Brigadoon Rover Chapter XV

(Alex Docherty remains missing as Simon Weisanthal, veteran Nazi stalker and left back, attempts to free him from the psychopathic clutches of Fab Frankie McAvennie. A routine league game against Inverness Caley has turned into a nightmare as Yasser Arafat threatens a suicide bomb attack which will destroy Jack McConnell. Meanwhile Kurt Hitler, at the bidding of evil spook Richard Littlejohn, has set fire to Rover's unique 100% Hemp pitch. I'll remember the rest of the plotlines as I go on. Now.....READ ON!!!)


Thick acrid smoke billowed across the pitch and into the directors box where Jack McConnell stood in the deadly embrace of Yasser Arafat. "I demand the Zionist dogs throw themselves into the sea or the parish council leader gets it!!!" The Palestinian militant paused, thick skunk smoke enveloping him. "On the other hand we could just, you know, really talk about stuff. Who needs war? We could just really chill. Maybe listen to some music. What do you say Ariel?" Ariel Sharon, hated nemesis of Arafat nodded, his pupils hugely dilated. "Sounds good to me Yas" He agreed "Have you heard my new chill-out compilation?"

"Hey everyone" Les Rowbotham wandered over, giggling to himself "What's the point of fighting each other? Who needs rules? Lets all just be with each other. The games a draw!!!" He whistled repeatedly, throwing his arms in the air in a rhythmic manner. In moments the crowd, players and officials were a single mass entity with only one goal. Love! It was beautiful. "Tune in, turn on, drop out" Jim Farry said, turning to Ernie Walker. "I hear you daddio" said the torn faced old pr1ck, winding a bandana round his head. "Has anyone got any crisps" shouted a man in the crowd: "or a Mars bar?" The wild scene went on into the night.

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"Sensation at the Shyboy Excelsior!" Alistair Alexander commentated "We are all the single vibrating consciousness of the universe expanding in an endless moment of time. And now Richard with the other scores"

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"Curses!" Littlejohn materialised at Hitler's shoulder "This wasn't meant to happen. Cannabis is a gateway drug! Everyone of these vermin should be dead in the gutter by now; shooting black skag into their groins! Instead, look at them!!" He turned to Hitler who had stripped to the waist and was hugging Les Rowbotham whilst stroking his bald head. "You'd better get it right next time Hitler" spat Littlejohn "or Hitler Senior could be watching "The Night A Team Died" for the rest of time. Understand????!!!" With that he vanished.

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A shot rang out in the stinking room. A body fell to the floor. In the darkness Simon Weisanthal tried to adjust his eyes after the flash of the pistol. "Alex!" He cried "Alex? Are you alright?" McAvennie suddenly reared up out of the blackness! "See you! You're claimed!" The mulleted whoremaster staggered towards him, a huge blade in his hand, blood dripping from a wound in his chest. Suddenly a further shot rang out as Weisanthal awaited the fatal caress of the knife. McAvennie stopped, a look of puzzlement on his face, and collapsed to the ground. Dead. "Oy vey!" shouted Weisanthal: "Phil McCavity!!! - Wullie McScm!! You've saved my life."

"Actually Big Yin," began ned midfielder Wullie McScm: "Ah wis burglin the hoose when ah heard a noise. Ye were pure lucky by the way" Phil McCavity couldn't think of an innuendo. Alex Docherty climbed out of the pit: "Okay everyone. Lets get back to the Excelsior. The draw for the third round of the CIS cup is tonight"

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"And number 23", said Jack McGinn
, "Brigadoon Rovers" said Derek Johnstone. "Will -ohhh - play - ahhh - number - ya beezer - 15." McGinn turned to blow on his fingers and in a stage whisper was heard to ask: "Who the feck was in charge of the draw? That one was too blo*dy hot this year!" Johnstone tried to ignore that and announced the opposition for Brigadoon: "Glasgow Celtic" said the rotund ex- Ranger.

A cheer went round the dressing room where the assembled Brigadoon team were watching the draw. "Great draw lads," said tough uncompromising boss Alex Docherty: "I can't wait to pit my wits against Martin O'Neil". His views were echoed among his players. "Me heap excited at playing heap great players. Larsonn, Sutton, Hartson. Me no give two fecks about Jackie McNamara though," said Linwood born half breed Hawkeye The Noo. William Orange looked disgusted: "Ahm no huvin they filthy taigs comin in here wae their disgustin bigotry and yobbish behaviour. God Save The Prince Of Orange!" He said, squatting to sh1te in the team bath.

"Okay everyone," Docherty said: "We need to focus on the game at the weekend first. Not all referees are stoned out of their minds and we can't expect the chairman to buy every club we play. Except Motherwell. It's Ayr United at Somerset on Saturday and we'll need to be at our very best." The team collapsed in hysterical laughter. "But seriously though lads," said the no-nonsense gaffer: "It'll be a feckin skoosh"

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Finegan Swake lurked in the darkness outside of Docherty's house. "I can't take it anymore," the sensitive pseudo intellectual said to himself : "I'm going to tell my father that I love his daughter. And if he won't let us be together I'll kill him! And me! And Adidas!!"

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Will Finegan Swake destroy the much targeted Brigadoon boss? Will the Ayr game be a slaughter, a tanking or a humping? Will Eurosun write about it on the message board? Will I be accused of being a mini-Hun/Tim?

Look out for the next installment of ....Brigadoon Rovers!!!!

Editorial Team

Ger Harley (ger@scottishfitba.net)
Vanderhogg (vanderhogg@scottishfitba.net)

Scottish-Fitba.Net

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