The Scene: a threadbare office in Kerrydale Street. A stained desk dominates one end of the room, behind the desk hangs a huge portrait of a grinning Tony Blair flanked by smaller frames in which the faces of Joesph Stalin and George S Patton glare all, all grime and foreboding. The pictures are the only recent items in the room, everything else appears to have been pulled from a skip positioned in the middle of a Brazilian shanty town. Sunlight filters through windows coated with layers of grim to reveal a bald male of advanced years reading Guns & Ammo.

Suddenly the door bursts open and a distressed individual clad in expensive Saville Row threads scampers into the room.

Peter Lawwell (for it is he): Have you seen this (Waves piece of paper in the air)? Christ, if we didn't have enough to worry about now the bloody STUC and some pro-Palestinian groups are calling for protests at Wednesday's game!

John Reid (giving a dismissive gesture): No problem Peter, I'll just declare that a terrorist attack is imminent. A few tanks at Glasgow Airport, some suitable scaremongering headlines in helpful rags like the Record and it'll be nipped in the bud. Worked a treat last time.

PL: Yes well, would that be the time over 1m ignored the obviously bollocks terror alert and marched through London? Call me Mr Picky but wouldn't you say that ploy was less than successful?

JR: Considering everything else we did in office I think it ranks as a success, it's a relative thing.

PL: So what the hell we are going to do? A whole stadium of Palestinian flags isn't going to go down well with your bloody invited guest is it? What the hell possessed you to invite the representative of a pariah regime that flouts international law, destroys civil liberties, ignores human rights and wages unjust wars of aggression!

JR (pouting): Well we have share interests...er.. stamp collecting. Look, don't worry about it nothing is going to happen, trust me on this.

PL (looking unconvinced): Oh, and just what makes you so confident about that?

JR (oozing smug): Simple, most of the fans are so enraged over our behaviour that they'll be too busy protesting about that to bother about the bloody Israelis.

PL: Well far be it from me to piddle on your parade but I'd rather not leave it to chance, we have to do something more...or even less.. depending on what's annoying them.

JR (scratching head): You're right, better make sure of this. Get Tony to play Robson on the right, get Caldwell into midfield, play McDonald up front on his own and have McManus and Loovens pump high balls to him all night. They'll be bloody frothing at the mouth when they catch that sight of that little ensemble.

PL (gawping): Hey, how the hell did you know Tony's game plan?

And there we must leave it, as the sound of hilarious laughter echoes through the drafty confines of Celtic Park, while under-paid employees battle with packs of feral dogs for the leftovers from the last board meeting buffet. Meanwhile the sound of tanks can be heard grinding their way to Glasgow Airport....