Man and Ball Issue Two

MAN AND BALLLiving On Both Sides Of The Game

ISSUE TWO - AUGUST 2011COVER: DAN LEYDON >

< CONTENTS 2 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

OPEN DANNY CHADBURN >

A soul goes on a Bosman to pure evil,

Flame red locks akin to club livery.

If winning means winning ugly,

Find me my elephant man.

If winning means moral bankruptcy,

Fetch me my Lehman Brothers.

Blinkered to age, race and sex.

Defeat. Is. Not. An. Option.

Beauty lies within the deceit, the duel,

Within the eye of the season ticket holder.

Within the words of the storyteller.

Straight from the Scotch’s mouth.

Tradition defies contradiction,

This is how it is, how it always has been.

Maintain belief in the darkest of arts.

Lose courage in conviction, lose the game.

>

http://www.manandball.com/p/download.html

Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Two Gods In A Tub >

Another Fine Mess >

Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word >

Good Morning, Sunshine >

Kids These Days >

< OPEN

< Winning Ugly

Part one of Martin Palazzotto's Faustian epic, in which a familiar face hacks

into the beautiful game

< Art Of Winning

Joshua Askew examines how the Italians do their job

< The Chairman Diaries -- Episode Two

David Hartrick’s hero becomes further mired in non-League hell

< The Antichrist

Jude Ellery goes over to the Dark Side

< Who Said Life Was Fair?

Rae Singh wonders if Stephanie Gerrard will get an even break

< Escocia! Argentinos! Vamos! Hoots Mon The Noo!

Emelie Okeke notices a touch of the Highlands on the Pampas

< Is It Beautiful?

Resident historian Gareth Millward ponders the role of tradition

< Winning Ugly

Part two of Martin Palazzotto’s Faustian Epic, in which beauty is in the eye of

the beholder

CLOSE >

1

17

25

33

40

49

59

69

74

79

86

97

107


DANNY CHADBURN >

What margin of error befits a level playing field?

Enough to see ethical judgements repealed.

Keep hacking away until victory is sealed.

>


MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >

The fire rained down on them.

Shards of floating ash helicoptering

to the ground, their edges aflame,

were a strange contrast to the

steady shower of electric sparks

bouncing off the increasingly crisp

turf. The banks of stadium lighting

had long since blinked out, their

power drawn off by a hundred thou-

sand angry supporters. These were

angry spirits, indeed. Stygian, less

than one half of football away from

the elusive Celestial League title,

had been frustrated by Paradiso

again.

Vlad stood in a small circle, free of

the storm, as did each of the others.


WINNING UGLY


They were not warding themselves,

although they were all capable and

two or three had the ability to end

the tirade with a single glance. It

wasn’t necessary, however. Their

supporters would make their dis-

pleasure known but never cross the

line. The players, having failed

them, would stand and accept the

abuse. There was an honour to be

upheld, even here, and all would.

Checking his thoughts, the vampire

glanced to the touchline. Moriarty

had gone. Well, not all, then.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

“Brooks!”

“Sir?”

“Ah, there you are. I have a task for

you, my dear.”

Uncertainty crossed the woman’s

countenance. The hum and chirping

of the busy outer office cut off as

the heavy door clicked shut behind

her. The inner sanctum was both

familiar and not. It was done in

marble tile and mahogany furniture.

The walls were a light earth tone,

and the incandescent lighting was

business bright. She recognised the

figure behind the desk. Yet, the

setting just wasn’t right.

“Is there a problem?”

Tenting his fingers, He smiled

inwardly at her confusion, waiting

patiently as she tried to put her

disorientation into words. He had

no end of patience.

A sigh, then, “Out with it, child.”

Well, he was also a creature of

contradiction, was he not?

Insulted now, Ms Brooks’ feminist

sensibilities were ignited but a well-

honed sense of self-preservation

caused her to hesitate. Something

was definitely not right. She was

almost, but not quite, entirely sure

that she shouldn’t be here. She

tried to synchronise her memory

with the moment.

“Forgive me, sir, but I was certain

that you’d accepted my resignation.”

“I did, my dear. But that was in

London, where you were no longer


WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >


of use. Here, however, you might be

of service”

“Here, sir? Where is here?”

He chuckled dryly. “Where do you

think here might be, Rebekah?”

Here brow furrowed as she tried to

work it out. A horrible possibility

came suddenly to mind and her eyes

widened in fear.

“Am I....?”

“Dead? No, dear, you are still very

much alive, although that life has

become a Hell in itself.”

He found the thought pleasant and

another short laugh escaped his lips.

“Then, how... why...?”

“There are many planes of exis-

tence, darling. Some house the

living, some the dead, others the

merely imagined. This place accom-

modates them all... well their spirits,

at least. It is a good environment for

me to do business.”

There was a grain of hope in the ex-

planation.

“All of their spirits? The good and

the bad?”

He nodded his head in affirmation.

Relief flooded her features and, let-

ting go of her fear, she actually

laughed.

“Lord, you had me going, Rupert! I

thought this was Hell and that you

were --”

"In charge?"

Her laughter came out in a trill.

Despite ignoring her instinct, she

remained on the verge of hysteria.

His face darkened and he leaned for-

ward. Rebekah's alarm returned in

a rush.

“I am, you fool, and this is place is

exactly as you have guessed. It is

Hell!”

His voice had transformed from its

usual nasal twang to a deep tenor

rumble. The pale, mottled skin of

Rupert Murdoch began to take on a

translucent glow. Beneath the sur-




face a fire burned, casting a strange

orange glow. Soft brown eyes

became glittering black coals. The

office lighting dimmed as his inner

fire grew. The creature before her

retained the trappings of, but was

no longer the man that she thought

she had known. He was something

far more vibrant, powerful and

ancient than the billionaire media

tycoon. And infinitely more danger-

ous. Yet, Rupert was somehow still

at the core of this being. Had she

actually known him or just thought

she had?

As her lips worked soundlessly,

unable to form a cohesive sentence,

he explained further.

“This is the Hell of this place and I

rule here. I am not Rupert Murdoch,

although Rupert Murdoch, after a

fashion, is me. While it pleased me

to let you think you had my ear in

London, that is not the case here.

So, if you must call me anything, Mr

Murdoch will serve. Do we under-

stand one another?”

As deeply as he glowed, Rebekah

blanched. Her pallor was such a

deathly white that her fear was now

literally palpable. He let his mind

taste it. Delicious. But there was

business to see to. Leaning back in

his chair, he let his anger go. The

lighting returned to its normal level

and his fire faded, but not entirely.

Smoke trailed off his body in thin

wisps. He decided to allow her

some hope.

“You may find your way into my

good graces again, woman, if you do

not fail as monumentally in the task

I set you here as you did in London.”

Rebekah clung to the one thought

echoing frantically in her mind.

“But I resigned!”

“Indeed,” he chuckled. “But the acts

you performed in my employ while

in London bound you to me in other

planes and you know it. In your

heart, you know it!”

The look of desperation on her face

confirmed that she did, which was

all the invitation he required. Satis-

fied, he continued.

“This portion of your spirit will

reside here until I agree to release




you." He raised an admonishing

finger. "That, however, I will only do

if you aid me successfully in the task

that I set you. Do you understand?”

She nodded a meek assent.

“Excellent.”

Murdoch gestured to a chair and she

slumped into it, grateful on two

accounts. First, it quelled the over-

whelming urge to run, which she

could not suppress, even though she

knew she wouldn’t get far. How

could she when, second, she was

trembling so badly that she could

barely stand?

He gestured again and a door

opened.

A dark, sultry woman, tall, with

sharply beautiful Han features and

flowing raven hair entered the

room, carrying a steaming mug. She

reminded Rebekah of Wendi, the

Murdoch she had known in Lon-

don's wife. Yet, this woman was

somehow both younger and older;

beautiful but hardly innocent; in

every way a fitting consort for the

true Murdoch. She walked directly

to Rebekah's chair, not acknowledg-

ing her Master, her heels echoing on

the marble tile. When she arrived,

she proffered a bow that was merely

a slight nod of her head, and held

out the brew for Rebekah to take.

As this Wendi leant forward with her

offering, Rebekah was afforded a

glimpse of ample cleavage and the

merest whiff of an exotically musky

odour. She averted her eyes a

moment too late and accepted the

drink gratefully, cupping it nervously

in both hands and blowing away the

steam.

Wendi laughed mockingly and, turn-

ing, sauntered out of the room. Fas-

cinated, Rebekah watched her go.

The swish of a barbed tail, briefly

lifting her skirt, was startling. It was

only then that Rebekah realised that

the click-clack of Wendi's steps was

not, in fact, heels, but hooves. Re-

bekah peered at the still smoldering

Mr Murdoch (it actually helped to

still think of him as that compara-

tively harmless personage) and

then, with a sudden surge of mis-

trust, into the cup.

“It is just Darjeeling, to soothe your

nerves, my dear,” he encouraged, a




smile playing at the corner of his

lips. “You have had a bit of a start.”

Rebekah nodded and sipped at the

tea. She was finding it difficult to

maintain any sense of rationality.

Murdoch had said he had a task for

her and he had just stopped short of

literally erupting like a volcano. If he

was going to kill her, he'd likely just

wave his hand rather than going to

the trouble of poisoning her tea.

She tittered nervously, keeping the

thinnest of veils over her hysteria.

Murdoch gestured to a large moni-

tor on the wall and a series of im-

ages began to play out for her. Of all

things, it appeared to be highlights

of a football match. She gasped in

surprise as a few close-ups revealed

the identity of some familiar person-

alities: mythological deities, charac-

ters from classic novels, heroes and

villains, even a figure or two from

human history. They were all

players? Here?

She recalled Murdoch's brief

description of this place. Suddenly

intrigued, she watched further. The

match, seemingly pitting good

against evil, did not end well -- if

that is how you would describe a full

on riot, with the entire pitch and

stands set ablaze. The volume was

muted, so she was not quite sure of

the import of all this to her. As the

video faded, she looked to Murdoch.

“Surprised that the likes of David,

Perseus and Gandhi would play foot-

ball?” he asked.

She nodded.

