Inter-cranial pressure has resulted in his most Demonic Lordship, Sir Moonbeams, having to lie-low for a while. Meanwhile, his trusty lieutenant Martian Vain has been put in charge of business whilst his Greatness recovers.
As Vain sits with his feet across the plush oak table, a table gruesomely adorned with the skin of traitors, he contemplates how he will fill the great mans shoes. Outside his office sit a press-pack, their emotions displaying both nerves and excitement as they await the opportunity to quiz the tanned secondee about the whereabouts of the Chairman of Chairmen.
This exchange took place at the start of the summer, before Rangers had signed any players.
A creaky door opens as Vain welcomes his guests into the office, they stumble in with apprehension. In the private office of Sir Moonbeams is the aforementioned table, a picture of her Majesty, Elizabeth Windsor, dominates the wall-space behind the massive leather chair in which Vain seats himself. On the wall opposite, a massive digital TV plays a rolling montage of Souness’ greatest leg breaks and next to the great desk a furnace burns brightly; the squeals of the damned are drowned out by some jaunty flute music.
“Ok; you have come to ask questions – shoot, but be careful, you have one question each,” exclaimed Vain confidently, intent of pressing home his position in charge here.
“Where’s the buffet?” asked Johnstone Pies immediately to the disdain of the others. Gordan Widdle tutted loudest.
“Ignore him, temporary boss” said the self-proclaimed
Vain shuffled some papers; he sighed. “Contrary to the reports coming from the unseen Fenian Hand, He is currently out in the private jet seeking to sign the world’s greatest players for our Great Club.”
Young Chick jumped in like an excited schoolboy needing a pee, “who is he hunting? Pray tell my perfectly bronzed superior.”
“I am glad you asked baldy. The players in our sights are good enough to make the signing of Kirk Broadfoot fall from first to fourth in the list of great transfer days in our history. Indeed, it is possible that these targets will eclipse the wonderful acquisition of Dave McPherson all those years back. Can you guess?”
“Ronaldhino?” shouted an excited Derren Broadsword.
“Me, me, me! I think it could be Cristiano Ronaldo. Is it?” asked an excitable Scoop Guidi, his hands in the air as he jumped on the spot.
“Naw. Don’t be daft” said Jack Keithson scornfully before continuing, “Surely his most gracious God of all things Football will be in for Kaka. Am I correct?”
Iain Queen, meanwhile, had peed in his pants with excitement. He took this to be a sign, “Is it Messi?” he asked with puppy-dog eyes aimed at the perma-tanned and interim incumbent of the Chair of Men.
Vain once again shuffled his papers. He looked at the gathered journalists with creeping disparagement. A sigh excited his latte-hued lips. “You have all wasted your precious questions. All bar one of you.”
In all the excitement, the Loyal journalists had failed to notice a last man sneak in. He was wearing a fedora, a pair of comedy glasses and a red beard so false it looked like Princess Di’s tears on Panorama. As he stripped off his cunning disguise the howls of derision and utter contempt flew around the room. Even his Lordship’s Persian cat hissed at him.
“Spears!” exclaimed the gathered media men in unison.
“Yes. It is I and I have but one question to ask the melanoma seeking lapdog there,” he said, pointing at a sneering Vain. “And here it is. You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
Vain laughed heartily and at length. “Yes, oh yes. And you may think you have spoiled things, you interfering Catholic apologist, but you have failed. They can no longer ask me another question as per the rules set in Virginal blood in the Book of Loyalty.”
Vain was about to the set the hounds on Spears but he was gone in a puff of smoke. He turned the remaining journos; “Take this, spin it and get the fans salivating. This summer we will sign Kyle Lafferty, some Algerian bloke that can’t get a game in the Championship and Kenny Miller.”
The journalists thanked Vain, even though they knew they had been stitched up. They now had to spin the worst possible news to the semi-literate hordes who buy their output. Last out was Iain Queen, he stopped to lick the back of Vain’s hand and was so distracted by how the meeting had gone to notice the taste of chocolate.
After the plebs had left the room, Sir Moonbeams quickly changed out of his Martian Vain disguise, his gormless alter-ego, and chuckled aloud – “I wonder why no-one ever mentions why they never see Vain and I together?” Cue Evil laugh.
