Walter Walter lead me to the Altar

A musical mystery play inspired by last Sunday’s goings on at Glasgow’s answer to the ninth level of Hell

 

 

A STUDY IN ANGER OR NAKED HUN 2½

 

Subtitled

 

“My name is Walter and I’m an Angry Man….Grrrrrr”!!!


Time : Circa 16.35 hours, Sunday 10th March 2008.

 

Location : Tunnel and Technical areas at The Murray Circus’ aka The Big Tip!

 

Sir David ‘lie me to the moon’ Murray, stared out from the protective shade of the tunnel as his masterplan began to fray at the edges, combust from the inside and generally fragment into a thousand discarded dog-turds.

 

The man he had brought in to save the netherworld he had created had delayed too long in returning to the safety of the darkened stand and the daylight had begun to twist his mind back towards its natural state of irrational lunancy.

 

Murray watched helplessly as the girning took over, the threatening fingers pointed, and the vile language of his manager landed on everyone within earshot, armslength and spitting distance.

 

This had to stop now!

 

The sneering and condescending façade of carefree victory must be maintained and the padlocks on the chains of media subserviance had to be firmly secured, otherwise all was lost and his £700 billion pound plan for his huntastic citadel would end up as no more than a ready-made replacement for Carstairs!

 

Walter just had to go on an anger management course!

 

But not just any anger management course!

 

It had to be the special Murray International Lodge Anger management clinic, specially created for his employees; and regularly scheduled and run from the first floor of Leverndale Block B, the door of which was subtly labelled ‘ANGER MANAGEMENT’.

 

(Strangely some delinquent had defiled it with a scrawl that now read ‘rANGERs misMANAGEMENT’!!)

 

Off course the company running the clinic was of course another of Dave the Dealer’s wee side ventures which siphoned off whatever smidgeon of solvency remained at Ibrox. Winalot /Winalot I think he called it!!

 

Fortunately we had a mole within this unit and on the night of the proceedings in question he was strategically within earshot of that meeting of ‘Irascible Rangers Anonymous’ (IRA).

 

What follows is the explosive and exclusive expose all verifiable from contemporaneous notes, recordings and infra-red photos taken at the time!

 

Be prepared to be shocked!

 

 

 

Location – The IRA at Leverndale

 

Dateline- Monday 10th March 2008

 

Please note that due to the volatile nature of the various participants’ tempers, each meeting is conducted as a soothing tuneful song and dance variety act to a standard agenda as follows

 

  1. Opening welcome/introduction by the grandmaster,
  2. Confessional plea by the penitent,
  3. Interlude while the main committee consider a plan
  4. Conclusion.
  5. Choral departure

 

All of what follows was witnessed and administered by the assembled permanently raging members of the ‘Honourable Uncontrollable Nature Society’ – (HUNS), as they considered the problem faced by the new patient as he revealed his innermost ‘Undignified Despotic Angst’ (UDA)!

 

(It is well known that where you find evidence of UDA, it is probable that HUNS will not be far behind!)

 

Transcription of recordings.

 

The atmosphere is hushed, heavy and stinking of some mind altering narcotics!

 

An air of expectancy hangs like a particularly pungent Guinness fart which to anyone a bit more astute than the assembled intelligentsia would have suggested that one among their motley bunch of misanthropes was not all he appeared to be.

 

As the hand ticks slowly round the ‘coronation clock’ and before the door opens slowly to allow the new desperate sufferer of permarage entrance to the room, the pungent fug is disturbed by the gentle regular beat of the lilting Lambeg and the soothing mellifluousness of the flute.

 

The similarity between the sounds, beat and smells is somehow reminiscent of descriptions of firing squads and guillotine parties!

 

The grandmaster calls the assembled coven to order, and the heated discussion on that afternoon’s controversial outcome of ‘Raven’ subsides to a murmur!

 

Grandmaster: (to the tune of  ‘We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside’ with apologies to Wales!)

