Maribor One

Something rather rum happened in the corridors of power at Hampden recently.  I was lurking around at the time, looking for a curtain to creep behind or a closet to hide in as I still wasn't used to having been chosen by Lawwell himself to write his biography and allowed unfettered access to the workings of the SFA, when Stewart Regan came scurrying down the hall carrying a bundle of papers.  He hadn't seen me so I slinked behind a water cooler and watched as he stood outside Lawwell's office and gingerly chapped on the door only for a hatch to open and a boxing glove on the end of a spring come shooting out and catch Regan a cracker on the nose.  He was knocked off his feet and all of the papers he was carrying were thrown in the air and fell like confetti to the ground as the door opened and Lawwell's head peaked out,  "Oh, it's you," he grumbled.

"Yef it'f me, who did you efpect?" moaned Regan, holding a hanky to his bloody nose.

"Spiers, I was sure that oaf was sneaking around out there."

"What made you fink 'at?"

"My wank-detector was beeping." 

They disappeared into Lawwell's office and closed the door so I came out from my hiding place and approached the door to listen in case I could overhear anything important but as I did, the hatch opened again and the boxing glove came springing out only to miss me but catch a passing Ralph Topping right on the ear, knocking him through the glass partition into another room.  Lawwell's door opened and his head peaked out again.  "See?  Regan, I told you he was out there, my wank-detector never fails!"

"I'm glad it doefn't go off when I'm around" said Regan.

"Yes it does," pondered Lawwell before walking over to his desk and tapping on a contraption there which started to beep after a few seconds.  "No, you're right, it's the useful-idiot detector that goes off when you're around" said Lawwell as he reached out the door and grabbed me by the collar to pull me in.

 

He forced me against a wall and then paced back over to Regan and grabbed the papers off him and began counting them.  I squinted to see what was on them but for all I could see it was just a pile of SFA letterheads with nothing on them but Regan's signature.  "Only ninety eight?  Hold on," said Lawwell as he held the papers up to his ear and ran them quickly through his fingers.  "No, it's a hundred after all, there were a few stuck together there."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted.  "What are you going to do with a hundred blank pieces of paper with Regan's signature at the bottom?"

"Anything I fucking well please, Spiers now sit down before I nail your arse to the wall."

"But there are no seats" I protested.

"No, but there are tacks all over the floor right beside you - go on, sit down on them" and he watched expressionless, as I sat down slowly on the tacks and felt them pierce the thick corduroy of my trousers and pinch into my bottom.  "Better?" asked Lawwell.

"Yes," I said.

"Good, now to business.  Regan, I have a case full of syringes here full of Etorphine and I want you to take them down to the press office and have the boys administer them to every football journalist in there and be finished by the time I walk into the presser with Vincent Lunny's replacement."

"What's Etorphine?" I asked.

"As far as you're concerned, Spiers" growled Lawwell.  "It's elephant tranquiliser."

"But it is elephant tranquiliser" exclaimed Regan.

"Yes...  And?" said Lawwell, staring at Regan as if Scottish journalists full of drugs was something new.

"But why?" I asked.

"Vincent Lunny's on his way out, right?  Well I have his replacement and I don't want any awkward questions about his lack of impartiality when it comes to Celtic."

"And why would anyone bring that up?" I asked.

"Because it's Anthony McGlennan," said Lawwell and I understood immediately.

"Here," I said.  "I'll give you a hand with the needles." 

And then it happened: I took a hold of the case full of the syringes but Regan, sensing someone was taking yet another responsibility from him - someone who wasn't Lawwell at least - tried to grab it back off me, there was a brief struggle and then I let go only for the momentum of his pulling to make Regan fall backwards with his arm holding the case flying behind him in a swift arc.  There was a shriek and the tumbling of bodies behind Lawwell's great oak desk and when he and Regan pulled themselves up from behind it, Lawwell had about a dozen needles sticking out of his face and neck.  "Regan," he slurred.  "I'm going to saw your balls off with a..." and then he collapsed.

We stared appalled at Lawwell as he lay on the floor, syringes sticking out of him and a pool of urine spreading out from his legs across the SFA carpet which was green with a Celtic crest on it.  "What the fuck are we going to do?" whimpered Regan.

