John Greig was strategically placed to make him look clever; right at the back where his neighbour was a thick plank of wood. Auld Dignity looked his usual, happy self, while down at the front skulked Malcolm Murray; remember him? Murray was keeping right out of the way; for some reason he doesn't like appearing on camera anymore. Still, he had no need to worry; there was no way he was going to be the drunkest one there. A special guest had been brought in; one David Leggat! Everybody's favourite pish-stained alky looked smug as he sat, surrounded by 'Real Raynjurz Men'.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle at one point in the match when one of the usual Bisto punts up the pitch went astray. The player concerned was blinded by the floodlights reflecting off all the baldy nappers in the directors' box. Anyway, the ball landed in amongst the esteemed crowd of directors and hangers-on. John Greig acted instinctively and before he could be subdued he had managed to break three people's legs, two seats and Leggat's pelvis. Leggat was so pished, however, that he didn't feel a thing. Even when leaving he didn't notice since he normally can't walk in a straight line anyway. It was only when he tried to crawl under that big wheelie-bin outside Asda that he calls home that he discovered his injury.
Notable by his absence was Sooperally. He was invited but he'd heard that there was going to be a touch of frost last night and had to make sure his tatties were properly covered; you can never be too careful! Still, I'm sure one of his many pals in the directors' box let him know how the match went. Not that the game was anything to write home about. Despite all the jubilation over 'Real Raynjurz Men' being in charge at Ibrox, the fact remains that the team is shite. All the blazers and brown brogues in the world can't fix that. In fact, the only one that has the money to fix things is, whisper it, Ashley! I wonder how long it'll take for the board to go crawling to him.
Meanwhile, a call has gone out for volunteers to get Ibrox Stadium back up to scratch. Most of The Peeppul, in my experience, are more skilled in the arts of destruction rather than construction so I don't know how that's going to work out. A couple of dozen layabouts, off their heads on Buckie and 'blaw' are hardly going to improve the place, are they? And then there's the problem of the asbestos; how do you stop the denizens of Govan turning up and smoking the stuff? Still, there's a bigger health-and-safety issue than the asbestos to contend with now: the big puddle of toxic pish left behind by Leggat! It's already started to eat through the floor of the directors' box.
I noticed a few folk on Twitter pointing me in the direction of Chris Graham's account, where, no doubt, he was bragging to all and sundry about his appointment to the board. I followed the link to his page and received a pleasant surprise. I'm blocked from viewing his tweets or tweeting him. Considering I've never been in touch with him or been on his page before then he's obviously become aware of me through other means. Maybe he reads this blog! Perhaps I've even made it onto Ze List. Fame at last!
While making insane appointments like Listy Graham, the new board has also busied itself by sending Sandy Easdale to the bus stop. I wonder how he's going to take that. I also wonder how Mike Ashley is going to take it. In all the euphoria, they're getting a bit carried away. They'd better make sure they can stump up the readies when Ashley asks for them before they start acting smart!
THE IBROX DIRECTORS' BOX