 

“Accept a welcome frae me Ludgers,

 Ah’m sae proud tae see youse here,

We’ve got business tae attend tae,

 fur the season’s end is near,

The pressure cooker’s boilin’ o’er,

When we need it jist tae simmer,

And so a new man joins our group the day,

He’s an auld yin wae a zimmer”

 

The attendees (anger patients): (to the tune of ‘Chorus of The Laughing Policeman)

 

(at this stage the attendees all get up from their chairs, and march around the room chanting in disharmony)

 

“March, March, March March, March March, March like the hare’s o’ March were mad

March, march, march, march, march, march, march we’re no jist mad we’re bad,

March, march, march, march, march, march, march,  we’re ragin all our life,

Like Willie Waddell always said, …‘it’s guid tae beat yer wife.”

 

(The cacophony ceases, they all sit down again and stare in face-contorted awe at the cloven footed grandmaster).

 

Grandmaster: (Tune … ‘Welcome in the….’)

 

“Now tae introduce tae all of you

Our new freend wae his unleashed ire,

A man wae problems blackening his soul,

 ah fear his future’s dire,

Sae pit yer haunds thegither for him noo,

an’ shout ‘hello hello’

Roll up yer trouser leg an stomp,

fur someone youse all know”

 

The attendees (angry patients):

 

(Staying in their chairs this time,, they roll up their trouser leg as instructed and stamp their right foot repeatedly on the trembling wooden flooring).

 

“Rage rage rage rage,rage, rage, rage, anger’s no’ enough,

Rage rage rage rage,rage, rage, rage, is better than a huff,

Rage rage rage rage,rage, rage, rage, anschluss, achtung, seigheil!

Nae wan messes wae the bears’ supremacistic bile!”

 

(Silence descends on the assembly as all heads turn and stare at the huge oaken door as it’s unoiled hinges begin to creak and dangerous ‘natural light’ enters the dungeon of the dammed. A cloaked figure is briefly silhouetted in the brightness of the doorway, but a zombie-like rush of troglodytes shuts the door again returning the room to its stygian but unthreatening gloom.

 

The newcomer sheds his protective cloak of goatskin and as the grandmaster lessens the gloom by throwing some more freshly squeezed blackhead oil on the glowing embers of discarded centaur and unicorn foetuses, the freshman is revealed in all his glory as he shows his thong to the throng!.

 

The assembled ‘mass’ (although that word may not be appropriate) draw in their collective breath. This was clearly not who they were expecting! One of them get’s to his feet/paws/hooves (delete as appropriate) and demands of the grandmaster. (to the tune of Follow, Follow….with no apologies)

 

Big man, big man, whose this f****n stranger

It’s someone’s fault,

cos he’s not Walt,

it’s a friggin con,

 

Bigman,Bigot, he’s mair like Stewart Grainger

Except he’s jist a short erse,

 wae nae trousers on!

 

It’s nuthin like…. oor man Sir Walter,

not a bit…… not a bit,

Him standin there ….has got me troubled

He looks a tit, ……an’ a two bob bit!

On Thusday night when we play Bremen,

he’ll jist no do ….an’ we’ll get done,

He looks mair like, yon prat Frank Drebin,

less naked gun   and  mair Naked Hun!

 

(the grandmaster calms proceedings by confirming that it is indeed a bowed but not quite broken Lord Walter Smith of Waltersmithdom (LWSOW) and it is the pressure that has made him look so much smaller, and the cold that does indeed give him the appearance of Naked Hun 2½ – to the tune of . ‘hell-o hell-o’…with even less apologies)

 

Below, below, jist cos his hair is white,

Below, below, it’s clear that ye know shite,

His DNA’s been proven, up the un-i-vers-ity,

It’s very nearly human, so we’re right!!

 

(The room settles down again and gives the penitent the floor to plead his case!)

 

 

The penitent’s confession (to the tune off… ‘Auld Lang Syne’  …apologies to yer man, but I don’t think he wrote the tune anyway)

 

“I’ve come tae let youse all tae know, ma wits end ah huv reached

Ma outward show of cool and calm, hus finally been breached

The SFA will string me up, ah’ll get a 10 gemme ban,

You see Ah’m Walter (Sir tae you), an ah’m an Angry Man!