"How the hell do I know?" I said.  "The good news is though, if that's Etorphine then he's not going to remember how this happened."

"Oh, that's a good one, Spiers!  What will we do about the Tony McGlennan announcement though?"

"This is the Scottish press," I shouted at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.  "You could tell them Lawwell himself was going to be the new compliance officer and they wouldn't say a word."

"Oh please don't give him ideas" said Regan, looking down at Lawwell as if he was going to get up from being filled full of Rohypnol and sing the Sash.  "I've got an idea!  Didn't I hear you imitating Lawwell at a party once?  Remember when you phoned Tom Devine and pretended to offer him a place on the SFA board?"

"No," I said, remembering the incident.  "That was Lawwell, that really happened."

"Another time though, I'm sure I heard you mimicking him at a party?" 

And that was how my fate was sealed and I regretted ever doing my impression of Peter Lawwell at a west end dinner party.  If I'd known then that it would see me impersonating Lawwell in the week that Celtic were shagged out of the Champions League twice in the same qualifying sections, this time by a team of Slovenian goat-handlers then I'd have kept my mouth shut.  But I hadn't and so we took another ominous step towards changing the face of Scottish football forever.

The View from the Dipylon Gate

From the moment I agreed to shadow Peter Lawwell to record his life for a new biography, things started to quieten down.  Days passed and there was no sign of the Lawwell of legend: barking threats down the phone to newspaper editors; issuing instructions on how to report on Celtic to BBC Scotland and of course, taking his horse whip to anyone who stepped out of line.  Instead, I would go with him to one restaurant after another where he’d ignore any menu placed in front of him and simply order some scrambled eggs which he’d eat in silence before leaving the table without excusing himself and disappearing into the night, usually leaving behind members of his family, colleagues and me, always me.

Then Legia Warsaw shagged Celtic at Murrayfield and Celtic fans disgraced themselves in and outside of the ground, rioting and attacking each other.  Now I would see the real Lawwell, I thought, springing to action and hanging every journalist by the balls on butchers hooks until they promised not to report the violence, but he was nowhere to be seen.  “He’s in Europe somewhere” said Keith Jackson with a wink.

“How do you know?” I asked.
“See those two shrimps over there?” Jackson nodded towards a couple of young boys from the BBC.  “They reported an anomaly to Lawwell before the game, to the UEFA observer too.  My money’s on some administrative error and big Pete’s away to make sure it gets followed up.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked.
“He was carrying his horse whip.”

And so it was that Legia had cocked up their team sheet but such is the luck of Celtic when it comes to this kind of thing that it could’ve been a grammatical error and UEFA would still have seen fit to award Lawwell a second chance at the Champions League and a shot at Platini’s wife.

“D’ye think they’d have done that to Barcelona?” asked Tom Devine with a snort as we sat in Stravaigin hoping that Pat Nevin wouldn’t spot us from the bar.  “Clerical errors are all very well when it’s the minnows they’re punishing but try doing that to a German team, they’d be over the French border in tanks before you could whisper Schlieffen.  Those poor Poles, trouncing our lot with six goals to one and it’s still Celtic who go through, anyone’d think it was Stewart Regan running UEFA with that kind of reasoning.”  Tom was on fine form that day, having been on the wagon for a few hours and if you can say one thing about the old bluffer it’s that when he’s not full of port, he can be quite fair, for an old bigot.  I wasn’t looking for fairness though, the Herald doesn’t employ me to be fair or impartial so I left Devine and loafed over to Hampden but I hadn’t got very far when a carriage drew up beside me and I heard a chuckle from inside.  “Jump in, Spiers” cried Donald Findlay so I climbed in and Donald tapped the ceiling with his cane and off we went towards his lodgings at 221b Baker Street in Newlands.