Murdoch continued, “Well, Gandhi

makes an excellent attacking mid, I

must admit. Has a unique vision on

the pitch -- you never know where

he is going to go next. Not that he

would sign for me. More is the pity.”

Rebekah had a blank look on her

face.

“Do you even follow football,

woman?”

“No,” came out in a tremulous

squeak. “You know that I specialise

in politics, Ru -- Mr Murdoch.”

Murdoch sighed.

“Tree of Knowledge, my ass,” he




muttered, then tried to accommo-

date her. “The politics here are

pretty much a one party system, if

you take my meaning?”

She shook her head.

Murdoch grimaced as he pointed a

finger in an upward trajectory,

towards Someone not in the room.

“Oh, He allows opposition but

somehow it never seems to amount

to much, does it? There is no way to

discredit Him directly, He is so

squeaky clean these days. At least,

He used to go in for a bit of slaugh-

ter every now and then. That was

before he brought his Son into the

business, however."

Murdoch shook his head in disgust.

"Youngsters and their radical ideas.

Peace and understanding. Please.

Still, it makes it difficult to make any-

thing unpleasant stick. So, one

needs to offer the populace some-

thing new. Football allows me that

opportunity and I intend to take it.”

Rebekah was shaking her head. “I

just don’t understand what’s so

compelling about kicking a ball

around, and I don’t think I ever will.”

“Look, the long and short of it is that

there is an elite league here, just as

on Earth, and every bit as important

in the public eye. Their passion is

consumed by it. The team of the

heavenly, Paradiso, has dominated

this league for ages and they’re

adored for it. Yet, that adoration can

be redirected. Everyone loves a

winner, don’t they? And hates a

villain?”

The blank look was still there.

“It’s just another form of politics,

you daft woman,” Murdoch

snapped. “If you can’t unseat an

opponent by taking him on directly,

what do you do?”

“Get some dirt on him and deflect

the issue?”

“There's my girl! That is the idea,

yes, although our Adversary is too

clean. There is no dirt. Those in His

employ, however... That is another

matter, entirely.

“Were Stygian, my club, to win the

league, my influence here would




grow accordingly. All that I need,

after all, is for people to welcome

me into their hearts.

"Unfortunately, every time we put

together a squad with the ability to

win, Paradiso somehow manages to

thwart them.”

Rebekah was still trying to wrap her

battered mind around the concept.

Sighing, He nodded to the screen.

Footage labeled ‘Celestial League

Final, Stygian v Paradiso’ was playing

on a network apparently called Sky

H. Rebekah thought that her boss,

now that she knew him truly, might

have been less repetitive in naming

his networks. Shouldn't the Prince

of Lies have a bit more imagination?

Murdoch's eyes narrowed and his

skin began to take on a warmer glow

again. Hurriedly, she looked away

and focused on the screen.

The Paradiso player wearing a laurel,

Perseus it had to be, broke in on goal

and slotted past the Stygian goal-

keeper, a darkly handsome man,

Rebekah thought, until he opened

his mouth to reveal two rows of

gleaming yellow teeth, all sharp-

ened to nasty points. Where had

she seen that before?

The ‘keeper and two Stygian defend-

ers, one a hairy, betusked half

man/half beast and the other a

woman with a frightening visage

and a nest of vipers passing for hair,

immediately surrounded the match

official, who was waving off their

protest. In the background, an exul-

tant Perseus walked by sucking his

thumb while staring directly into the

Gorgon’s eyes. That seemed...

inconsistent.

“Why doesn’t he turn to stone?”

Rebekah asked.

“Ah, you are starting to use that

mind of yours, finally." Murdoch

smiled approvingly. "The rules have

been augmented to accommodate

the powers of some of the partici-

pants. It's football, after all. The

name belies its nature. If players

could ride flying horses or turn each

other to stone, there would be no

sense to the game. Without powers,

the ball stays on the carpet, as it

were.”




The blank look returned. Murdoch

sighed. This was going to take some

time.

“Level playing field?” He offered.

“Fair for everyone?”

Comprehension dawned on Re-

bekah’s face for a brief moment,

then another question formed.

“Why are they arguing?”

“Because he was only a mile offside,

you twit!”

The force of his frustrated scream

blew Rebekah’s long red curls

straight back. Men -- Males -- were

apparently the same all over. So

taken up with a silly game. Immedi-

ately, though, his attention returned

to the screen and she followed suit.

Murdoch calmed himself and tried

to explain further.

“As I mentioned, the rules have

been augmented, but all the offi-

cials, save the one who watches for

use of powers, must always be

human spirits. It is part of the

balance, although it can be ex-

tremely frustrating. I will admit that

humans have accomplished many

things in their time: Babel, Alexan-

dria, The Great Wall, Las Vegas...

How they have managed it all when

they can’t see what’s occurring right

in front of them on a clear, sunny

day is beyond even me, however.

What's more puzzling is how

Paradiso seem to get every single

call. Their Chairman, the bloody

Nazarene, loves to rub my nose in it.

Says it is “the benefit of leading a

good life”. Murdoch's lecture trailed

off into a series of frightening

invectives.

On the screen, the goalkeeper had

become so outraged at the official's

blindness that he removed his head

and hurled it at the man.

That's where she had seen those

horrible teeth. Sleepy Hollow's

Headless Horseman! She laughed

and clapped her hands, drawing a

strange look from Murdoch. Chas-

tened, she returned her attention to

the screen.

The referee seemed mortified for a

moment but then recovered ad-

mirably. Following in the longstand-




ing tradition of his craft, he reached

into his pocket and produced a red

card. In presenting it, his fear and

indignation were suddenly replaced

by bemusement. The offender was

actually in two places at once.

That wasn't covered in the CIFA

manual. So, to account for all even-

tualities, he presented the card first

to the torso standing in front of him

and then, turning and genuflecting

to offer better visibility, to the

snarling head laying on the pitch. As

he bent over, the torso gave him a

swift kick in the hind quarters for his

trouble.

Murdoch sighed again and waved at

the monitor. It went dark and he

turned to Rebekah.

“The first act, of removing his head,

went against the special regulations

and would likely have cost him a one

game ban to begin this season.

Throwing objects at a match official

is a serious offence wherever you go

and probably would have earned

him another three. Unfortunately,

sticking his boot up the fellow’s arse

landed him a yearlong ban and that

means we need a new ‘keeper.

“As well, my manager, James

Moriarty, you may have heard of

him --?”

“No,” Rebekah replied. “I don’t

believe I have.”

Murdoch shook his head in disgust

at the tools with which he had to

work.

“Most people address him as

Professor, luv.”

“Oh, oh! That Moriarty, from Sher-

lock Holmes, yes I’ve heard of him!”

“So quick-witted, aren’t we?”

Rebekah’s face flushed with embar-

rassment and an anger she couldn’t

quite conceal. Murdoch ignored it,

however.

“Moriarty has left, as well. He was

very gifted tactically, but has always

had a tendency to cut and run,

rather than adapt, when his

schemes unravel.

"It seems, then, that Stygian has

been left without a coach or a goal-

keeper.




“Well, when presented with lemons,

make lemonade, I always say.”

Rebekah thought she sensed where

this was leading. “You want me to

recruit new players for you?” she

asked.

“You?” Murdoch burst out into an

uncontrollable fit of mirth. “You?

Are you serious?”

As he shook with peals of laughter,

Rebeka’s face turned from red to

purple. She clenched her fist as she

fought to hold back a furious rage.

Her imagination fed her visions of

what a single rash word might bring,

however, and she thus managed to

keep her thoughts in check.

Finally, Murdoch’s fit of humour

subsided sufficiently for him to

continue. Looking up, he saw her

state and it drew one more snigger

out of him.

“Ah, me,” he said, taking a deep

breathe. “You do bring a smile to

my face, dear one. No, I do not ex-

pect you to find me players. I am

not that desperate, thankfully. I

have another job for you, something

to which you are well suited, I might

add.

“What I need you to do is expose

the skeletons in the closets of the

Paradiso players.”

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Ebenezer limped around the pitch of

the Judecca, propping himself up on

his walking stick. He was watching

his new squad go through its paces,

but only half focused on the task at

hand. The odd, flickering half-light

of Hell took some getting used,

especially in the way it cast strange

shadows against the bleached and

pitted stone of the ancient stadium,

but it was personal matters which

were distracting him. It was still

difficult to decide why he had taken

this job.

Victorian had been a solid club with

good players. As well, he liked to

think they played the game the right

way. They weren’t as flamboyant as

Paradiso but, unlike the ‘Heavenly

Host’ -- a bloody stupid name, he

thought to himself, not for the first

time -- his lads felt no need to make

hay from every opportunity offered




by those who tested the boundaries

of fair play. If a Brownie took a

knock, he picked himself up and

dusted himself off. If he went down

too easy, he raised a hand to let the

official know.

Playing that way, Vic were never

going to win anything. It wasn't like

they had the talent or depth of

Paradiso, or their luck with the offi-

cials. And that, he supposed, was

what had made him listen to Moggi.

Just once, he’d like to taste victory

and the 'Italian' had come to him

with a proposition that was difficult

to refuse.

He knew that 'Moggi' was just an af-

fectation. The Stygian chairman had

a flair for the theatrical, intrinsic to

his nature, Ebenezer supposed. No,

the Victorian knew with whom he

was really dealing. Still, even when

one saw through the disguise,

Moggi could be quite persuasive.

Stygian was the only club, other

than Paradiso, which had ever won

the Celestial League. That is, except

for Asgard’s one fleeting triumph,

playing with such incredible vigor in

the aftermath of Ragnarok. No

matter, however. The reality was

that Stygian and Paradiso were the

two biggest sides, therefore able to

take their pick from the strongest

spirits and reap the rewards of

having the largest followings. Work-

ing for either of them offered oppor-

tunities that employment with any

other club could not. He had been

surprised, though, that one of them

would want him. Even more so,

when the one to ask had been the

Inferno.