 

‘Twas Sunday past agin the Hibs, on oor lord, Satan’s ground

Ah let ma sanguine mask slip doon, and wantin’ ah wis found!

That eejit ref forgot his place an’ sent wee Novo aff

And then that Mixu an’ his bench, they aw began tae laugh!

 

Ma nostrils’s flared jist like a starved blood-smellin-mad rotweiller,

An’ like a Great-White tae the kill or drugged up quarter miler,

Ah sprang like cobra, fang’s a-drip, like Buckie fur an alky,

With chib secreted in ma haun’, that Finnish git ah’d malky!!

 

But fate was no’ tae aid ma cause, cos frae aw sides they came,

The boys in blue, the man in black, blasphemin’ of ma name,

They called me ‘Smith’, or even ‘him’! Nae ‘sir’ not even ‘mister’

They grabbed ma shoulders, ah wis stuck like a constipated ‘twister’.

 

Ah struggled hard, ah pledge tae thee, ah screamed and scratched an’ spat,

Ah telt that Paatelainen, he’s a fenian luvvin rat,

Ah’d pit ma toe right up his erse, he’d land back in Helsinki,

But then ah felt a ‘semi’ urge….at 60…that’s quite kinky.

 

And so ma freends ah hud tae yield ma grund and face defeat,

Banished tae the stands, they sent me tae ma padded seat!

The problem is ma anger’s still fair ragin’ unrequited,

Ah fear unless a cure is found, our future will be blighted!

 

Yon Tims, despite the efforts o’ the refs, an’ SPL

Are hingin on like medjia men round Minty’s money well,

An if ah’m banned frae bench and track, o’ this there is nae doot,

The master plan that ah huv set, wee Strach will figure oot.

 

THE PLAN

 

Cos Fitba’ skills are not required, ability tae pass

Is no’ the way tae play the gemme, jist look we’ve got nae grass!

We start by sharpenin up our studs and hooking left and right,

A wee dive here, a dead leg there, the Hoops are pit tae flight!

 

A handshake made, a nod, a wink, a promised sly-backhander,

A word in Jingle Jangle’s ear fur some daily rectum slander,

A chicken sacrificed and drained, the blood drunk by masel,

Should raze the walls of Celtic Park and send their team tae hell!

 

So if ah’d only kept ma heid, the grail would soon be oors,

An’ Pat an’ Mick and Kev and Sean would feel Great Waldo’s poowers,

Alas I may have blown our plans, by losing it big time,

Our future now lies in yer hands; so cleanse me o’ this crime.

 

Oor cause is all that gives me hope, I’ve worked sae hard to see

The day when Tim and Taig are made tae grab their beads and flee,

But now I’ve jumped intae the fire from oot the frying pan,

You see Ah’m Walter (Sir tae you), an ah’m an Angry Man!

 

(The penitent pensioner, shoulders hushed in abject defeat, sits down in his seat and the sub-committee of the IRA leave the room to consider how to respond both to Lord Walter Smith of Waltersmithdom’s problem and also how to ensure that Glasgow’s answer to the Stern Gang,  maintain their historic supremacy in blinkered bigotry, intellectual myopia, and ‘do-it-yourself goat fiddling for even uglier huns who can’t attract a billy-goat never mind a fertile nanny!’)

 

The attendees (angry patients): (to the tune of ‘The Verse of the Laughing Policeman’)

 

(While the committee is out, the rest of the assembly march round and round the room, trouser leg up, hankies on their heads, everyone with a Fair-Isle tank top, shirts buttoned tae the collar, sleeves rolled above their elbows, and Hitler moustaches painted on with mascara, all carrying ‘genuine’ replica KKK wooden crosses, made by their maws, paws and a wide range of alternative parental probabilities.)

 

Anger is our business, fumin is our game

Ye can stuff yer silky fitba, cos Rangers is our name

Come visit us at Ibrox, an bring a pound or two

A fiver gets you entry intae Minty’s private loo!