When we got there, Souness was sitting in front of the fire, moustache twitching with agitation.  “Ho ho!  What have we here, Spiers, eh?” chortled Findlay.  “Our good friend and agent, Mr Souness in a right old tizz, what?” and he laughed and threw his cape over an armchair.  “But what has our old chum in such a grump?  It couldn’t be boredom, could it?”
“It’s boredom” said Souness, getting up and kicking over a basket of firewood.
“Told you, Spiers.  Didn’t I tell you?” chuckled Findlay.
“Lawwell and Celtic have been having it their own way for so long now that they rarely have to intrigue” grumbled Souness.  “There are no more secret meetings, diabolical schemes, or underground lairs; so smug are they in Scottish footballs complete capitulation to them, they don’t even bother to make things interesting anymore.  This Legia situation?  Boring!  Nothing to do with Rangers or Scottish football save for the collective red neck they’re giving us all with their antics.  No, it’s just not good enough,” and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and slumped onto a chaise longue.  Findlay, walked over to Souness and put his hand on his shoulder, “There, there, my old friend.  Don’t worry, Spiers here is going to inject some excitement into life, aren’t you Spiers, old boy?”
“Me?” I spluttered, as Findlay turned towards me and pointed his cane at me until it was resting on the tip of my nose.  “Yes, you, Spiers.  Who else could be the saviour of Scottish football but you, Graham Spiers: champion of the oppressed, defender of the poor and downtrodden, self-proclaimed best journalist in all of the land?”

“I like the sound of that,” I said, changing my mind about attempting to escape out of the nearest window.  “Could I have that in writing please?”

“Oh, Don’t worry Spiers,” said Findlay.  “After this week your name will be a by-word for courage and integrity, what else could you say about the man who is to tell the truth about Lawwell?”

“Eh?  Hold on...” I began to protest but Souness had me in a head lock and before I knew it I was in Findlay’s carriage thundering towards Hampden and a showdown that would change the face of Scottish football forever.

If You're Feeling Sinister

Tom Devine was choking on his port and spluttering as he tried to breath and laugh and drown in his favourite drink and all I had done was tell him I was worried that by writing Lawwell’s memoirs I might be in danger of losing my impartiality.  “Oh!  No more, Spiers, no more!  Oh my giddy aunt” he cried as he recovered and called for a barman to replenish his barrel.

We were in Stravaigin on Gibson Street which is one of the few places that hasn’t barred us thanks to Pat Nevin pestering the regulars with his two stories about Rangers; two stories that to be frank are almost driving me to throttle him with his headphones lead if he comes out with them one more time on Radio Scotland while I’m there, grinning and pretending for the producers that it’s the first time I’ve heard them and that it’s all true because, well because it paints Rangers in a bad light.

“By the gods,” exclaimed Devine now that his barrel was full again and he had composed himself.  “Ye don’t mean to tell me you think you’ve been anything but impartial all these years, eh?  Are you telling me you’ve been hammering Rangers for so long now that you believe it’s normal behaviour?  Let me tell you, me lad, it’s not.  Oh just because it’s the norm’ within the offices and studios of BBC Scotland which any dolt knows is culturally disinclined towards the Ibrox club doesn’t mean that it’s right...”
“But you do it!” I squealed at the unfairness of what he was saying.
“Of course I do, you purblind idiot, but I do it from a position of understanding – I know exactly what I’m doing and why.  You?  You just blunder along believing everything you say, or write, even if you’ve just made it up right there and then; I mean, what about that tommyrot you came out with a while back about Klinsmann’s a klansman?  You made it up then repeated it so much that you came to believe it yourself.  I mean, bloody hell, it takes a whole new level of stupidity to allow that to happen.  Oh Christ...” he paused and looked over my shoulder.  “It’s the pip-squeak.”
“Hello everybody,” cried out Pat Nevin, entering the pub.  “Have I ever told you the one about the Rangers scout who asked me my name?”

Later, having got no further with my quandary thanks to Pat turning up, Devine had quaffed three barrels to see him through the experience and was drunk as a boiled owl and by the time I decided to leave, was grabbing at the waitress’s tits and throwing peanuts at the tables next to us.  I crossed the road and made my way through Kelvingrove park meaning to go to Finnieston to admire the beards when from the bushes I heard a lowing sound, a sad mournful noise that suggested some poor creature needs help; thinking the experience could be a potentially good tweet, I crept over and parted the leaves and peered in.  There in the clearing were a group of oddly dressed children and they were gathered around a friend who had his leg caught in a bear trap.  “Can I help?” I called out and as one they turned to me with fear in their faces until their leader shouted, “Belle & Sebastian, unite!” and they pulled from their satchels various musical instruments and struck up a sad but pretty song which kept me at bay.  “I mean you no harm,” I said and the leader approached me, sniffing my jacket (which he immediately regretted) before retreating back to the safety of his group.  “Friend,” he said and they all whimpered and gazed at their shoes.

