The Siege of Tynecastle

Bambo Taggart liked Heart of Midlothian Football Club better than he liked sex. This fact, his girlfriend Noreen would testify to gladly if somewhat sadly. He’d cried out the name John Robertson on more than one occasion when reaching the orgasmic magnitudes and had a large picture of the legendary striker above their headboard.

Noreen had often pondered on Bambo’s true sexuality but had given up on the venture, deciding that homo-eroticism, the team in maroon and Bambo was a muddle too complex for her simple brain. It was their son she feared for most. Bad enough having a father like Bambo, but going through life named Rudi Skacel Taggart was maybe pushing it.

Everyone who knew Bambo also knew he wasn’t right in the head. He wasn’t the guy who attacked Neil Lennon at Tynecastle but almost the entire crowd assumed that it had been.

What they didn’t know was that Bambo Taggart had plans – big plans.

That was why he was sitting in the Tynecastle foyer waiting to be summoned into the office of Mrs Ann Budge the majority shareholder of his beloved football club. His pretext for wishing to meet her was the possibility of achieving sponsorship for the charity ‘Underpants for Refugees’ of which he’d pretended to be Director of Fundraising. Mrs Budge, a hugely successful entrepreneur appreciated the brass-neck of someone pressing for an interview with her, and this had been the twenty-second time Bambo had rung.

Mrs Budge also had a liking for what she called ‘schemie talent’ and having perused Bambo’s Facebook page she’d decided that this wavy-haired son of Gorgie with more deigner labels than you’d find strewn on the floor of TKMaxx was very much to her taste. His Twitter hash-tag #bigwalloper also gave her own groinal regions cause for pleasurable expectations.

“Show in Mr Taggart please, Eileen”

Bambo followed the curvy Eileen into the plush maroon-decorated office appreciating the contours of the secretary’s ample arse but knew the events of the next few minutes would prohibit any follow up on these thoughts.

Bambo was tastefully dressed in a dark blue Paul Smith suit that he wore to funerals with only the slightest hint at his allegiance by way of a Hearts tie-pin specially bought off the clubs web-site.

“Please, take a seat Mr Taggart”

Mrs Budge had worn a peach coloured chiffon top under her business jacket which revealed a goodly glimpse of her plumpish middle-aged bosom. This was recognised by Bambo who felt the merest quiver in his trouser area.

“Call me Bambo, hen!”

“So, Mr Taggart..er…Bambo” Mrs Budge couldn’t remember the last time she had been referred to as ‘hen’ but rather than her feminist ideals being offended in any way she instead felt her cheeks flush through a very different impulse. This ‘Bambo’ was all man, and all scheme.

“You’re here to discuss fund-raising for your charity ‘Underpants for Refugees’. I don’t think I’ve….

“Naw, hen, I’m no’ here aboot that. Ahm here aboot the Hertz, ken?”

Mrs B, for some reason thought of funeral cars and wondered what on earth….?

“The team, likesay, whits happenin’ tae thum. Somthins goat tae be done, so ahm kidnappin’ ye, ken. No’ gaunnie hurt ye, jist gonnie hiv a blether an’ talk aboot a few demands”

Ann Budge rued whoever had neglected to install a security button to summon help and stared uncomprehendingly at the sight of the young man speaking these words. She was a tough, tough business woman, she’d had to be, especially in football which was a man’s man’s world but she found herself discombobulated by this creature who spoke of ‘the Hertz’. He went on…

“Ye’ve lit Robbie Nielson go, right. Big mistake, bit yuv let that big dobber Levein git ehz wiy. This new bouy still eats rusks fur iz breakfast, it’s a non-starter. Lionel Messi isnae happy it Barcelona. The pies ur shite, so is Don Cowie. Ye need tae get Callum Paterson signin’a new deal, an’ the place is a cowp, needs a wee lock o’ paint, ken. So whit dae ye say, hen, you’re the boss here?”

Her eyes were agog with fear. A penny, an ever-so-bright shining penny had dropped with a clunk so loud you could hear it at Easter Road. This boy wisnae right. Not the full picnic at all. A Tweedledum of some strange ‘out where the buses don’t run’ sort of order. A Gorgie boy who was now cookin’ on another planet.

“Did you say, Mr Taggart…erm….Bambo…did you say ‘Lionel Messi isn’t happy at Barcelona’?”

“Aye, ah did, aye” Bambo was now patrolling the carpet at the front of her desk in an agitated manner.

“Implying?” She waited nervously for his answer, for some reason she was horribly scared she would burst out laughing when she received it.

Later on, after the police had tidied up their enquiry with her, she was in her favourite restaurant in the new town ‘The Snobby Bastard’ where their grilled fish was to die for. She was accompanied by her Director of Football, Craig Levein, a dour monosyllabic man who wanted the team to play in a ‘6-4-0’ formation, and wondered if the Bambo nut-case had a point. Had Levein tricked her into letting Neilson go, and why was a 30-year old now in charge? Also; the ground was looking a wee tate foostie and she wouldn’t have eaten a Tynie pie if it was the last food on earth. Cowie, Paterson? Fair point…

The other thing, though? Surely not….