Until now, both clubs had stuck ex-

clusively to their own kind; Paradiso

recruited from the heroes and the

wise, Stygian from the monsters and

villains. Yet, the Stygian chairman

had contacted him to propose a new

project. He had come to the conclu-

sion, He said, that the club’s

prospects were severely limited by

recruiting only from the “strictly

Evil”. Ebbie wasn’t fooled. The

club’s prospects and Moggi’s were

one and the same, pure and simple.

And Moggi was as “strictly Evil” as

you could get. As good and sensible

as the offer sounded, Ebbie wasn’t

ever going to forget with whom he

had involved himself.




That was one of the main reasons

that Marley was in the squad. It

paid to have someone whom you

could trust, not just to keep an eye

on the lads, but to mind your back

with the higher-ups. Marley was

good at that -- very good -- and, if he

could keep Moggi’s crew from med-

dling too much, Ebbie might just pull

this off. Plus, the old fellow was a

first-rate left-back.

“The one thing the Celestial League

lacks, Ebbie,” Moggi had said, put-

ting his arm around his prospective

new boss in the quiet pub, “is a bit

of free agency. They do not have a

Bosman, here. No one wants it, do

they? Everyone stays with their own

and, truth be told, it is making the

league stagnant.

“What is needed is to mix things up

a little. Now, I would love to have

one or two of the Pure in my squad

but none of them would ever come.

Nor would the supporters ever

permit it, in any event.

“But there is plenty of talent, very

good talent, mind, at which Paradiso

too readily thumbs their nose.”

Ebbie had arched a quizzical brow at

that bit of pot, kettle, black, and

Moggi’s eyes had twinkled in

response. Raising his hands in mock

surrender, he had laughed heartily.

“True, true. Stygian has been no

different but that is going to change,

beginning with you. You, my friend,

are not Evil, not by half. But no

matter what you have done in the

interim, you just cannot shake that

reputation for being uncharitable,

can you? No, that lot talk a good

game but when it comes right down

to it, they are not as quick to forgive

and forget as they would like you to

believe.

“So, what I want you to do, if you

take on the job, is shake up the

roster. The Horseman is out for the

year, so the club will need a ‘keeper

right off, and Vlad could benefit

from a midfielder with a bit of an

imagination, pulling the strings.

Find some good players, cast in a

similar light to yourself, and offer

them whatever it takes. Then whip

them into shape!”

Moggi’s eyes sparkled again and his

laugh was twice as loud, as he




slapped an uncomprehending Ebbie

on the back with a bit too much

enthusiasm.

“Well, do not whip them literally.

Leave some of the fun for me!”

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Rebekah sat in the office Murdoch

had supplied, poring over the

dossiers Wendi had delivered. Be-

fore she left, Wendi had run her

hand, with its long dark fingernails,

down Rebekah’s cheek.

“Don’t spend too much time on

this,” she purred. “All work and no

play makes Beckie a dull girl.”

Putting one finger into her mouth

and sucking on it seductively, she

clomped out, tail swishing again.

Rebekah felt an odd mixture of fear,

repulsion and anticipation that she

didn’t know quite how to resolve. It

wasn’t nearly as vexing a problem as

how she was going to hack into

Heaven’s mainframe, however.

Murdoch was certain that there was

damaging information contained in

it and he had provided detailed

backgrounds on the entire Paradiso

squad and staff. The only one that

he thought was beyond reproach

was Gandhi. He had left handwrit-

ten notes in the margin of all the

rest.

David would be the easiest, Mur-

doch, thought. A dyed in the wool

womaniser, Murdoch was certain

that his old habits lived on. It was

just a matter of catching him out.

Perseus, he opined was more of the

same. No man put so much oil in his

hair or that much work into his tan,

if he wasn’t chasing some tail. And

wasn’t a winged horse perfect for

when one suddenly had to leave

through a second-story window?

Gabriel, the Archangel and manager

of the club was almost certainly gay.

No-one this side of Lady Gaga had

any other reason to dress so an-

drogynously, and how many men

did she know who plucked their eye-

brows daily?

It was his assessment of the Par-

adiso chairman which really shocked

her, though. To accuse Jesus of

Nazareth of paedophilia! -- “Suffer

the children, indeed!” was scrawled




in the margin. She shook her head

but, somehow, thinking back on the

issues at home, with Rome, a seed

of doubt took root. She shook her

head again. Murdoch was insidious.

A drop of blood fell on the page.

She looked at it, puzzled.

Another drop splattered lightly near

the first.

Rebekah put a hand to her face,

where Wendi had caressed her.

Three fingers came away bathed in

crimson. She scrambled in her

purse for a compact and thought to

herself frantically that there had to

be a way out.

“Jesus, help me!” she whispered as

she dabbed at the thin line running

from just under her eye to her jaw-

line.

A sultry voice outside the door let

loose a sinister laugh.

End Part I... ■





DANNY CHADBURN >

Don’t like how we’re playing? Change the channel.

By whatever means, we’re here to dismantle,

Forward all complaints to the morally dubious goals panel.

>


JOSHUA ASKEW >

Football supporters are a contradic-

tory bunch. We whinge and moan

about players only being motivated

by money or showing little passion,

but when they do everything in their

power to win by bending the rules,

we castigate them, claiming they are

ruining the sport.

Football and cheating have always

been entwined; the very existence

of rules is an admittance that there

are people out there willing to break

them. Perhaps that’s true on an

individual basis, but when it comes

to widespread practice, it’s fair to

say that it wasn’t all that prevalent

until quite some time after the rules


ART OF WINNING


were codified in 1863. It’s also fair

to say that it’s not the fault of the

inventors’ nation.

Those who subscribe to the increas-

ingly popular self-loathing sub-

culture of English fandom might

point to Wayne Rooney or Steven

Gerrard, or even Francis Lee, as a

counterpoint, but truthfully it wasn’t

until foreign players were imported

to teach us that English players

began to regularly seek such oppor-

tunities. After all, Gerrard didn’t

dive when he was introduced by

Gerard Houllier as a rambunctious

ball-winning midfielder. Rooney

certainly didn’t appreciate Cristiano

Ronaldo’s shenanigans in Portugal

back in 2004. We are slowly catch-

ing up, but England are novices

when compared to most other

nations.

No, the holy land for gamesmanship

can be found in sunnier climes, in

quite possibly the greatest football

nation on earth: Italy. Throughout

their history, the Italians have mixed

greatness with scandal. As George

Orwell observed, “for thirty years

under the Borgias they had warfare,

terror, murder and bloodshed but

they produced Michelangelo,

Leonardo da Vinci and the Renais-

sance. In Switzerland, they had

brotherly love; they had five hun-

dred years of democracy and peace

and what did they produce? The

cuckoo clock.”

The Swiss were more productive

than Orwell gives them credit for,

actually. With the help of Austrian

coach Karl Rappan, they developed

a pretty successful football system

called the verrou -- so what did their

Italian neighbours do? They stole

and refined it as catenaccio. Inter-

nazionale manager Helenio Herrera

saw the brilliance of the system and

used it to conquer Europe. There

are also allegations, however, that

he augmented the pirated system by

systematically doping his players

and fixing matches.

Former Inter player Sandro Mazzola,

brother of star man Ferruco,

claimed: “Herrera provided pills that

were to be placed under our

tongues. He used to experiment on

us bench players only to later give

them to the first team players.

Some of us would eventually spit

them. It was my brother, Sandro,


ART OF WINNING JOSHUA ASKEW >


who suggested to me that if I had no

intention of taking them, to just run

to the toilet and spit them. Eventu-

ally Herrera found out and decided

to dilute them in coffee. From that

day on ‘Il Caffè Herrera’ became a

habit at Inter.

“I don't know for sure [what was in

the pills] but I believe ampheta-

mines. Once, after a Caffè Herrera,

it was prior to Como vs Inter (1967),

I suffered three days and nights in a

state of complete hallucinations,

just like an epileptic.”

Mazzola also pointed to the suspi-

cious deaths of many of the side,

including captain Armando Picchi

and Carlo Tagnin, while hinting at

“fixed matches and bribed referees,

especially in cup ties”. Liverpool

manager Bill Shankly was not overly

fond of Herrera for this reason,

especially amid suspicions of Inter

bribing referee Jose Maria Ortiz de

Mendibil for the second leg of their

clash in the 1965 European Cup

semi-final.

Tommy Smith was so angry with one

decision he chased De Mendibil off

the pitch.

"We started OK, holding our own for

20 minutes, then they were

awarded a free-kick 20 yards out. To

this day I can still see the referee

holding his arm up to signal an

indirect free kick. Next thing we

knew their left-half, Mario Corso,

pops up and chips the ball straight

past Tommy Lawrence.

"I'm not saying any of the Inter

players were on the fiddle, but the

fact is the ball didn't touch anyone

and the referee was adamant it was

a goal. We remonstrated with him

but he just ran back to the centre

circle saying 'goal, goal, goal’.

"Their second was just as bad, if not

worse. Lawrence had the ball in his

hands and as he bounced it to kick

it clear, Joaquin Peiro crept in from

behind him to nick the ball and roll

it into the net.

"I remember being with the England

squad in Belfast when George Best

did the same to Gordon Banks, and

the goal was disallowed. But not in

Milan. So we are 2-0 down and 3-3

on aggregate. Ian St John then

scores and there's nothing wrong




with it, but the referee chalks it off

for offside. At this point I'm starting

to think there's no way we are going

to win this tie.

"Giacinto Facchetti scored a great

goal, their third and the winner. But

it was what had gone on before that

riled me. I was only 20 at the time

and to be robbed of a place in the

European Cup final by a referee like

that made me so angry. Needless to

say, I had a few words with him [De

Mendibil] afterwards, but he didn't

want to know. He didn't even break

his stride as I followed him off the

pitch."

Inter went through, winning 4-3 on

aggregate, much to the disgust of

Shankly. Crucially, nothing has ever

been proven, despite the best

efforts of Brian Glanville in The

Golden Fix. The same can’t be said

for some of Italy’s other clubs, un-

fortunately.

A name that should be familiar to

anyone following Italian football in

recent years is “Lucky” Luciano

Moggi, the Juventus managing

director who was given a life ban

from football for his role in

Calciopoli. Before his

tenure at Italy’s biggest

club he had spent

some time at their

local rivals Torino.

