"To me. To me. To me. On the wing! Oh fer fecks sake" Mickey Finn turned and trudged back to the half way line, the ball nestling in the back of the Skins net. " Why the feck did Oi have to be skins. Me hives are feckin stingin" On the bench Docherty turned to stereotypically
homosexual physio Phil McCavity. Docherty sighed: "Whatever he once had he's lost it". McGavity nodded. "But what a magic @rse!" the groin injury fixated physio replied "I'd have my magic sponge on there in a minute. I'd take down his number any day. He could score with me anytime. He could dribble all over the box and shoot at the last minute. He could go in hard and come out covered in glory. He could explode in the area and milk it for all it's worth. I'd like to suck his...." Docherty glared at McCavity who was lost in his own imagined world. "Quiet Phil!" commanded Docherty, "If I wanted a one dimensional caricature I'd watch Graeme Norton"
On the pitch Mickey Finn was flagging. "If only oi could have a feckin drink!" he thought to himself "wait a minte what's dis?" A bottle was wedged in the turf near the centre circle. Finn knelt and pulled it out. Peering at the bottle, Finn said: "It seems to be have some sort of writing on it -- "Sim - Sim Serabim" or something --- Oi'll give it a clean" A blinding flash knocked the midget alcoholic on his back. A huge figure stood above him dressed in a turban and loin cloth. Finn gasped: "Alan McInally!! I thought you were on loan at Preston North End?!" The figure bowed and said: "I know not of this McInally of whom you speak." The apparition rumbled, "For eons I have been imprisoned without hope of release. A bit like TC Campbell. I grant you three wishes, mortal, in return for releasing me." Finn looked at the behemoth in the sky before him, shook his head in a comical manner and tossed the bottle aside. Pausing to think for a second, Finn started: "Well, forst Oi'd like to be the greatest footballer in the world" Suddenly Finn felt strong and fit again. "Secondly, Oi'd like every burd in the wurld to fancy me again" Aggie Fitzsimmons, Rover's new tea lady, began to explore his member. "And turdly, I'd like all of the Human race to live together in harmony and dat" A thin lipped woman approached Finn, her leg hair glinting in the sun.
The woman was dressed in a severe black suit, just a tad too small for her, She stood, legs akimbo, in front of Finn and said: "Although I fancy you rotten and everything I hate men and all they stand for. My name is Rhona Bitch. I'm the co-ordinator of Nil By Wrist - the radical anti masturbation organisation." The moustachioed self-strummer went on: "We are the main sponsors of "Rovers Against That Sort Of Thing". An attempt to destroy the cancer of sectarianism. Are you with us?"
Docherty looked up. "What the feck has happened to Mickey Fin?" He gasped. Mickey was everywhere. Each ball that came to him seemed to end up in the net. Every pass was perfect. Every shot swerved in an impossible way on it's way to the net. "I think Mickey Finn may just be the greatest footballer in the world!" Docherty gasped. As he spoke Finn literally flew from his goal line to head in his own clearance. But HE'LL NEVER PLAY FOR BRIGADOON ROVERS AGAIN!!!!"
What has poisoned Docherty against the Irish wizard? Will anything come of Nil By Wrist? Is Rhona Bitch a representation of my pent up rage against that lassie who wouldn't dance with me at the Laigh Kirk disco when I was 13? Be sure and read the next installment -
Brigadoon Rovers XI- Journey To The Centre Of The Earth