Kearney? I’m sure if you did you would’ve flown out there after him to stop him preventing your outrage. That’s why Master Mason works in secret, you lot are just too vindictive.
‘No, we didn’t need Master Mason, Bain got there in time to erect an Einstein Rosen Bridge – wormhole to you, Lawwell, and that transported your missile to another dimension. An alternative reality if you like, one just like ours but instead of landing in that dimension’s Ibrox, it landed in Celtic Park instead. I guess somewhere out there in the ether, in this strange and wonderful universe of ours there are people wondering how a Celtic-made missile has obliterated their own ground. I guess the alternative Peter Lawwell will be wondering why he’s being put in jail for mass murder when he knows nothing about it. It’s enough to give you a sore head if you think about it too much, eh old sport?’ and he smiled and re-packed his pipe with tobacco.
‘But what about Bain?’ I asked, thinking that he looked quite sexy in the red and blue superman outfit.
‘Bain knew the cost of his loyalty,’ said Findlay. ‘To open the Einstein Rosen Bridge he knew he had to go with it. We don’t know if his super powers will allow him to survive the blast but he’s in that reality and I like to think he’s happy in the knowledge that he saved Rangers. What he thinks of his new reality’s Celtic reduced to ashes we can only wonder.’

‘We’ll get you yet, Findlay,’ growled Lawwell. ‘We might not have taken you out completely today but the world’s news stations are all over us today, disgusted that Celtic are victims in an ongoing campaign of sectarian intimidation. I’ll soon be releasing a statement calling you Scotland’s Shame yet again, my poodles in the press will push the agenda and we’ll squeeze you till your pips squeak, mark my words, we’ll still get you. And Spiers?’ He looked at me and my bowels collapsed.
‘Spiers, we have something for you.’
Electric doors slid open and out of the light walked my wife. I put on a good show of looking delighted to see her but then she lifted a hand and in it was a pistol, she pointed it at me and pulled the trigger.

I didn’t hear the bang but I came to on the floor with a terrible pain in my belly – the bitch had shot me! She’d obviously been brain washed by Devine and now she’d shot me! Donald Findlay didn’t seem to show me any sympathy.
‘Donald! What are we going to do now?’ I pleaded.
Findlay took another puff and said, ‘Now we wait.’
‘Wait for what ?’ I cried in agony.
‘We wait for Sunday, see who wins the league of course,’ he said and winked at me and just as I was passing out from the pain, my head began to swirl and I couldn't make out reality from my dreams and in the distance I could hear a horse galloping and through the mist of consciousness I swear I could see a white unicorn.

To be concluded Monday.

12-05-2011, 17:30
And we thought the protagonist was bombastic! :)

Is this the screenplay?

If so - I cannot wait for the movie to come out.

Will cost a fortune in special effects and pyrotechnics.

Heh heh!

Marvin Andrews
13-05-2011, 10:12
there ought to be a stage musical verson of this , I'm telling you it would be a hit on the west end and broadway :D

13-05-2011, 17:45
there ought to be a stage musical verson of this , I'm telling you it would be a hit on the west end and broadway :D

How will it all end? Has anyone else found themselves musing on the idea that Flashman is in fact the chordroy hoofter?


Jungle Fighter
13-05-2011, 18:09
Just seen this bhasturd on the STV news.

He thinks the pope's visit has got us Bears all fired up into an anti-cafflick frenzy! :eek:

What a furking moron! :mad:

18-05-2011, 21:01
Where is Flashman?

Gunther Netzer
18-05-2011, 21:56
Best way to treat this imposter is to ignore.

25-05-2011, 15:31
L'Enfer C'est Les Autres

It's over, thank god. The most bitter and hate filled season in Scottish football has come to an end and did I contribute towards it? Did I half. It was a strange ending in many ways and as ever, finished up with bloodshed and recriminations all round. I was lying in a pool of my own blood if you remember after being shot by my own wife, brainwashed by Tom Devine obviously - Catholics and brain washing, what are they like? Anyway, as I lay there in quite some agony, nobody had noticed Graeme Souness and the Rangers 80s Squad Commandos abseiling in through the hole in the roof of Lawwell's secret headquarters made there earlier by Martin Bain when he revealed himself to have super powers before crashing out of the place to prevent Lawwell's missile hitting Ibrox. He's gone now, poor Martin; shame really as I really quite fancied him. No one noticed the commandos until Graham Roberts appeared behind Devine, put an arm around his neck and whoosh, they were gone, reeled back towards the hole and out of there. The same happened to everyone and Souness left a parting gift - half a dozen phosphorous grenades which lit up the place and left me lying there wondering why no one had bothered to rescue me.

As the flames spread I worried that they'd reach me and my end wouldn't be a pleasant one but the smoke got to me first and I passed out and as I did, I remember my thoughts turning, not to my loved ones or how society would miss such a splendid journalist such as myself but to the janitor at the Times of Scotland who'd probably now get my job full time since he'd been writing my reports and columns for months now. Not that anyone had noticed as no one reads the bloody thing anymore anyway.