Moggi preferred honey

to vinegar, thus the

referees of three of

Torino’s UEFA Cup matches were

greeted in their hotel rooms by

prostitutes. Torino won all three

games. Despite the court later con-

cluding that “there was clearly an

attempt to sweeten the severity of

the referees in favour of Torino, of

whom they were guests, and render

them less free in their judgements”,

UEFA did nothing, as there wasn’t

enough evidence to link the prosti-

tutes directly to Moggi or Torino.

In 1998, Czech-Italian coach Zdenek

Zeman made a series

of comments about

the culture of doping

in football, aiming his

barbs main ly at

Juventus. The club

didn’t react well and a

series of libel cases

were filed, with Gianluca Vialli

calling Zeman a “terrorist”. But the

accusations had caught the eye of



Crucially, nothing

has ever been

proven, despite

the best efforts of

Brian Glanville


investigating magistrate Raffaele

Guariniello. Enough evidence was

found to take Juve to trial. In 2004,

club doctor Riccardo Agricola was

found guilty of supplying and admin-

istering illegal substances, although

the club itself went unpunished as

Guariniello couldn’t prove they had

ordered the drug use. Severe

damage had already been done to

Juve’s reputation, however, which

was only worsened when a video of

Fabio Cannavaro injecting himself

with “vitamins” was released.

Moggi, at Juventus since 1994, had

not been involved in the doping of

players, but the taint did have a

knock-on effect. Investigations into

Juve’s doping involved the tapping

of various phones, giving authorities

access to conversations in which

Moggi, and various other figures,

solicited referee nominator Pierluigi

Pairetto for referees believed to be

favourable to their clubs. The cham-

pions were punished heaviest,

relegated to Serie B and stripped of

two league titles, while Milan,

Fiorentina, Lazio and Reggina were

given lesser punishments. Suddenly

Moggi didn’t seem so lucky.

Match-fixing and doping -- the off-

field cheating -- should never be

glamorised: the former renders the

sport completely pointless and the

latter causes physical harm to the

players.

Diving, however, is fair game as far

as I’m concerned. It’s not hon-

ourable, but it is undoubtedly clever.

In the practice of the art, once again

it’s Italy that reigns supreme. It’s

not that they do it more frequently

than anyone else; they just do it

better.

Their technique in deceiving refer-

ees is second to none. While the

Portuguese, Brazilians and Spaniards

regularly throw themselves to the

ground and remonstrate (think

Ronaldo, Dani Alves or Sergio

Busquets), they are too theatrical.

Italians, perhaps influenced by the

acting chops of Marcello Mas-

troianni, are more realistic. Think of

Fabio Grosso’s tumble to win a

penalty against Australia at the 2006

World Cup. To this day, I still can’t

work out if he dived or not. He

obviously could have stayed on his

feet, but was the momentum that

took him into Lucas Neill genuine or




engineered?

The great Italian journalist Gianni

Brera famously claimed, “In Italy we

have never heard of fair play.” Brera

had some strange evolutionary

theories, positing that Italians were

naturally a physically weaker race,

forced to rely upon their brains to

survive. That meant being furbo

(crafty) and playing defensive foot-

ball. Whether his theories were

correct or his readers believed them

was immaterial, Brera had correctly

noted that Italians had added an

extra dimension to the game.

It was no longer just the physical or

mental act of playing football; it was

also the psychological exploitation

of the opposition. Marco Materazzi

showcased this as well as any in

2006. Zinedine Zidane was one of

the greatest footballers in the his-

tory of the sport but he was also

sent off fourteen times over the

course of his career. He represented

the greatest danger to the Azzurri,

yet all Materazzi needed to do to

remove him was to make a few

remarks (allegedly) about his sister.

This psychological dominance ex-

tends to other areas of the game.

Italians learnt before most of the

world the brilliance of the tactical

foul. With a fairly innocuous

challenge, a defender could stop

play before a dangerous breakaway

without risking a caution. At least

they could, until attackers learnt

that if they threw themselves to the

ground, wearing pained expres-

sions, the defenders would often be

booked for their cynical play. Diving,

therefore, is a cynical reaction to

cynical play, fighting fire with fire, as

it were.

It’s all very good condemning the

practice but, when it works, it will

more than likely lead to a result.

Football is a game of such fine

margins, any advantage to be had

can be the difference between win-

ning and losing. Everyone laughed

at Arsène Wenger’s Fancy Dan

continental techniques until he

won; then they suddenly became

much more appealing.

And therein lies Italy’s problem.

Playing fairly is honourable and

good for the soul et cetera, but if

you are routinely losing out to

opposition because they simply




don’t care, then the natural reaction

(so long as you are not as stubborn

as Wenger) is to copy them. Fact is,

the human element of refereeing is

an easily exploitable flaw. Now that

everyone has cottoned to this, the

Italians have lost their competitive

edge.

At Euro 2004, Francesco Totti was

banned for three matches and had

to offer a public apology to Christian

Poulsen after he had spat at the

Danish midfielder during a group

game. Totti’s excuse was that he

had been provoked by Poulsen, just

as Zidane would be by Materazzi

two years later. Totti is a phenome-

nal footballer, yet also has a well-

deserved reputation for being

rather childish, so Poulsen was

dygtige (furbo) and took advantage

of his weakness.

Totti was criticised in Italy for falling

into Poulsen’s trap, while rumours

floated about of interest in the

Schalke midfielder from several of

Serie A’s top clubs. He eventually

joined Juventus four years later.

The situation worsened at the 2010

World Cup. Finding themselves 2-0

down to Slovakia and with time run-

ning out, Italy were in desperate

need of goals. Antonio Di Natale

pulled one back, but Slovakia

wasted time (another dishonourable

tactic) as much as they could. Their

most effective method was to fall

down whenever the opportunity

arose, earning a free-kick and with it

a break in play. Italy, unable to wres-

tle control of the game, were getting

visibly frustrated. Kamil Kopunek

gave Slovakia a third, making a late

Fabio Quagliarella strike academic.

Slovakia had given the Azzurri a

taste of their own medicine.

Italy will most probably continue to

be one of the greatest football

nations in the world, but if Gianni

Brera was right, they’ll need to

come up with a few new tricks. ■




Nigel had not felt this relaxed

since… well, since he’d been asleep

for a century, actually. The warm,

clean water lapped against his belly

and the wind licked his bare neck as

he gazed up to the heavens. The sky

was as clear as the water. Sounds of

merriment came clearly through the

summer air, and amidst the faint ris-

ing steam he could see children

playing happily on the other side of

the pool. Beyond them, further in

the distance an impressive cathedral

stood proudly against the skyline.

“Of course, it is not so good as the

originals, back in my country, but

your ragazzi have done a good

imitation here, mio amico.”

Dio winked at Nigel. The Italian

deity was a great historian, but was


Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Two Gods In A Tub


always comparing the present with

the “glorious” past and ignoring

some of the uglier truths. Who could

blame him, though? Like Nigel’s

lads, the Macaronies had once held

a great empire, only to oversell

themselves, forcing their retreat back

into one small corner of the world.

In fact, it had been Dionigi’s lot who

had provided the inspiration for his

own. No, Nigel wouldn’t argue with

his friend’s nostalgia, especially

when he chose to praise England and

their modern twist on the Roman

Baths. He directed a lazy, playful

splash in his companion’s direction.

“Yes, ‘twas a good suggestion my

friend. Light, this water’s as fresh as

Aphrodite’s ambrosia! It’s no

wonder the mortals believe King

Bladud was cured by this stuff, I’d

half believe it myself if I didn’t

know the truth.”

That drew another wink from Dio.

“We all know what happened there,

don’t we, amico? There was quite a

furore in the council when you

pulled off that little trucco. Did not

you and Otto come to blows?”

Nigel feigned offence. “Us two?

Surely not! Otto and I have always

got on like a house on fire. What-

ever yarns you’ve been spun about

Berlin and Ramona are all balder-

dash. Hand on heart!”

Nigel made the signal as the two

gods chuckled. He continued.

“I try not to break the doctrine too

often, but old Bladud had to live. I

saw greatness in his bones -- and

come, without him there’d have been

no Leir. Mortals around the world

adore tales about him. Everyone

could see it was a necessary interjec-

tion.”

Dio nodded sincerely. “That is why

I like you, Nigel. We see, how you

say, eye to eye? Rules, they are there

to keep us in check, yes, but some-

times we need to bend them, test

why they are there, no? Diavolo!

Was it not a man of these views who

inspired you to create the game?”

“Robin? Oh, aye. He gave me that

blackguard sheriff’s head to kick

about, right enough, although that

wasn’t his intent. Yet men such as

he, willing to blaze a path, are fewer

and farther between. In any case,


RUB-A-DUB-DUB, TWO GODS IN A TUB


there must be good reason behind the

infringement, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, of course. But you

Inglese, you’re all too ‘please-and-

thank you’, all tangled up like

spaghetti in what’s right” -- he fairly

spat out the last word -- “even if it

hurts your own kind. Even Pierre

and Gaston’s ragazzi, they know

when to break free, go their own

way. If you have to do wrong to do

right, then do as you must! That

Bonaparte uomo, did he not write the

laws for the whole of Europe, and in

his own way?”

The direction of the conversation

was becoming uncomfortable. Nigel

wondered how Pierre and Gaston,

the rats, had wormed their way into

Dio’s thoughts.

“Napoleon? Well... I suppose you

could argue that. But you can’t be

putting those two nasty buggers on a

pedestal with him! They can barely

keep their own cretins under control,

let alone lead the rest of Europe.

Heavens, next you’ll be telling me

you’re off to dine with them after

you’ve towelled off!”

Dio had sunk into the pool so only

his head was bobbing above the

water, and at this point he inhaled

sharply, taking in a mouthful of the

mineral-rich liquid. He spluttered

and required a sharp pat on the back

before he could answer.

“Thank you, mio amico but no, no.

Don’t be silly. Still, it is those two I

come here to discuss, actually.”

Nigel’s brow furrowed into a frown.

