The troops are stunned by this but are even more shocked at the appearance of a seven foot tall Viking standing directly behind Lenny, his blond locks flowing in the breeze from the door, a huge tankard of ale in one hand and an entire cooked pig in the other which he takes one bite out of and tosses it, Henry the Eighth style, over his shoulder.
The huge Viking, resplendent in full battle armour and wearing the skin of a wolf as a cloak, addresses the cowering bunch of so-called players. “Right girly-men, listen up, no more of this namby-pamby, twinkle-toes football, this is where we sort the men from the boys, Viking style. Prepare for battle!!!” and with that he finishes off his full tankard of frothy ale in one giant swig, pulls a ten foot long broadsword and with a battle cry, charges at Georgios Samaras who bottles it and runs away screaming.
Now it’s Lenny’s turn. “Right lads, you know the score, this is Celtic. You are Celtic players. Anybody doesn’t pull their weight on the training ground gets a hiding off big Johan. Any questions?” The team stand there and shake their heads like a bunch of primary one school weans. “…and if you think Johan’s tough,” adds Lennon, “ you just wait till Thommo gets here…”
Somewhere in the labyrinthine corridors of Celtic Park, a scream is cut short as Johan catches Sammy…
