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Wake up Mr McLean


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Written by a poster on VB called John McCrae..

Wake up Mr McLean, there's a visitor here to see you"

With these words, and a gentle shrug, the girl in the starched white outfit brought the drowsing old man to consciousness. His red, ball shaped face took a moment to focus.

"Who are you?" he snarled at the ginger haired man with the notebook.

"Jim Spence, Mr McLean, from the BBC."

"You're no' a lawyer, are ye? That cvnt Barnes got what he deserved." He was almost yelling now.

The attendant quickly turned back and soothed the wrinkled brow beneath the thinning white hair.

"Thank you, nurse. I don't know what I would do without you."

The statuesque attendant glared at the man who had already upset her patient. She spoke quietly to him. "Can you please not upset Mr McLean. We at the Broughty Ferry Home for the Bewildered like to keep our patients calm"

The lanky man sat down, in a chair upwind from the old man, who frankly smelled a bit of piss and biscuits.

"Mr McLean, I'm a broadcaster. I live in the city. I'm an Arab as well." he gushed.

A blank look crossed the old man's face. His brow furrowed. The mouth opened, as though to speak, but only a dribble of saliva slowly fell from the trembling lips.

"Did ah ever tell you that I was asked to manage the Rangers? Doris wouldnae have it though. She liked Broughty Ferry." He beckoned Spence forward with a wag of a thin, wrinkled finger. His voice quietened to a whisper."That's why I killed her." He looked round, but no one had heard. "Hid her body in the freezer for two years. Then I chopped her up. Those East Coast seagulls will eat anything."

Spence bit his lip. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"So, I left and became manager at Ibrox. We won everything. I made them play in tangerine though, that was United's colours you know. I re-named the ground "Doris" in memory of the old girl. Told everybody she had stayed in Broughty Ferry. Well, she had, in a way. Eaten by the gulls, then shat in thousands of little bits of guana over the pebbles on the shore. She'd have liked that. Poetic, it was. It was there I began to like marshmallows wi' my chips. Just on a Tuesday mind, I wisnae mad. We won the World Cup and the Ashes in the same year. I was made Prime Minister for that. Couldn't have done it without wee Tommy though." He stopped and looked at the younger man, "who are you?"

"Mr McLean," he sighed, "it's Jim Spence. I'm a tv and radio man."

McLean peered at him. "Ah hope you do more radio than tv, son, you're a right ugly cvnt."

Spence blushed and lowered his head. He wasn't embarrassed. He knew the doddering old fool had reached a moment of clarity and was right. "Mr McLean, I'm here to ask you if you heard the score?"

"Score, whit score? Who's playing? Is it Saturday already? I need my porridge if I'm to lead the team oot." He again beckoned the younger man in. "Ah hivnae had a shite in four days, you know."

Spence had by then realised he had a tougher task on his hands than he originally thought. It had only been a year since he had last visited the most famous of all United managers. The slide downhill, physically and mental, had gathered apace.

"Ah'll tell you something else, son." The voice was firmer now, all attempt at subtlety gone. "They replaced me wi' a bloody foreigner. And then a poof. Brewster his name was. Brewster be fvcked, Bender mair like. Never had that sort o' thing in my day. Game has gone to fvck."

He sat back, the effort was taking its toll.

"I just popped in to see if you'd heard how we did tonight?"

"Tonight? Were we playing? I don't suppose you've got a marshmallow on ye?"

"We played Dynamo Moscow, Mr McLean."

"Moscow?" the glazed look left the old man's eyes, "By God, I remember. Didn't Houston fvck up by only drawing in the home leg? But then we were in wi' a shout because they sacked their coach. Whit an own goal that was. So did we make it though? Did we, Jim, did we?" The old eyes now sparkled. The nurse has walked past and smiled at the hope in her patient.

"Eh, well, no Mr McLean, we got gubbed 5 - 0."

The nurse brushed the reporter to one side, pounding the chest of the old man. "Medic! Get a medic. And screen this section off", she yelled "bring the paddles, we're losing him!"

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