They were Belle & Sebastian: Guardians of the Park and one of them had been caught in a bear trap laid by their enemies and they were all here to save him before the Housetroopers arrived with their guns to teach them a lesson about drinking in public.  I learned this from Murdoch, the leader who impressed upon me the importance of them saving their pal and getting out of the park before the sun goes down.  Of course I sympathised and told them I’d help.  “Whizzer and Chips!” shouted Murdoch happily and the rest of them joined in: “Beano!” shouted Geddes; “Shiver and Shake!” squeaked Sarah Martin; and “Billy Bunter!” roared Stevie Jackson.  They were a rum bunch but I liked them and helped them pull the metal teeth from Bobby Kildea’s leg and we were just about to leave the shelter of the bushes when Murdoch lifted his nose to the sky and motioned for us to be quiet.  “Housetroopers!” he whispered loudly and he was right, I looked out and there were the police creeping about the trees, machine guns raised, the thin red light of their laser-sights moving from one group of people to another as they sat in the sunshine.  Suddenly there was a burst of gunfire and one gathering of students erupted in a mist of blood and flesh and when the firing had stopped, all that was left of them was bits of gore and the bottles of wine they’d been drinking from.  “Bloody hell!”  I cried.  “What was that for?”

“That was for drinking in the park, my new friend.  House doesn’t like it so he sends these men here to bully us and remind us of our place and aye, sometimes kill us if we’re caught with any bevvy.”  Lawwell was right, it is a new world now and not one that I like.  Shoving people around is alright in my book but only if it’s football fans and when I say football fans, I mean Rangers fans; this is why I supported the Offensive Behaviour at Football Act although that one came back to bite us all in the arse after it turned out Celtic fans were targeted as well as Rangers.

“Look, an escape route,” rasped Murdoch, pointing to a clear path to the bridge and before I knew what was happening, we were all scampering towards Kelvin Way until a couple of police jumped out of the pond and levelled their guns at us.  “Belle & Sebastian, unite!” shouted Murdoch and they all whipped out their instruments and they only bloody set up a free gig right there at the edge of the park!  Fans appeared from nowhere and surrounded them and such a crowd gathered that it stopped the police from getting anywhere near us.  “Clear a path, citizens or we’ll fire” came the shout from one hi-viz monster but the fans wouldn’t shift, hypnotised by the cute refrain of I Fought in a War; then still surrounded by fans, they shuffled towards the bridge and out of the park and into a waiting transit van which drove them off into the art gallery and as they disappeared into the sunset I could hear Murdoch shout, “Whizzer and Chips, we did it!” then a loud cheer from the rest of them.

The crowd soon cleared and the police vented their frustration by arresting a few kids for looking different and then they sprayed the tree lines with bullets.  “Boxes to tick, targets to be met,” they chanted as they marched off towards Charing Cross.

Lawwell’s new world is a frightening place but if there’s one thing you can be sure of when things are turning horrible and nasty, Celtic will be well shielded from it all so I considered this and decided that I would take him up on his offer of writing his memoirs for the year.  After all, it would mean unprecedented access to not only Lawwell and Celtic but to the SFA which he runs now and every newspaper in Scotland over which he rules with an iron horse whip and it would mean I won’t have to slink around hiding in closets or under tables anymore to get my exclusives.  Buoyed by the relief of having made a decision I decided to loaf back to Stravaigin and see if Devine was still there but when I got there I found him rolling around the ground outside, crying murder.  He’d been grabbed by some frightful spectre from your worst nightmare and she was clawing at his neck and biting his face.  “For gawd’s sake Spiers,” roared Devine.  “Get Haggerty off me!  Damned slattern doesn’t know when she’s been chucked!”