"Are you sure this place is secure?", he says in a whisper tinged with a Cork accent.
 
He is answered by by a man who at first glance might be mistaken for an Oriental type. "Relax, boss. No one uses this office now, It's entirely private, the chap that used it doesn't need it anymore. He, err, quit his job recently."
 
The man, clearly in charge of this triumvirate visably relaxes, "So, we won't be interrupted?"
 
The smallest man, a formerly powerful man in the Government but now just a Wee Taig replies, "No, there will be no interruptions, sir. He's never coming back. A pity, we had plans for him, big plans. But it seems his job was too stressful."
 
The man whose name is Desmond removes his expensive cashmere coat, noticing he has picked up some white powder on the sleeve. He brushes it absent mindedly.
 
"OK, gentlemen, let's get to the point." He looks from side to side, "we need a brainwave, a masterstroke. Because those Orange bastards are running away with it."
 
"You're right, boss. We've in the shite." says the Taig.
 
Desmond glares from those menacing eyes, "Bottom line, John, is that we are not in the shoite, we actually are shoite, nothing other than shoite. And, gentlemen, you know it and I know it."
 
"We do, sir. Unfortunately, the word is getting out. The punters are starting to suspect it too. Even the radio stations and the papers are having a go at us."
 
"What?" the Cork man leaps up from his seat, sending a syringe, a bong and a rolled up banknote that had been lying on the table flying across the room. "We run the bloody stations and the papers. We've spent years putting good Sellik minded men in lowly positions and hung on till they reached the top and run the places."
 
"They're turning on us, boss", the Slit Eyed man answers, "The thing is, we think we've made a mistake with this Monkeyheid fella. We fell for his 'five year plan' crap and we give him too much money. We'd have been better off giving Owen Columba the money he wanted. Or even paying that Spanish fella the salary he asked for."
 
"Aye," says the Taig, "That Al Martino. With a name like that, he'd have been Sellik minded as well. Maybe even a Taig. Can you get taigs in Spain?"
 
"Only during the Glasgow Fair, John." said the Oirishman with a wry smile.
 
The small taig moves uncomfortably, not wishing to look his superior in the eye. "Well, anyway, we're trying to do all we can, boss."
 
Baldy from Cork settles, smiles and repeats the matra "Deny and deflect, John, deny and deflect."
 
"It's not working, boss. We're at our wits end. We can't sort the problem, no matter what we try."
 
"And just what would that problem be, John, in your opinion?" demands the now ruffled Cork man.
 
John sighs, "We've lost the League, pure and simple."
 
Cork shouts, "Ha, easy, trot out some player the fans identify with and have him say the League isn't lost!"
 
"We have done, boss,  we've run out of players to put in front of the mhedia to say the other lot will still drop points. We've used Heid, McAnus, Keannno, N'Guemo, Samerarse, Costa Fortune, the lot. Jebus, we even put wee Aids out last time and the press were pishin' themselves laughing."
 
"So, if it is bad as you say, we need excuses. Trot out the old one about masonic referees. That always works."
 
Eyes that were formally slitty open wide. "We have done, we got Hinkel onto that and the fans swallowed it for a while, but they've clocked all the referees names. They're mostly Sellik minded names."
 
"Are you telling me good Sellik minded men are joining the masons so they can feck our Title hopes?" Cork man explodes.
 
"No, no, boss, they actually aren't masons. It's our pretend story, remember?"
 
The bushy eyebrowed Irishman doesn't relent. "And, our takings are a fraction of what they are, that's going to get worse as the idiots see through the shoite we've been feeding them. We're lucky to have got away with it this long. We can't keep up the 55,000 at every home game. It's now a matter of public record what actual attendances are. We can be found out as liars."
 
Slit Eyes and the Wee Taig hang their heads.
 
"And those shoite attendances are hitting me .... I mean, hitting the club in the pocket. No Europe next year, less bums on those green seats we see so clearly now, ticket money down, catering revenue down, programme income down."
 
Cork man thinks for a few moments. "Why don't we get one of them mathematical geniuses to say that it is still mathematically possible that we can win?"
 
The Taig replies, "We approached Professor Stephen Hawking to do just that."
 
"And?" demands Baldy.
 
"We weren't sure of his exact reply. It's hard to make out what he says through that wee box, but it sounded like 'Away and take a flying fvck to yourselves."
 
An idea enters the man from Cork's head, "Have you tried moaning about the state of the parks?"
 
They brighten up, "Yes, boss, only last week we had Monkeyheid moan about Falkirk's park."
 
"So what did the press say?" The man from Cork asks, stroking his moustache.
 
"Basically, they laughed at us. They wondered why he hadn't moaned about Fir Park which is ten times worse."
 
Sweat formed on the Oirishman's brow. "Can we go on a quick tour of Japan?"
 
One of the two answered, "No need, boss, my family were over last month."
 
"Not to visit your family, ya fecking eejit. To disrupt the League."
 
The Taig dares to answer, "Can't leave in mid season, boss. We have to see it through."
 
"Then gentlemen, it is time for that most desperate of measures. I don't know how, but we got away with it once before. Are there any former players who have just died? Doesn't matter how long ago they were with the club."
 
"Don't think we haven't looked, boss, there's none."
 
"OK, let's not despair. has anyone died at any of the clubs we have special relationships with?"
 
The Taig braves an answer. "The truth of the matter is, boss, that the 'special relationship' thing is a con. We don't have any special relationships with anyone. It's just another thing to fool the faithul."
 
"Any wee Sellik minded kid really sick and that's preying on the minds of our squad?"
 
"None boss, we have put the word round the Fathers we let in free to have a think, but we've drawn a blank."
 
"Any natural disasters anywhere? Any of our squad from Chile or Haiti? Could we buy someone from Chile or Haiti really quick?"
 
"Can't buy between the transfer windows, boss." replies a glum Slit Eyes.
 
"There is one last idea, but it calls for a hero, a Sellik minded hero. Who have we got?"
 
The two pipe up as one, "The Lurgan Bigot, boss, no doubt about it."
 
The Taig continues, "There isn't a bigger Sellik minded man at the place. He's even more Sellik minded than Peter Grunt. And Grunt is so Sellik minded he once told a whopper about a Rangers fan throwing a golf ball with nails driven through it at him during a game."
 
"That's right," says an encouraged Slit Eyes, "He even told the papers once that Rangers fans burned the door of his old mum's house down. And the press fell for it."
 
Hope shone in the Oirish eyes, "And you reckon Neilly is more Sellik minded than that?"
 
"Without a doubt, boss."
 
"Do you think he would mind topping himself? For the good of the team, like."
 
"He's not that Sellik minded, boss." says Slit Eyes.
 
"And anyway, that's a mortal sin, boss." says the Wee Taig.
 
There is silence in the elegant room. Minutes later, the Cork giant speaks.
 
"Then, gentlemen, we have no other options left. You know what this means?"
 
Sadly accepting their fate, the three remove their jackets and shirts, drop their trousers and lean forward to tighten their celices till the blood flows from their thighs. As one, they reach into their briefcases and remove small, many thonged leather whips and proceed to flail themselves, this their punishment. Vivid red scores appear on their backs.
 
Minutes later, exhausted and in pain, the Cork man and the Wee Taig stop their self inflicted mortification. Slit Eyes shows no sign of stopping. Both ask him weakly why he keeps going.
 
"This is nothing," he whimpers, "if I was to ignore the Church's ruling and follow the family tradition for failure, I'd have to rip my own guts out with a wee ornamental sword!"