 

Another fiver let’s ye pish, another ten, tae shite,

Then fifteen mair gets you a rag tae wipe ye clean and bright,

Tae wash yer hands is jist a pound, tae dry them, two pounds more

Nae wunder we’re aw ragin, that’s nearly twenty four!!!???

 

But jist before ye enter, tae keep the building clean,

Nae pepperami sweeties tae contaminate the scene,

Nae straws or penguin biscuits, wae green on their outside,

Cos after all we’re Rangers; that’s ‘Prejudice o’er Pride’!

 

(The distant sound of the ceremonial bell – suspiciously like the peal of ‘ last-orders at the bar’ – heralding the re-entry of the sub-committee, echoes in the room and the attendees all sit down again, removing their socks and shoes using their toes and other appendages just to ensure that the addition in their song was correct.

 

Finally satisfied that twenty four was indeed the right answer, they return their attention to the grandmaster who bangs his gavel on the Institutional Pig’s head. The pig snorts, farts and then goes back to sleep! The Grandmaster snorts, farts, rifts, refills his lungs and prepares to deliver their conclusions….)

 

The Grandmaster: (to the noise that is ‘Derry’s Walls’)

 

“We’ve made a few calls Walter, it seems yer luck is in

Cos we’ve been telt’ yer usual seat is up in the sin-bin,

The ref he knew that wis the case, he’d got the nod frae Murray,

He hud tae look right just and fair, jist like wee free McCurry!

 

The press they’re playin ball as weel, they’re stories haud nae fears,

Except for yon wan frae The Times, that little turncoat Spiers,

We’ve done a deal  wae Rupert ‘bear’, whose recognised his folly,

So Britney’s fur extended leave, he’s clearly aff his trolley!

 

The telly wullnae show the clip, they’ll say the film ran oot

But frae noo on ye’ll huv tae stop behaving the galoot

The SFA and Gordon S. huv got nae axe to grind

Fur they are fully stretched right noo protecting Smith’s behind!

 

A cannae speak fur Radio Clyde, but I’m sure they’ll tag along,

Cos efter aw wae Shug and Pete, they always sing oor song,

An’ Big Fat D will never grass, his standard’s far tae high,

Morton? Killie’ Naw no’ him he’ll stick wae Gregg’s hot pie!

 

So all in all it seems the storm has blown itself away,

Once mair the britherhood has come together on this day

Tae solve the need of one whose true and loyal to the crown,

Now win that league or you will find the Gullotine come down!

 

(The grandmaster raised the gavel tae bring proceedings to an end when Lord Walter Smith of Waltersmithdom interrupts  to once more take the floor! His whole demeanour had changed now and the previously crest-cracked and shattered figure was once again in command, control, and cognisant of the still heavy but historically honourable burden borne by his re-enervated shoulders)

 

The Penitent’s Conclusion: (To the tune of ‘Climb every Mountain’)

 

(LWSOW approaches the Institutional Pig, who watches warily through one eye as he has painful memories of one drunken orgy where he had been mistaken for a goat!

 

LWSOW looks around the room and feeling the colour return to all four of his cheeks and hair, he solemnly draws breath to bring the assembly to a close in a rousing  chorus of their favourite Anthem – Kick every Fenian! )

 

The words are on the tip of his tongue and as he leans forward to speak, his hand strays to the Institutional Pig’s squinty, spiral and stunted tail. For one brief nostalgic moment LWSOW fingers the oddly shaped tail suddenly recalling his own youthful languid onanistic days of self-discovery. The room waits with baited breath; the pig waits with gritted teeth and clenched buttocks; a shout from the grandmaster brings LWSOW back to the present as he guiltily and hastily removes his hand, instinctively wiping it on the tangerine table-cloth!)

 

Kick every Fenian, punch every Dan

Slap every Green –yin, cos’ you’re a Rangers Fan!

 

A fan that will sing….every song out of tune,

Every night of your life…..as…you… howl… at… the…moon!!

 

So…

 

Heid every Catholic, bash every Pape,

Mug every Paddy, not …..wan …..must …..escape!