Remarkably I came to and the pain had gone. I'd been awoken by the tock tock tock of footsteps on a hard floor in a place where there was no other noise and as the footsteps got closer I could see the hefty figure of the Traynor approaching, but I thought he was dead, shot by Stuart Cosgrove on a roof in St. Vincent Street? Then again, by rights I should be dead so I kept quiet and watched how things were to proceed.

'You're awake then,' he stated rather than asked. 'About time too, typical of you to sleep in and miss everything - sums up your career really, eh?'
'What have I missed and how come you're still alive? I saw you dead last night,' I squeaked but the Traynor shook his head and gave me a look of pity which was a new one for him.
'That wasn't last night, you've been out for almost two weeks now. Kind of. In reality you've been out for much longer while a replicant of you blundered around Scotland causing bother. There was one of me too, that's who you saw shot. No Spiers, we've been held in stasis in Walter Smith's Silence since that last old firm game when you tried to jump the old fellow. Didn't I tell you there was something not quite right? Haven't there been enough hints that we weren't who we thought we were?'
'Replicants, eh? More importantly, who won the league?' I asked.
'DAMMIT! What are we going to do now? You know what the punishment for Rangers winning the league is - Lawwell will have our hides!'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about Lawwell if I were you. Well, not quite - he's in here with us. And Kearney. And McBride. Reid escaped somehow during the great round up but here we are: you, me, Lawwell, Kearney and Paul McBride, all locked up at the bottom of the ocean while up there Rangers go from a position of great weakness to great strength and still win the double while Celtic celebrate coming second in some outbreak of mass lunacy. We hear they won the Scottish Cup and hoisted Neil Lennon on their shoulders as if he knew anything about it, the chap's been drunk, unconscious, possessed, missing a head or just too plain sociopathic to notice anything that's happened this season. Yet you still think he's a nice guy.'
'He is...' I tried to object but the Traynor cut me off.
'This is the end, Spiers; the most spiteful and nasty season in my memory is over and we're down here to answer for our roles in perpetuating it. Every day new guilty parties arrive, delivered by Richard Gough in the Nautilus but we never see where they go - half the sports department of BBC Scotland arrived this morning but in spite of searching every inch of this complex that I can find, I've yet to see them. I'm afraid we're stuck with Lawwell and his pals. Hell is indeed other people and sometimes I think that is precisely where we are - who knows what Rangers are capable of with Jorg Albertz on their side?'
'So that's it? After everything we've been through this season, Celtic win nothing and we fetch up locked away down here?'
'They won the Scottish Cup I told you.'
'Oh that doesn't count. This is so unfair - what have I done to deserve this?' I almost cried and then I thought about my role in cliping Rangers to UEFA and my constant championing of Celtic while vilifying Rangers which when you think about it is only what I've always done but things had changed now, the coward Murray was gone and a new leader has taken over the Rangers, things next season were going to be an awfully lot different and with Lawwell and his goons imprisoned in Silence who is going to carry out Celtic's next campaign of intimidation, mud-slinging and violence against anyone in Scotland who doesn't support Celtic? Well I suppose John Reid escaped so that'll be who. I just wish I could be around to witness it again and be his cheerleader, I did think I suited those short skirts and pom poms.

Oh well, Reid believed in the green half of Glasgow, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us this season, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning -

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The End.

25-05-2011, 15:48
Flash, my old cock !

What in the name of bally heck is this ?! I've only read the post immediately above but would I be right in thinking you have written a conspiracy yarn to rival the Illuminatus ! Triology ?

I shall take the time to peruse in detail when I can.

Meanwhile, Hail Eris ! ! All hail Discordia ! !

Jigs Big One
25-05-2011, 17:07
congratulations on your post count Flash

25-05-2011, 19:18
Will we ever see his like again?

25-05-2011, 23:45
Flash, my old cock !

What in the name of bally heck is this ?! I've only read the post immediately above but would I be right in thinking you have written a conspiracy yarn to rival the Illuminatus ! Triology ?

I shall take the time to peruse in detail when I can.

Meanwhile, Hail Eris ! ! All hail Discordia ! !

You would be 100% correct Kenneth - I would be interested to hear your review. Now that I think about it - your penmanship is similar to Flash AKA FF's very own JKR >:):eek:

here we are: you, me, Lawwell, Kearney and Paul McBride, all locked up at the bottom of the ocean while up there Rangers go from a position of great weakness to great strength and still win the double while Celtic celebrate coming second in some outbreak of mass lunacy.

Mass lunacy..... wonderfully scripted.


26-05-2011, 14:02

Best post since the "Has anyone had a worse day then me?" ;)


GIP (Get it published!)

Jigs Big One
26-05-2011, 14:06

Best post since the "Has anyone had a worse day then me?" ;)


GIP (Get it published!)


The adventures of Graham Spiers (the discredited journalist) (the discredited journalist) The Movie :D

27-05-2011, 00:30
Surely there are more "Flash avids" out there?

22-06-2011, 20:53
Bumped cause he is on tonight.


14-07-2011, 00:39
Have to admire this posters resilience and determination to remain on 1690 posts.

Heh heh!