He’d known there was a reason for

the Dio’s surprise visit. A trip to the

refurbished Thermae Bath Spa was

something Padraig or Hamish might

suggest, but his Italian counterpart

usually claimed the British buildings

were too grey, the air too hard, or the

rain to rainy to leave his beloved

sunny Mediterranean fort.

A single cloud had appeared in the

sky, which the sun took as a sign for

a nap. A chill swept through the air

and down Nigel’s spine. The chil-

dren had left and in the place of their

gaiety was a middle-aged couple,

quarreling about the Shades knew

what. Without reaching for a towel,

he abruptly stood up. The old crone

gasped and covered her mouth in

outrage. He noted that she didn’t




look away, though.

Looking down at Dio, he chuckled

and said, “If Pierre and Gaston are to

be the subject of this conversation,

let’s find a more secluded spot, shall

we?”

* * *

“Madame has a problem?”

“I most certainly do.”

Pierre sneered at the pasty-faced ma-

tron, sizing her up from top to bot-

tom: royal blue floppy hat with ‘I ❤

Paris’ embroidered upon it; powder-

blue, heart-shaped sunglasses; ex-

cessive rouge and chapped lipstick;

floral blouse, seams protesting at the

strain they were under; massive lime

green purse with garishly coloured

rhinestones; hot pink Bermuda

shorts; massive cottage cheese

thighs; bright yellow sandals, with

mock daisies over the foot.

“Would Madame care to inform me

as to ze nature of her dilemma?”

A hesitant frown. “You want me to

tell you what my problem is?”

“Oui.”

“Oh, well then, just say so for

heaven’s sake!”

Pierre bounced once on the balls of

his feet in response and waited for

her to continue.

“This, Gar-so-an, is not authentic

French Bean coffee.”

“It is not?”

“No, it is not! I know French Bean

coffee when I drink it. I buy a five-

pound bag at Tesco’s every week.”

“Ah, a gourmet!”




“Wee.”

“Madame is from where?”

“Stoke. On Trent.”

“Ah, but of course. Well, I must

apologise. Madame is quite correct.

At Pierre and Gaston’s we do not

serve authentic French Bean coffee,

as we only buy imported beans from

ze Medellin region of Colombia. We

have an exclusive arrangement with

an exporter in the region.

“If Madame is amenable, Pierre

would be happy to prepare her a

special cafe latte from our finest

blend. On ze ‘ouse, of course...”

The woman puffed out her ample

bosom and smiled.

“Wee. That will do nicely, mare-see

bough-coo.”

Pierre bestowed ‘Madame’ with a

sickly sweet smile, snapped his heels

together, and, turning smartly,

hustled into the cafe. As he strode

up to the counter, smile replaced by

a sinister glare, Gaston came out of

the kitchen, a concerned look on his

face.

“My ears are burning,” he said.

“And...?” Pierre noisily busied

himself making the latte; rattling

cups and spoons, slamming cooler

doors open and shut, yanking the

espresso machine handle and over-

doing the steam.

“Someone is talking about us,”

Gaston explained.

“And...?” Pierre took the cup of latte

from the machine and placed it on

the counter. He spat in it three times,

with gusto.

“Someone important,” Gaston

added.

“And...?” Pierre jammed his pinkie

up a nostril wiggled it around for a

moment and then dipped it into the

latte.

“And,” Gaston summed up, “They

do not mean well -- or I am a

cherub.”

Pierre glanced at his partner, just to

make sure, and then snorted. For

good measure, he spat into the latte




twice more and hurried back outside.

Emerging into the bright sun, he

squinted for a moment, then locked

his gaze on the Englishwoman. He

stopped in front of the table and

placed the latte before her with a

flourish. Finally, he took a step back

and awaited her approval.

Picking up the cup, pinkie extended,

she inhaled the aroma. She took a

tentative sip, nodded her head and

took another. Putting the cup down,

she smiled up at Pierre.

“Wee, that is much better, mare-see.”

“Madame is a true connoisseur,”

Pierre announced.

The woman nodded her head in

frank agreement, pushed her glasses

back up her nose and took in the

traffic on the square. She reached

for the cup again, giving Pierre a

dismissive wave in the process.

He turned and sidled back into the

cafe.

“Rosbifs!” he swore in disgust.

He walked over to where Gaston

leaned, back against the counter, and

took up a position beside him, from

which he, too, could keep an eye on

the street.

“Do you think it is Nigel?”

Gaston snorted in turn, “Who else?”

Pierre nodded in assent and consid-

ered the ramifications of this.

There was no doubting the severity

of the news, he concluded. Gaston

had incredibly sensitive ears.

“Perhaps we should close up for a

few days and take care of the fool

once and for all. I am getting sick of

this shit-hole anyway!”

“Non, I do not think so. For one

thing, I am not sure who it is he is

speaking with. For another, things

have been tight. We need the busi-

ness.”

Pierre looked around the almost

empty cafe and let out another snort.

“That is an understatement. But can

we afford to do nothing?”




Gaston considered for a moment.

“Non, mon ami, we cannot. We need

to know what he is planning, to

somehow keep an eye on him with-

out his knowledge.”

Pierre laughed. “I know just the per-

son for the job,” he said.

Pushing himself away from the

counter he scurried around the other

side, reached underneath and pulled

out an old rotary dial phone.

Pulling a raggedy little notebook

from his apron pocket, he licked his

fingers and peeled back pages until

he found the contact he wanted.

Dialing the number, he tapped his

foot to the time of its receding hum.

When the party on the other end

picked up, he didn’t waste his time

with formalities.

“You are available? --

Eavesdropping, Gaston could hear

an affirmative murmur.

“Bon. I have work for you. --

-- Inquisitive murmur.

“Discreet work. --

-- Demanding murmur.

“Ouais, that is acceptable. Come to

the café this evening, at closing. I

will give you the details.”

Without waiting for confirmation, he

slammed the receiver down in the

cradle and whisked the instrument

back under the counter.

He glanced at Gaston, who had a

questioning look on his face.

“I have used this person in the past,”

he explained. “and I was most

pleased with the work done.”

Gaston nodded his head and returned

his attention to the street. “Bon. I

leave it to you, then.”

There was a rattling and screeching

outside and a tour bus lurched to a

halt just outside the cafe. A gaggle

of tourists, gawking in every direc-

tion and dressed much like the

Englishwoman began filing off and

taking seats.

Pierre rolled his eyes, dreading the




next hour of kow-towing to mindless

foreigners.

“Mon Dieu! I am so sick of this shit-

hole!” ■





DANNY CHADBURN >

It’s unfathomably tough when you own the whole shop,

There’s no place to hide; with you the buck stops.

The dankest of shit holes needs a strong leader up top.

>


DAVID HARTRICK >

EPISODE TWO

Day 12 -- Football Manager & Ex-

Internationals

To whom it may concern,

I wish to register a keen interest in

the manager’s job at your club. I

feel I am enthusiastic, outgoing, and

have good organisational skills.

Though I do not have any managerial

experience per se, I have played

Football Manager extensively using

your club, making me well-accus-

tomed to the names, strengths and

weaknesses of the current playing

staff, and I feel I’m amply qualified


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES


to make the step up to real life

management.

I feel simply by adjusting the training

schedules of the players and boost-

ing their morale with some one-on-

one talks I can achieve big results. I

will also look to sign some young-

sters I know about from the game,

who will definitely go on to become

wonderkids for us. This will of

course require some financial

backing from you.

I feel I should make it clear from the

outset I need at least an assistant

manager, coach, goalkeeping coach,

fitness coach, youth coach and two

physiotherapists. I have some

names in mind for all of these posi-

tions but I will need a little help

speaking to the Premier League

sides these people currently work

for. I will also need to examine the

training facilities as I feel an upgrade

may be required.

What is the contract currently on

offer? I appreciate you are quite a

small club but I would be looking at

about £10,000 per week to start

with, and a reasonable bonus

structure when we make our way up

the leagues. Once European football

is secured in the future I feel I should

be suitably rewarded with a stake in

the club.

Please disregard my age; I may only

be 15 but as I said I have literally

spent hours on Football Manager

and within six seasons I can get any

team up at least three divisions,

which always includes at least one

decent cup run. I feel I’m now totally

ready to make the next step. Your

club seems to be the perfect place

for me to begin my managerial

career and I’m excited to commence

negotiations to join.

Looking forward to your response, I

am available for an interview any

time so long as you work around my

school hours.

Yours sincerely,

James Evans.

So reads my one and only applica-

tion for the vacant manager’s job at

this armpit of a football club. A 15-

year-old who wants £10k a week,

more staff than most League One

clubs can afford, and for us all to


THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >


work ‘round his school hours. He

feels like he’s up to it. I feel sick.

Not to labour a point I’ve made on

several occasions since buying this

place -- but what a shit hole.

The chair groans unhealthily as I

lean back, one more dissenting

voice to join my own. Completely

flouting any number of health and

safety issues, let alone government

laws, I grab the cigarettes from the

desk and spark up another. Having

no windows and being buried deep

in the stand the office has taken on

the fog of a busy taproom in the

sixties. Only, I’m in here on my own

and I don’t really feel like getting to

my feet, let alone dancing.

I have now taken this small room as

base camp for the continuing adven-

tures of a stupid man saddled with

a northern shit hole nobody wants

to buy, or even visit on a Saturday

afternoon between the hours of

three and five. It’s sparse, dark and

smells of charity shops and senile

grandmothers. Since I came here,

the only improvement I’ve made is

taking the ‘Manager’ sign off the

door.

In short, it’s a hiding place.

I really should be getting proactive

by now. Whenever I’ve taken over a

company, in my business career, I’ve

made a point of going in myself,

shaking hands, building bridges and

focusing on making the absorption

process as smooth as possible by

working with the existing staff. Peo-

ple fear change and, rather than

come across as the big bad redun-

dancy monster, I’ve found it’s far

more effective to grab a pickaxe and

chip away at the coal face with

them.

But this isn’t a business I’ve bought

for a song and am looking to make a

huge profit from in the long term.

This is a football club.

A non-League football club.

A non-League football club where

no-one likes me and the whole place

had gone to shit long before I

arrived.

