There’s been a murrrderrr..

The television in The Rangers’ supporting household was turned low, the curtains were shut and the cat had been told to find another home.

And then…..3-3….TV-Full blast, KITTY KAT for every stray mog, windows thrown open and tuneless dirges competing with commentators for who could make the most prehistoric and pointless noise.

 Penalties….Christie misses……Effin Pandemonium!…Laps of honour up and down the communal closes, Go Compare impersonations from rooftops and long dead chimney stacks, aftershave splashed on and shared as a he and she are on promises for a lingering night of 30 seconds passion behind the bins. The cats look worried……And then…….

……… a sullen, dread filled silence as Ajer approaches the ball with that confidence that made you smile in anticipation of the certainty of going feckin doolally a split second and a split net later ….followed by the suddenly discovered ability to fly around the living room, open the windows, zoom and soar like a inquisitive sparrow and unload over Hutchy Court’s Homage to Hell what every sparrow in Glasgow does regularly over Ibrox.

 From every corner of the earth as far as Tradeston in the West and The Oatlands in the East, pigeons, squirrels, foxes, dugs and cats gathered in a moment of natural harmony around doors windows, trees and eves singing in harmony a full performance of the Missa Solemnis with an encore of “If I could Turn Back Time”…..followed by the full back catalogue of every known Celtic Album.

And in that other household, that other world, that hadean hole in humanity, the barneys began, the rows raged, spits were spat, even spats were spat and Alexa packed her bags and left not knowing what the feck they were talking about.

 And then …….A SCREAM and the sound of 1,690 stabbing thrusts of a shite stained Lambeg drumstick. Another SCREAM….a soulless WHIMPER…..a final GASP….then….

…..Silence……

 and the unmistakeable sounds (unmistakeable that is to those not unaccustomed to such nefarious noises) of a still warm body being washed of the sticky bloodstains, the bath being drained and the obvious pretence of holding a conversation with the now departed missus being shouted to try and deflect us from the sure and certain knowledge that he had stiffed her.

 But then a sudden dawning question faced by all panic stricken perps…….How would he get rid of the body?

 There was only one place….one certain stash that the combined might of Poirot, Marple, Holmes, Lund, Noren and the eagle eyed forensic forces from Cumberland Street Polis station would never find…..and still she remains hidden, the mystery of her disappearance never to be solved……

 WHY DIDN’T THEY ASK ME?…..

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