 | “It’s just got to stop” I shouted but the face looking back at me seemed somewhat distant – some would say vacant. I’m in my office talking to Bryan Garrick, one of our prolific strike force. He’s a quality player but it’s his disciplinary record this season that’s been the issue. Incredibly, he’s been booked 8 times already this season and we’re not even close to half way through the season. “Well” he replies. “At least I haven’t been sent off yet”. I am tempted to reply that’s only because he’s been suspended so much that he hasn’t had enough opportunities to see red, but I manage to hold my tongue. It’s time to lay down an ultimatum.
“Well Bryan, you’re not getting any younger and frankly, we pay you a small fortune just so you can spend Saturday afternoons watching games from the stands. Frankly, if this situation doesn’t improve, I’m putting you on the transfer list!” Surprisingly, this doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. As he leaves the office, the new head coach wanders in, shaking his head. “He’s in love you know. Never good for a footballer –they lose focus and get frustrated when things don’t go their way.” This is news to me. I try to be a friend to the players, but you have to stay a bit aloof and not get too close. “Cripes though” the coach blurts out, “have you seen that fat bird he’s been seeing. She must weigh more than the South Stand. I don’t know what he sees in her.” Hairs *****le on the back of my neck. I suddenly realize that the feeling of being watched all the time has lessened recently. Could Garrick be “seeing” the Chairman’s wife? What an awful concept, but rather him than me. It does explain why he has the 4th worst disciplinary record in the whole of IAG – quite a feat in itself.
I’m exhausted. It’s been a hell of a week. We made the ¼ finals of the league cup for the first time in the club’s history. But with 3 injuries and a certain striker suspended (again!), I am forced to play a bunch of youths who although having good potential, really weren’t up to playing against Premiership opposition. We put up a good fight, but went down 2-1. We also played the other 3 teams in the top 4 in successive games in the league and came out with a win, draw and loss. So we are still top of the table, but it’s much tighter now. I have also spoken to the Chairman about the size of our ground and how it’s just not big enough for premiership football if we do go up but he doesn’t seem to care. He spends most of his time exercising at the gym, or in his office with those secretaries of his. Oh boy, how I envy him there.
At home, I pour myself a smooth Heineken and settle down on the couch to watch the footy. Wynvale Wanderers, my old club, are playing my old enemies, Jemfy’s Diamonds and I cringe as the Wanderers go down at home (Never happened in my day!). If we get promoted this season, it’ll be the Unaccies going to the Monkey House next season…
Suddenly the doorbell goes. Who could it be at this time of night? I open the front door, an action I immediately regret. Standing before me is the Chairman’s wife! Before I can say anything, she’s slapped her lips (and chins) on my face and sucked the air out of me! “My darling, I’ve been so looking forward to this. Me and you at last.” She pushes past me and makes for the bedroom. “I’m just going to slip into something more comfortable so you make me a drink, dear.” She shuts the door of the on-suite with a slam. “Oh God, help me” I pray to the ceiling. Bits of old, dry paint float down from it as she “oh so delicately” moves around the bathroom. I go pour my beer down the sink and pour myself a large whiskey, which I down in one. I needed that. I have another. I really needed that. Right, I tell myself, I seriously need to get that woman out of this apartment, NOW. Confidently, I stride back into the bedroom. Sadly, such bravado is rapidly reduced to a sad, whimpering fool as I take in the scene. The Chairman’s wife is lying on the bed on her side (The bed itself is having serious problems with the situation and is dangerously sagging in the middle). She is propping her head up on her elbow and her posterior is facing towards me. She is wearing a 15 sizes too small pink negligee and somewhere, lost between those enormous buttocks, is a desperately trying to escape, pink G-string. It’s pulled up so tight that I’m afraid it might give way any moment. If it goes, it could take my eye out (which at the moment might be a blessed relief!). As the tears start to pour down my face, the lady in question gasps “Oh baby, tears. That’s so sweet”. Just as I’m about to scream, the doorbell goes.
“Stay there” I say and shut the door. “Oh, don’t worry” I hear her say. “I’m not going anywhere….” Now, who’s at the door? I gingerly open the door. A hand shoves it fully open and in strides the Chairman!! “Excellent” he says. “It looks like you’re not busy so pour me a drink, Leamark. Whiskey will do and none of that cheap stuff, eh?” I feel a desperate urge to run away. How can this be happening? I feel my job and what little reputation I have left after (apparently) embezzling millions of Wynvale Wanderers money, slipping away before my eyes. I try to explain that I’m a bit busy at the moment but the Chairman can see Alan Hansen on the TV analyzing the problems with Wynvale Wanderers defence and how they need some decent fullbacks (a bit like us). My story holds little water. Dejectedly, I say “Sure, you take a seat and I’ll go get your drink.”