Fuck me, even I’m becoming sick of

my own internal moaning. There’s




so much that needs to be dealt with

that I am completely at a loss as to

where to start. I don’t know if it’s

the smoke, the damp or the first

signs of panic, but suddenly I feel

choked. It’s all conspiring to stop

me breathing, each problem digs a

little deeper into my chest, telling

me I’m a fucking idiot. Besides the

15-year-old’s application, today’s

other little bundle of joy from the

postman is a letter from the council

informing me that if improvements

aren’t made to the spectacularly,

optimistically named ‘Grand Stand’

within a period of eight weeks, we’ll

be required by council order to close

it until they have inspected and ap-

proved the repairs. This leads me to

one conclusion.

Even the buildings are against me.

How do I get myself out of this fog,

both figuratively and literally? How

do I lift the depression from what

should be the happiest investment

of my life?

Maybe a blast of cold northern air is

just what I need to clear my mind

and help me focus. Today isn’t a

match day but I’m here trying to get

my arse into gear and some deci-

sions made. I need to find the thing

that will make me fall in love with

the place, and quickly, or I’m in

serious danger of throwing the

towel in, turning this club into a

supermarket and becoming even

more unpopular.

I reluctantly rise to my feet, walk out

into the corridor, now also filled

with smoke, and then through the

exit to the car park. The Range

Rover sits just in front of me, splat-

tered with the spoils of a drive along

muddy back roads that always delay

my arrival. I could just get in and go,

leaving all this shit to an accountant

to sort out. The air slaps your face

and dances across your breath when

it’s this cold, and it’s that bite that

grounds me back in reality. These

are my problems. This is my football

club. These are my decisions to

make.

A noisy walk across popping candy

gravel takes me round and through

the gate to pitch side. At the far end

of my little utopia a groundsman,

whom have I have no idea if I’m pay-

ing or not, slaps white paint up and

down a goalpost. On slightly closer

inspection I realise it’s Richard, our




volunteer club secretary and all

round dogsbody. He waves and

shouts over a “Hello, Mr Chairman”

and I nod a response. He is without

doubt the stupidest man I have ever

met. When he found out I made

most of my money in computers his

response was to nod sagely and

offer the now immortal, “like those

two Italian brothers who made

themselves a fortune, Mario and

Luigi.”

I wander over to the manager’s

dugout for a few moments shelter

from the breeze. Instead of being

joined on the bench by Richard and

a permanently injured physio (the

irony always fails to lighten my

mood for some reason), today my

company is a small radio tuned to

talkSPORT and the remains of a

packed lunch. I slump down onto

the seat and the cigarette gives a

little fizz as I draw on it again.

For a few glorious moments my

mind drifts away, but then I’m back

in a world where football rules over

all else when I hear a name on the

radio I haven’t heard for a couple of

years. Ex-England international

Craig Wetherill is chatting with the

two presenters about some charity

he’s involved in. Wethers was an

elegant player ruined by injury, a

move to Manchester United all but

destroyed by a snapped cruciate if

memory serves me right. He’s going

on about some event in London on

Saturday night that he’s hosting,

hoping to make a load of money

from the usual silent auctions and

suchlike. I stop listening after a

while though, my mind’s elsewhere.

He’s taken me to another, much

happier football-related place.

I saw Wethers play at his pomp and

he was something else. I watched

him destroy Huddersfield Town on

his own, playing at the heart of

Brighton & Hove Albion’s midfield,

scoring twice and setting up another

three. I also saw him play in an Eng-

land shirt, something that would

have happened enough times to

give David Beckham sleepless nights

but for the injuries.

He was that one player the crowd all

aspired to be, the man the team

revolved round and danced to. His

career was stolen but he remains

one of English football’s great ‘what

ifs?’, often cited as another reason




our national side continues to disap-

point. I remember the slight swag-

ger as he ran with the ball, the

goosebumps if it fell to him in the

right position. I remember the man

before the treatment table and I

remember the dawning sense of a

talent stolen by a bad challenge as

the weeks without his name on a

team sheet spun on and on.

As the talkSPORT conversation

moves through a succession of guest

speakers all discussing what sounds

like will be a great night, I joyfully

reminisce about a time when foot-

ball didn’t mean despair and depres-

sion. It’s still just about possible.

They talk about the charity, then

briefly talk about his career.

Wethers is on good form and takes

it all in his stride, answering ques-

tions he’s been asked a hundred

times before. He tackles the inter-

view with the same confidence he

once attached to his dribbling.

Suddenly he says the one thing that

stops any other thought forming in

my mind, the phrase that begins a

plan to dig myself out of this hole

and make me fall in love with this

place.

“I’m looking to get into manage-

ment somewhere.”

To be continued... ■




Nigel supposed that a darkened

corner of the Brunello, in London’s

Bagliano Hotel, offered more discre-

tion than the spas at Bath -- or it did

once the bloody violinist pipped to

the fact that he and Dio weren’t a

pair of ageing poofters out for a bit

of romance and hurried off to find

another couple, more inclined to

music than pugilism.

Breathing heavily, Nigel watched the

frightened fellow scurry off, and

pulled brusquely on his lapels, trying

to rid his mind of the insult. Dio,

relaxed and leaning back, one arm

draped over the back of the over-

stuffed leather booth, was laughing

softly at his friend’s outrage.

“You find that funny?”


Another Fine Mess


“Immensely, Nigel,” Dio replied,

glancing over his shoulder at the

poor fellow in retreat. “You have to

admit that we are dressed like a pair

of dandies, and it is late in the

evening. Hardly time for a business

meeting. This is the twenty-first

century, you know, not the Dark

Ages.”

Nigel ran his eyes over his compan-

ion. The Italian was wearing an

impeccably tailored Armani suit,

with a solid gold chain dangling

from the watch pocket. His shoulder

length black hair, lightly curled and

salted with grey, more so at the

temples, was slicked straight back

and tucked behind the ears, bound

into a short ponytail. His eyebrows

were plucked and his moustache and

van dyke neatly trimmed. A Rolex

peeked out from under one sleeve,

tennis bracelet from the other and

both hands, finely manicured,

sported gem-encrusted rings. He

was fit but there was just a hint of

softness around his eyes.

Beginning to see his friend’s point,

Nigel took stock of himself. Cer-

tainly rougher around the edges,

with his mussed hair and heavier

beard, the Savile Row suit with not

just a chain but an antique time

piece, nonetheless suggested some-

one accustomed to a privileged

lifestyle.

He laughed ruefully. “You’re right.

Maybe I should go apologise.”

As he took the first step, Dio reached

out a hand to stop him.

“No, amico, you’ll only frighten him

further. Come, sit. We’re here to

talk away from prying eyes, not to

advertise our presence to the entire

city.”

Nigel laughed and took his seat.

“You’re right again, old friend. I feel

bad for the fellow, though. I’ll

arrange a tip for him with the maitre

d’.” He frowned. “Don’t you

fellows have a term for that? The

French one puts me off at the mo-

ment.”

Dio laughed again.

“If you mean the Children of the

Wolf, amico, you forget that I am

originally an Athenian, although I

have been among the Romans for so

long that I seem to have blended


ANOTHER FINE MESS


right in. At any rate, the answer to

your question is that we use the same

term, derived from the Latin, that

you Britons do: Maggiordomo.”

Nigel threw back his head and

laughed aloud, startling some of the

nearby tables.

“Ah me, my friend, I must be stuck

in the Dark Ages indeed, if I forget

my own language. Majordomo,

indeed! I am grateful that you are

here to re-educate me. Come, let me

buy you a drink.”

Dio shook his head. “Just a mineral

water for me, amico, but feel no --

how do you say it? compunction,

yes? -- feel no compunction about

indulging yourself.”

Nigel looked at his friend in stunned

disbelief. “Am I hearing you right?

You are passing up the offer of free

drink?”

“You are hearing me correct, yes,

amico. Just mineral water for me.”

“I have been away for some time my,

friend, but I would never expect to

return to find that the legendary

Dionigi” -- Nigel raised a hand to

correct himself this time --

“Dionysus, the original reveler, the

patron saint of what this generation

so aptly calls the party animal has

gone cold turkey. What happened to

you?”

Dio spread his hands and shrugged,

in true Mediterranean style.

“I simply woke up with no memory

of how I had gotten myself in what-

ever predicament it was that I was in

one too many times. And most peo-

ple don’t stop to consider the balance

of things, Nigel. There is a price to

be paid for being the father of all

celebration, and it is that you are

eternally wed to the mother of all

hangovers. Thankfully, however,

despite settling in the Eternal City, I

never became a follower of the

Church of Rome. So, I got a

divorce.

“Have no fear, however. I will still

eat you under the table!”

Nigel looked at his friend at a loss

for words. He hoped the day would

never come when he tired of

watching over the Game, no matter


ANOTHER FINE MESS



ANOTHER FINE MESS

how much Man, not to mention

certain meddling Gallic deities,

tested him.

Dio saw the pity in his eyes and

wanted none of it.

“Come, amico, feel no loss for me. I

still find joy in life and reason to cel-

ebrate. Best of all, I have learned to

revel in the beauty of this world

without dulling my senses.” He

reached across the table and slapped

Nigel on the upper arm “Speaking

of which, regale me with the story of

your match in Argentina. I have

heard much rumour of it but I would

like to hear it told from the one who

lived it!”

Nigel smiled at the memory and

happily put aside his concern to re-

late the story of his South American

venture. He became so engrossed in

the telling that he was unaware of the

waiter standing there waiting to take

their order, or how long he had been

listening.

Nonplussed, he launched right into

ordering. “My friend will choose the

repast, as he is the expert, and, since

he has recently divested himself of a

section of his remit, I’ll take care of

the drinks. For me, a nice chianti...

I’ll trust you to select something

appropriate. For my friend” -- He

paused a moment to consult Dio --

“Will cranberry juice serve? I think

we’ve both taken enough mineral

water for one day”.

Dio smiled at the joke and bowed his

head.

“Cranberry juice it is then -- and

keep them coming, lad!” he added

with a wink. The waiter frowned at

Nigel, which caught the god out, but

before he could speak Dio claimed

the lad’s attention.

Ordering in a rapidly flowing,

almost musical Italian, Dio went too

fast for a confused Nigel to keep up.

