Oh dear readers of proud Britannia, my head throbs violently today, like the violent rule of the Vatican of Rome!
As last night I attended a special exclusive club, where I imbibed several gallons of Anglo Saxon real ale, and other fluids besides, with a passion.
A PASSION THAT ALLY MCCOIST WILL INSTILL IN HIS PLAYERS NEXT SEASON!
For the new Rangers boss needs to fire up his men, or invite me to do it for him.
No doubt over at Parkhead, Neil Lennon, the manager of Celtic, will urge his men to attend mass before every game played at their home ground.
A MASS CONDUCTED BY POPE BENEDICT HIMSELF AND SEVERAL NUNS!
But it is matters at Ibrox that populate my thoughts, in my head, which was still thumping like my leg, against my desk, as I watch my DVD of Rangers greatest communal baths.
In fact, a letter arrived to me today, through my letterbox, in an envelope, with my name on it.
It was an invite to all press conferences at the home of Rangers next season, cunningly disguised by the new owner as freshly laid animal faeces, which dripped onto my socks making them reminiscent of Walter Smith’s finest brogues.
What an honour, and one which led me to my drinks cabinet once more, where I salvaged the last of my paint thinner and supped it heartily.
BUT THIS LED TO HUNGER!
I decided to walk into the dear Green place for some traditional British fare, the humble fish supper.
Walking towards me was a man and woman carrying what looked like suppers of fish, but I could not be certain, of which fruit of the seas they had bought.
I doffed my cap and asked the female whether the aroma coming from her was haddock or cod, as the smell was making my mouth water.
As I recovered in hospital with multiple fractures, I cursed the very name of Odious Creep.