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of sunset metaphor."
"Hmm, yes."
He poured some Bells into a glass and handed it to me. I took it.
"Good lad." He held up his glass. "Well, Slainte. Good health, if you'll pardon the bloody irony." He dragged on his cigarette as we continued to stare out the window at the fading day. "What do you know about Zlobtnov Yorovonko, Jimmy?"
"Zlobtnov Yorovonko? Well, he's brilliant. Best striker in Europe, maybe the world."
"Aye, what else?"
I sipped my whisky, as I thought.
"Well he was certainly your best signing for Rangers. Actually, he was your only half-way decent signing."
"I know, but what else?"
"Gosh, I don't know. He comes from Kazakhstan. The fans call him Stan." He looked at me expectantly through a veil of smoke. "Everybody was amazed when you signed him. Nobody had heard of him. An amateur playing in the Kazakh Second Division. I think they only have two divisions."
"They do."
"Nobody could believe you paid half a million quid for some guy who turned up to matches on a camel. Did he really do that, by the way?"
"Only home games. They have a bus for away games." He drained his glass and put it down on the breakfast counter. "You know what's really unique about Zlobtnov Yorovonko?"
"Lots of things. His height for one thing. Six foot, eight. And his speed. His control."
"No, no."
"His left foot shot?"
"No, you're missing the point. The really unique thing about Zlobtnov Yorovonko, the thing that made me notice him, that made me happily fork out half a million quid and call it a bargain is that his name has six "o"s and no other vowels. That, Jimmy, is truly unique."
He threw his cigarette in the sink and we watched it fizzle when he turned on the tap.
"Let me get this straight, Mr. McKean. You signed Yorovonko because of the vowels in his name?"
"Yup."
"Not his left foot shot? Or the fact he's built like Ben Nevis?"
"Nope."
"You're a loony."
He smiled over his glass. "Nope."
I shrugged. He grabbed the bottle of Bells put his hand on my shoulder and steered me back to the table. We sat down, and he leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Ah, Jim Lad. You press boys never cease to amaze me. Your snouts are stuck so deep in the shit, you don't even see what's going on right in front of your bloody faces."
"I'm afraid I don't...."
"Look, I didn't just find out yesterday that I..." He plucked another cigarette from the packet and lit it. "You know when I was diagnosed?"
"No."
"A week after I took the Rangers job. Bloody brilliant, eh?"
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