The servant had put him off and he

hadn’t been down Dio’s way in an

age. He certainly needed a brush-up.

Thankfully, in his crash course on

personal computing, since awaken-

ing, he had come across something

called Rosetta Stone. He made a

mental note to follow up. In the

interim, he hoped Dio had stuck to

the classics. Nigel had already had

a few unpleasant surprises with the

so-called nouveau cuisine. The


French designation should have

tipped him off.

When Dio finished, the young man

muttered “grazie” in a put-on

feminine voice and waltzed off with

a bit too much of a sway about the

hips. No wonder the fiddle player

had gotten the wrong idea about him

and Dio; poofters were everywhere

these days.

Nigel leaned across the table and, in

a stage whisper, said, “The lad’s got

a wee bit of an attitude, dunnee?”

As he took a sip of water, pleased at

his little quip, Dio’s face creased into

a huge smile and he laughed heartily.

“Amico, that is because the lad, as

you say, is a lass.”

Nigel barely got the napkin to his

lips as he choked on the water. “A

lass? What are you on about? The

boy’s wearing a bleedin’ tux and he’s

as flat in the chest as the road be-

tween Baghdad and Damascus! I

think I’d notice if there was any ter-

rain there, my friend.”

“She,” Dio emphasised, as he con-

tinued to laugh, “may not be as --

how do you say? -- buxom as the

women whose company you prefer,

amico, but she is nonetheless a

woman.”

Nigel eyed him dubiously.

“No.”

Dio merely nodded his head.

“No!”

Another nod.

“No?”

A full on Mediterranean shrug.

“Bloody hell.”


ANOTHER FINE MESS


The ‘lad’ came back and set the wine

and cranberry juice on the table, then

left quietly. Nigel didn’t take his

eyes of him -- Fates! -- her the entire

time. He could see it now that he

looked beyond the uniform and the

close cropped hair. There was a

definite softness to her complexion,

an attractiveness that a man would

need make-up to pull off, and never

would bereft of it, as she was at the

moment. Why would she do that? A

touch of the rouge -- just a touch,

mind, -- here and there, and she’d be

gorgeous.

He felt like crap but he didn’t know

what to do about it. How do you tell

a beautiful woman that you’re sorry

you thought she was a man? His

eyes followed her as she walked

back across the room to the bar.

When she arrived, she gave him a

quick, cross glance. Sheepishly, he

stuck his nose in his chianti.

As the meal progressed, Dio tried to

keep the conversation on his

concerns about Pierre and Gaston.

According to him, the pair were out

to wrest complete control of the

Game from the other gods, who had,

in Nigel’s absence, agreed to work

together to foster its development,

with each deity policing only within

his own borders.

The arrangement had worked fine

for almost a century, but now the

Parisiens were looking to take over.

They had the support of a significant

bloc of minor deities and a handful

of the more powerful. Unfortu-

nately, those who opposed them had

split into two camps, and the divi-

sion was Nigel’s fault. His return

had polarised the opposition; they all

expected him to try to assume

command. A handful would back

him but most were as wary of him as

they were Pierre and Gaston.

Meanwhile, the Frenchies had paved

the way for a human in their flock to

become the head of FIFA. Dio

opined that the man actually had

some good ideas, but that the people

who came into power with him

would, too often, be carrying out

P&G’s agenda.

The pair were especially angry with

Dio, apparently after one of his lot

had goaded their best man into

making a fool of himself in that

World Cup whatsit final. Their man


ANOTHER FINE MESS


had headbutted his right in the chest

for speaking ill of his mother. The

duo wanted revenge and he was

afraid they would cut his beloved

Azzurri out of their rightful place in

the hierarchy..

Dio’s lot were a bit vulnerable, too.

The fans were being run off by rough

sorts and Dio insisted that these

Ultras had P&G’s fingerprints all

over them, although Nigel couldn’t

see how. It looked more like they

had copied his lot, he thought with

some shame. On the pitch, the Az-

zurri had grown old too quickly, but

they had caught it quick enough and

were beginning to put together a

new, younger squad. Dio observed

that England had much the same

problem. They even had an Italian

manager helping them sort it out,

although the British supporters

weren’t exactly thrilled. Dio seemed

to be offering further help in restor-

ing England’s pride -- in exchange

for what? A bit of protection?

Nigel was willing to help any friend

in need and would, he assured Dio,

but was having trouble wrapping his

head around the finer points of the

whole mess. Dio offered to intro-

duce him to a few friends who might

explain matters better and to spread

the word to the doubters that Nigel

wasn’t looking to put himself in

P&G’s place.

The Briton thought about that. Was

he? He wanted England back on top

but did that mean that they had to be

in charge, as in the days of the

recently-faded Empire, or part of a

co-operative, as in the days of

ancient Camelot? It was a difficult

question. Even a Round Table had a

head.

The best he could do was promise

Dio that he would consider the mat-

ter and meet again soon. Dio looked

him in the eye for a long moment

and, finally, gave one last Mediter-

ranean shrug before trying to pick up

the cheque.

Unfortunately that only led to more

trouble for Nigel. All throughout the

meal, which had turned out to be

traditional Neapolitan fare and

delicious, he had paid far too much

attention to the waiter -- waitress --

to bloody Hades with this politically

correct business! -- the server. He

could see that she was becoming


ANOTHER FINE MESS


ever more annoyed with his silent

staring, but he couldn’t find any

words. Now that he had stepped in

it, he couldn’t leave matters alone.

The argument over the bill grew loud

enough to draw unnoticed stares

from other tables. Finally, it esca-

lated into a ridiculous tug-of-war,

which Nigel suddenly and unexpect-

edly won. As he bellowed and leapt

to his feet in triumph, intending to

walk the bill over to the bar, his

momentum carried him right into the

poor girl, coming his way with a full

tray for the next table.

As various forms of tomato and

cream sauces formed a Jackson

Pollock classic on the front of her

blouse, she looked at a horrified

Nigel for a moment and then

screamed.

“What is wrong with you?!”

She might have leapt for his throat

had the manager, majordomo and

half of the floor staff not instantly

descended upon them. Nigel tried to

apologise but there were so many

bodies between him and the girl.

She was ushered into the kitchen,

like a head of state after an assassi-

nation attempt, before he could make

matters worse. Dio was no help. He

just sat in his seat, shaking with

laughter. With entertainment like

this, who needed the drink?

The manager refused to accept

payment for the meal. Nigel began

to worry that, in one shape or

another, the girl would end up pay-

ing, but the man barely seemed to

listen to his insistent pleas that the

whole thing had been his fault. He

only seemed interested in being rid

of Nigel and Dio and restoring his

dining room to its accustomed

elegance.

Nigel began to grow angry but Dio

finally herded him out the door.

They walked a few blocks, word-

lessly, ignoring a steady drizzle

which had begun while they were

inside. Suddenly, Nigel stopped.

Dio, who had gone on a step or two

turned.

“I can’t let it go, my friend,” Nigel

said. “I’m going back.”

“Then I will accompany you,

amico,” Dio volunteered.


ANOTHER FINE MESS


“No Dio, it will be fine. Really,

mate. I’ve got a hold of myself now.

I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Dio bowed his assent. “Very well,

amico. Then I will take my leave of

you. Thank you for a most entertain-

ing day.”

Nigel laughed and waved him off.

Dio, turned and walked away, fading

from sight half a block away. ■


ANOTHER FINE MESS



DANNY CHADBURN >

Forget the fucking ball; aim for the head

To the edge of destruction, full feet ahead.

It may not be attractive, it’s effective instead.

>


JUDE ELLERY >

Utter blackness. Utter silence. Pure

suspense. Nothing happens for

what seems an age.

Suddenly a thunderous sound rips

through the stage and out into the

vast crowd. Hairs on neck stand to

attention and hearts skip a beat as

the famous guitar riff surges

through their adoring souls. Over

and over it repeats, louder by the

bar.

Drums arrive, a rhythmic, tribal

beat, a cymbal struck with such

ferocity it must surely smash into a

thousand shards. Louder and

louder, louder and louder, till the air


THE ANTICHRIST


is so thick with reverberations the

sound is tangible.

A beam of light flashes down onto

the stage. There stands a man in

crucifix pose, back to the audience.

Hair long, blonde, curled and loose,

figure hugged by a pale silk shirt and

tight denim trousers. As the music

reaches an unfathomable decibel

the man looks skyward and erupts a

voice so high and pure it pierces the

deep, steady thump of the bass

drum and deafening guitar.

“Oh let the sun beat down upon my

face.”

With the next line, the man turns to

reveal himself as Robert Plant.

Simultaneously the entire stage is

bathed in warm yellow light. Jimmy

Page and John Paul Jones stroke

their humming guitars, while a

bearded John Bonham nods along,

in time, as the lighting fades from

yellow, to blue, to purple, to yellow.

The crowd is fixated, entranced. By

the time Led Zeppelin “Sit with eld-

ers of the gentle race” the audience

is enthralled, eyes wide, arms raised

skywards. They recite their leader’s

psalm, echoing his words as one.

Amid the catatonia, one man re-

mains untouched. His face is chis-

elled as from granite, hair shorn to

the skin but for a barbaric tuft --

shades of Genghis Khan -- jutting

out from an angular jaw. His breath

is quick and heavy but controlled: in

through pulsating nostrils, out

through grim, tight-lipped mouth.

His pulse runs rapidly but his thoughts

flow steadily, clearly. Clenching his

fists and puffing out his chest, he

strides purposefully towards the

musicians, carving a path through

the stupefied masses. The few who

spot his advances flee; the rest

swatted away by muscular arms.

“Oh, Father of the four winds, fill my

sails.”

The terracotta warrior ’s pace

increases to a jog, then a run, and

finally a sprint. His solid frame

belies his speed. He’s flying now, a

trail of carnage in his wake, eyes

locked on Plant. The singer’s voice is

all but drowned out by the baying

crowd but his mouth is still wide,

vocal chords straining to chant his

scripture.


THE ANTICHRIST JUDE ELLERY >


“With… provision… open face.”

The warrior is at the stage now.