 

(As they roll down their trouser legs and check that the sun has sunk behind the horizon, they troop out of the building two by two, just as their ancestors had entered the ark,  singing their lord satan’s favourite song as they weave their weary way for a night of blood-suction, virgin sacrifice, and goat impregnation!!)

 

ALL (to the tune of ‘Lord of the Dance’)

 

Huns…. Huns…, wherever you may be, I am the lord of the Huns said he,

An I’ll take your dosh whatever it may be, huns and bunce..parted they will be!

 

Huns in the evening, huns at night,

Huns in the daytime, though we avoid the light

We stay inside our coffins…. damp and dark

Deep within the bowels…. of Ibrox Park.

 

Huns Huns, come give me all yer cash, touch my magic chair and I’ll cure that rash,

Ye’ll end up skint,  but I don’t give a toss,

 cos your all thick and …I’m …the …boss!

 

(The room returns to the sullen silence of the grave, broken only by the shallow nervous breathing of the Institutional Pig lying uncomfortably but with great relief on the ceremonial altar and the recently stained tangerine table-cloth.

 

Allowing a few minutes to ensure the coast is clear and to let his buttocks unclench gradually, he then swings his trotters off the bench and raises himself erect on his hind legs. The disguise that was the head, body, legs and trotters of the erstwhile swine, all fall away to reveal to no-one but the scurrying rats and darting cockroaches, the noble figure of our deep-deep-undercover double agent, now standing erect, tape-recorder, and notebook in hand, and pen strategically placed in the top outside pocket of his trademark………Corduroy Jacket!

 

Spiersey tenderly rubs his rear-end and for a brief moment considers whether the sacrifices he has made have indeed all been worth it. He inspires deeply, sits down on a nearby chair and murmurs to himself that this evil is so great that no sewer of depravity could ever stop him eradicating the abomination that is all things hunnish.)

 

He quickly checks the incontrovertible evidence of collusion, corruption, and institutional bigotry that still riddles RFC, the football authorities, and the medjia.

 

Yep the recording is ok, the notes are legible, the pictures secure!.

 

His job is now done.

 

40 years for God’s sake pretending to be one of them and the only relief was disguising himself as a slightly more advanced but also more vulnerable ‘pinky and perky’ to their big bad wolf!

 

He could forgive a lot of things but even now in his moment of triumph a disgusted shiver runs up and down his spine and he knows that he will NEVER  FORGET and even less forgive that night when Big D had mistaken him for a goat!

 

And so with a poignancy to his rueful and brief smile, he  softly breaks into a song of rebellion, hope and ambition; one that has for so many years been part of his soul but one that till now he could only experience in mime!!)

 

GS (To the tune off …HAIL HAIL..)

 

Fail Fail, the huns have failed,

McCoist, McDowall, Smith,

their plan was just a myth,

Fail Fail, the huns have failed,

They’ll all be out of work quite soon.

 

For it’s a grand old day I’ve prayed for, and at last I feel I’m free

The bi…gots will be silenced, oh.. God… how …they …hate …me…(.they’re erseholes)!

As for the tabloid comics’ crap, a fiver a page in Minty’s loo,

Well I only know

Where their journos better show

If they want tae sign on at the broo!!

 

(As a happy Graham Spiers stands up a remarkable series of events unfold; the door swings open allowing God’s natural light to enter the room, clearing it of all traces of the vile goings on and the equally vile creatures that had previously inhabited it.

 

The walls dissolve in the sunshine and springtime comes to the land. Trees and flowers suddenly bloom, birds sing, lambs gambol, rabbits hop and Spiersey sets off on his journey of fate to reveal to the world the true nature of the beast in Edmiston Drive.

 

The lion lies with the lamb, the fawns splash in the pools with flirty crocodiles but as they watch Graham disappearing over the horizon, each one raises a magical green and white favour above their heads, and break into a resounding chorus of You’ll Never Walk Alone…And for that song there are no alternative words! )

 

Tiocfaidh ar la

 

Estadio

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