I shoot to the bedroom. “Just stay there and don’t move. My …..um……mother has just arrived” I whisper to the hippopotamus in my bed. “I’ll try to get rid of her.” I go to pour a whiskey for the Chairman and swig another couple for myself. As I pass the Chairman his drink, the door bell goes! Brief relief turns to panic. Who the h*ll can that be? This time I pull the front door open rapidly and am about to shout “Get away” when my mouth abruptly freezes. It’s Francoise, one of the Chairman’s secretaries. She’s wearing a long rain coat and a smile. “It’s not raining” I blurt out, my mouth having long ago lost any connection to my increasingly desperate and intoxicated brain. She opens the raincoat and flashes me a truly exceptional sight. She is wearing nothing but the hair on her head. Only the rapid tightening in my pants prevents rapid onset incontinence. Not being the most visually alluring of IAG managers, (see IanD for this) it could be said to be a tad unusual for any female of even remotely average looks to be seen in the same county as me. Hence my dilemma. To say no to this opportunity would be a truly disastrous waste of my life. But the timing could be the death of me. The decision is taken out of my hands. “Who is it?” shouts the Chairman from the lounge. “Um….just the Salvation Army looking for …um…um….some hard currency” I shout back. The reply is, as always, straight to the point. “Well tell them to p**s off”.
I stare at the gorgeous young lady in front of me with pleading eyes. She slides past me, rubbing against me in the narrow doorway. “Quickly hide in here and I’ll get rid of my visitors” I whisper to her as I shove her in the spare bedroom. If I can pull this off, getting promotion to the Premiership will be a piece of cake. I run to the kitchen and down another whisky (or two). Back to the lounge…
“Well Leamrk, your whiskey is c**p, but I’m impressed with how the team is going. Anyway, lets dispense with the pleasantries. I’m running the Huntly half-marathon next month and I wanted to know if you’d sponsor me?” explains the chairman. I am aghast. All this stress and all he wants is some sponsorship money. “Sure, no problems, I’ll come up to the office tomorrow.” I think I might be able to get rid of him quickly. “Get us another whiskey will you Leamark while I go for a slash?” I suddenly realize he doesn’t know where the toilet is. I shoot out of the lounge as he places his hand on the bedroom door handle. “Not that door” I scream unreasonably, “it’s that one there”. I point to the toilet down the corridor. “You’d better have a wee drink yourself lady, you seem to be a bit tense.” The doorbell goes. “What are you running here, leamark, a brothel?” He staggers drunkenly into the toilet as I stagger to the door. I open it to Slansky, the club secretary, who, sadly, has a soft heart (amongst other things) for me. As I am about to tell him where to go, I hear a scream of agony from down the corridor.
We race to the toilet. My worst fears are surely about to happen. He must have discovered my bedroom secrets. But the screaming is from inside the toilet. We open the door to find the Chairman standing with blood over his hands and his penis caught in his fly. I can only presume he lost his concentration when looking at the “signed photo of Premiership managers from Season 9.” ( minus Peppermint Boy because he was in a strop that day after his whole first team got suspended for over aggressive play!). He screams again. Slansky immediately goes down on his knees exclaiming “Ooh, let me, I’m good with these.” The chairman screams again and shouts “Get him away from me. I need to go to casualty, now”. I am hardly going to argue. Slansly and I slowly waddle the Chairman out of the bathroom. As we head halfway down the corridor, the bedroom door flies open and Mrs Chairman shoots out screaming “What’s all the shouting?” She takes in the scene and whimpers “possum pants, are you hurt?” The Chairman stops, takes in the scene, glares at me with Darth Vader eyes and then bursts into tears. “Mousy?” he sobs. “Daddy is hurt”. I feel nauseas, or drunk or both. “Mumsy mouse will take care of you now” purrs Mrs Chairman. She abruptly pushes Slansky away. The evil glare that I get makes me rapidly withdraw and the two of them, arms around each other head off out of the front door and out of my life –well, for tonight anyway.
I feel my job has slipped away and am already imagining applying for some loser team down in the 8th division (a bit like Hamilton Unacademicals) and having to spend another 10 seasons of hard graft to get them to the top. Well, nothing I can do about it now. I am brought back to reality by the hopeful look on Slansky’s face. “GO” I shout and he’s gone before I can place a kick on his well used rump.
Peace and quiet ensues. I need and consume another whiskey. Things are starting move in strange ways. The doorway suddenly seems a tad harder to negotiate. Suddenly, I remember Francoise. My God, this could still be my lucky night. I go to the front door and viciously rip the door bell out of its casing, leaving red and black wires exposed to the wind. “No more interruptions” I say to myself. Then, to the spare bedroom. My anticipation is only superceded by my difficulty in staggering to the door. I gently open it. Inside, Francoise is fast asleep in the bed, cuddled up to a Jemfys Diamonds teddy bear!! Why, the traitor. She must be a spy! Suddenly a 10cm high devil with horns and a large pitch-fork appears on my left shoulder. “Do it anyway, you know you want to,” it pleads. A small “ping” heralds the arrival of a similarly sized angel on my right shoulder. “You musn’t” it says. “You’d regret it in the morning”. The torment inside me is equaled by the vertigo I’m currently suffering.
Unsurprisingly, the devil wins. He snigers, shoves his pitch fork into the rear of the angel and they both “ping” into oblivion. I crawl gently into the bed beside the magnificent sleeping women. The last thing I hear is the devil sighing with resignation as I drift off into an unconscious state – the whiskey having the final say.
I awake suddenly the next morning, to the sound of a door slamming and “LOSER!” being hurled in my direction by a rapidly departing, angry female. Initially, this doesn’t register (it being a fairly common occurrence!). Then I realize that it’s Francoise leaving. My head is pounding. Oh boy, what a night. I think I might stay home sick today. Maybe get the paper and have a look through the “situations vacant” pages!! |
