A Celtic Christmas Carol

A Celtic Christmas Carol by Brian53

It was Christmas Eve and Peter Scrooge sat in his cold office in the east end of Glasgow. He refused to have the heating on and sat with an old weather beaten coat that he had bought from the Salvation Army some years before.

His personal assistant poked her head around the door “That’s me away Mr Scrooge, Merry Christmas” Scrooge scowled and waved his hand without speaking.

Over on the other side of the city the manager returns home to his family, the house is warm, welcoming, and full of Christmas cheer. The manager however is sullen, when asked by his good lady all he can say is “He won’t sign a striker” “Don’t let it bother you” she said “I won’t don’t worry” But it did.

The carriage drew up outside Lawwell Mansions. The family crest hanging over the gate was in Latin, a biscuit tin with cross keys. Although he was no linguist, Peter knew the motto by heart “Transfers, over my cold dead body.”

Peter had shunned the extravagances of life so there was no electricity in the mansion, he had drawn the line with the plumbing though, he liked to flush. Peter felt a sudden pain in his face before he realised he was smiling, remembering why he had installed it “I get enough shite at work.”

Lighting a candle Peter went to the kitchen and had his nightly tomato sauce sandwich before retiring for the night. The clock struck ten thirty as he puts on an Auld pair of socks that he had purloined from the museum. Suddenly a ghost appeared that looked the spit of his mean boss, Dermot. “I will be doomed to roam the world and carry these chains for all eternity because of my greed and tightfistedness.” “You Peter, will meet the same fate,” The ghost continues, “You will get one last chance; you will be visited by 3 ghosts, transfer past, present and yet to come.” “Bah Humbug,” says Peter knowing that Dermot was alive and well and revelled in his tightfistedness. He went to bed.

Sure enough, Peter wakes in the early hours. It is freezing and he peeks over his old threadbare Bertie Auld quilt. Floating in the middle of the room is the ghost of transfers past. Suddenly he is back in August 2001 and he watches in horror as Celtic sign Momo Sylla and Steve Guppy “I wasn’t responsible for this, I wasn’t Chief Exec back then” The ghost murmur’s “this is what you get with a biscuit tin mentality” Peter hears screaming in the background before he realises it is he. Now it is 2005 and a procession of transfer signings are paraded in front of the shocked Chief Exec, Camara, Virgo, Du Wei and the player who had promised so much, Zuyrawski. Players now seemed to whiz by in a nightmare of signings, Riordan, Gravesen, Killen, Flood, Rasmussen and Juarez. The players and the years flew by.

Peter woke in a sweat thinking it must have been a dream with the phrase “intellectual purchasing” ringing in his ears. There was a different ghost now floating in the middle of the room, the ghost of transfers present. Now he is watching his recent dealings with the manager of the club. His refusal to open the tin to sign Finnbogason, Tomlin and McClean…

As dawn lightened the bedroom, Peter opened his eyes. He had a vague feeling about a strange dream but he could only remember part of it. The pain in his face returned as it came back to him. Celtic had gotten what they had always wished for, entry to the English league. In his dream, they’d been accepted into the second division, winning automatic promotion that first year. As they had retained the bulk of their players they had reached the play-off’s the second year but had lost out to Wolves who had went on and won promotion. The dream had then turned into a nightmare with several seasons in mid table, then as players left the club in droves they found that no one wanted to sign for a below average English first division side. Two years later, they were in the Vauxhall Conference.

Peter got dressed in the cold light of day as the events of the whole night came back to him. Although it was Christmas day, he went into work determined that he would at last do something about it. He phoned round all the managers he could think off until he could broker a deal. His manager would be pleased; he had purchased exactly what he wanted for Christmas, a striker.

The manager’s good lady answered the door, lucky I managed to hear it with all the joviality going on she thought. She was surprised to see the Chief Executive standing there with a pained expression on his face. Peter stood smiling away, desperate to get in and tell his manager the good news. Taking his weather beaten old coat, she invited him into the house.

Peter went into the warm living room, held his arms open wide and said to all present “I’ve done it Neil, I’ve done it, I’ve finally opened the tin and bought you your heart’s desire, a striker.”

Neil was flabbergasted.

Peter continued “Andy Carroll, Neil, Andy Carroll”

Neil collapsed.