Plant towers above, unaware of his

approach, the epic stage fully fifteen

feet high. A steel barrier forms a

moat between the elite and the

masses, but its depth and vertical

disparity are both negated by the

warrior’s gigantic leap. Right foot

thrust before him, he crashes into

the singer’s open-shirted chest.

The din ceases as abruptly as it

arrived. Darkness returns, snuffing

out out the light. The warrior dusts

himself down, then, with a sickening

crack, wrenches Plant’s head from

his lifeless body, and wanders into

the silent night.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Falling for someone is a phenome-

non that takes no conscious effort;

it just happens; often for no reason,

or one which you would never have

thought applied to you. Some claim

love at first sight, but for the major-

ity it just creeps up on you. One day,

you realise that your gaze has been

locked on one individual for the best

part of an hour, and a blush warms

your face as you furtively glance

about to check whether anyone has

noticed the drool hanging from your

bottom lip. It’s the sort of behaviour

that should be confined to the class-

room, but men -- proper beer-swill-

ing, red-meat-eating, football men --

fall to these schoolboy crushes

every weekend.

I have to confess, much as it shames

me, that I have succumbed too. I

had thought myself above the heart-

led football fanatics, but alas, I’m as

human as the rest of them.

I’ve also committed the ultimate sin,

by betraying my house -- I’ve fallen

for a Capulet. Far be it from finding

someone to hate, as Andrew

Thomas did in the form of the gen-

erally revered Jack Wilshere*, I’ve

found someone to love -- to idolise

-- who is almost universally reviled.

Mine was a gradual fall, which at

least left me bruiseless, unlike Nigel

de Jong’s victims. The Terrier came

to my attention five years ago, via a

certain virtual football management

game. A good young prospect avail-

able at a knockdown price, he never

returned particularly high ratings,

never won awards, never scored



* See ‘On The Pleasure of Hating Jack Wilshere’, Issue One >



goals. But he was mine, and with

each successive version of the game,

without realising, I fell a little deeper

under his spell. As he aged, his hair

got shorter and face meaner, until in

January 2009 his image was per-

fected, earning him a move to Man-

chester City. I was excited and

guarded in equal measure. Too

many of my virtual heroes have

fallen by the wayside

(Freddy Adu, Fabio Paim)

-- would the Dutchman

live up to the defensive

midfielder of my imagi-

nation?

Well, he’s done so, and

then some. I’m hooked.

De Jong’s approach to football res-

onates with something deep inside

me. No quarter given or asked. He

plays in such an efficient, whole-

hearted manner; putting his body

on the line every time he crosses

that white line; for the good of his

team-mates, his employers, his fans.

It’s this selflessness that really

endears De Jong, his embodiment

of the solidarity of football. He

recognises football as a team game,

whereas others are in it

for personal glory. De

Jong’s antithesis, Cris-

tiano Ronaldo, may be-

come one of the game’s

all time greats, but he’s

forever hung up on col-

lecting personal gongs,

rather than achieving

greatness as part of a unit. Not for

me, thanks.

What I know most surely about

morality and the duty of man I owe

to sport and learned it in the RUA.

Albert Camus

The great French/Algerian philoso-

pher Camus played in goal for

Racing Universitaire d'Alger junior

from 1928-30, and his oft-quoted

thoughts about football’s teachings

on morality apply (somewhat) to De

Jong’s outlook. What appealed to

Camus was the sense of team spirit,

fraternity and common purpose.

The morality to which he referred

was a simplistic one of sticking up

for friends, valuing bravery and fair

play.

Ah… fair play. It’s a sensitive subject

that, but what we must remember



He recognises

football as a

team game,

while others

are in it for

personal glory


is that De Jong has never been

shown a straight red, and has only

been dismissed once in his career,

five years ago, for two bookable

offences.

Yes, yes, alright! You can probably

think of three occasions in the last

year where he could have been

shown the door, and, in the one

with the least serious consequence,

referee Howard Webb, in retro-

spect, admitted that he should have

sent De Jong off.

On the other hand, team-mate

Gareth Barry committed more fouls

than De Jong in the league last

season -- as did 32 other profession-

als. Who among you can picture

Gareth Bloody Barry ripping off

Robert Plant’s head? You need help

if you do, let me tell you. Yet, oth-

erwise rational people (including

me) are perfectly willing to entertain

the notion of De Jong doing it.

It’s De Jong’s reputation, courtesy of

a very small percentage of poorly-

timed tackles, that causes the ma-

jority to mistake a professional

athlete pushing himself and, by

extension, the rules, to the limit.

But, it’s also his reputation that

makes opponents quiver with fear

before they even take to the field

with him. Half his battles have al-

ready been won before the referee’s

whistle sounds the start of play, so

you’ll forgive him if he is unaffected

by the opinions of others.

Netherlands coach Bert van Marwijk

dropped De Jong when he broke

Hatem Ben Arfa’s leg -- in what was,

at the time, deemed a legal chal-

lenge -- saying, “I have a problem

with the way Nigel needlessly looks

to push the limit.”

This is where Albert Camus leaves

De Jong behind. The Dutchman’s

code of honour and sense of fair

play extend only to those on his

side. Camus believed that honour

and fair play included a respect for

one’s opponent. In that sense, one

understand’s Van Marwijk’s actions.

Yet, in another, Bertie misses the

point. Without pushing the bound-

aries, De Jong loses his edge.

The man himself summed up his no-

nonsense attitude to tackling thus:

“If the ball is between [you] and the

opponent, you have to go in full. If




you do not then the opponent takes

you. If you’re scared in a game, you

get injured yourself.” I know, I know,

Albert Camus is turning over in his

grave.

For another view on morality I’ll

recruit the help of a figure even

more controversial than De Jong:

Sun Myung Moon, founder of The

Unification Church. He defines

goodness as “total giving, total serv-

ice, and absolute unselfishness.” He

goes on to say, “We are to live for

others. You live for others and oth-

ers live for you.” Moon may be an

all-round loony (he’s proclaimed

himself the Second Coming of

Christ, for Moon’s sake!), but that’s

a pretty good definition of good-

ness, if you ask me.

The trap that Moon -- and De Jong -

- fall into is that they limit the

definitions of ‘total’ and ‘absolute’.

Every time he pulls on the number

34 shirt, De Jong gives himself

totally and absolutely to his team

and fans, but he is admittedly

flawed, in that, when he loses his

knife’s edge balance, he falls too far

on the wrong side of the rules. In

those instances, giving is out the

window. Instead, he is apt to take

far too much, as Stuart Holden and

Ben Arfa will regretfully attest. But,

like Hitler’s mother, I still love him.

In these days of split midfield

responsibilities De Jong is setting

the bar and defining his principles,

as well as his position, with every

performance. Unsurprisingly, he

lists his idols as Edgar Davids and

Roy Keane. If he’d played 10 years

ago he may well have been rivalling

those two -- and erstwhile team-

mate Patrick Vieira -- for the title of

archetypal box-to-box midfielder,

but, as it is, he has established

himself as this generation’s premier

defensive midfielder.

At Ajax, he was developed as an

attacking player and, believe it or

not, projected to be a centre-

forward, number 10 or right winger.

It was his move to Germany that

converted the marauding attacker

into a hulking midfield destroyer.

Hamburg coach Huub Stevens asked

De Jong to trust him when he pro-

posed turning the hulking attacker

into a defensive midfielder. De Jong,

appreciative of the work done by

less glamorous players, such as




Claude Makélélé, Fernando Re-

dondo and Fernando Hierro,

decided to go with it. It was also an

exercise in realising his own limita-

tions, thereby maximising his

potential: “It's about discipline and

doing a job for the team. So, let the

other players fight it out to be the

main man. My job is to defend, then

give the ball to the players who have

the creativity."

The conversion was a masterstroke

-- but it couldn’t have worked unless

De Jong had the personality to com-

plement his new role. The half-

Surinamese grew up on the mean

streets of immigrant Amsterdam-

West, and his background is evident

in the way he attacks every game --

as though the pitch is a battlefield --

describing tackles as “duels” and

reflecting his love of boxing in his

play as well as his physique.

In years to come, he will be remem-

bered as the embodiment of Van

Marwijk’s pugilist approach to South

Africa 2010, where the Manchester

City midfielder and his roguish

partner in crime, Mark van Bommel,

bent the rules with such regularity

as to make it an art form in itself.

And why not? Contrary

to countryman Johan

Cruyff’s assertions, there

is -- and should be --

more than one way to

play the game. We all

find something wrong --

something suspicious --

in excessive beauty. That is why ac-

tresses like Bette Davis, Joan Craw-

ford and Sharon Stone have such

sinister reputations; why Dracula is

every bit as frightening, if not more

so, than Frankenstein. Just as De

Jong occasionally ventures too far

into the dark, the glorious light in

which Barcelona and Spain have

been cast can, to many, be so

bright that, unshielded, one must

turn away. Like him or not, De Jong

serves as that shield.

De Jong’s conversion

from creator to de-

stroyer was very

much a conscious deci-

sion, then, and Stevens

was the perfect man to

help shape his new

identity. De Jong’s idol,

Keane, has been vociferous in his

praise for his own mentor, Brian



He reflects his

love for boxing

in his play as

well as his

physique


Clough, describing the famous For-

est, Derby and Leeds manager’s at-

tention to detail as ‘forensic’. Keane

said: “Every football match consists

of a thousand little things, which

added together, amount to the final

score… Brian Clough dealt in detail,

facts, specific incidents, and invari-

ably he got it right.”

Stevens’ attention to detail reached

comparable levels, culminating in

Schalke’s 1997 UEFA Cup final

penalty shootout victory over

Internazionale, for which he used a

database of penalty takers’ pre-

ferred corners that had taken him six

years to compile. A decade later,

this sort of meticulous planning can

only have helped De Jong develop

into the master tactician that he is,

reacting to every movement of the

ball, constantly positioning himself

between opponents and the heart

of his team.

It’s this dedication and precision

which make De Jong the perfect

player for his current manager.

Roberto Mancini is often criticised in

the British press for preferring a 1-0

victory to a 2-1, but I’m with him on

that one. As The Blizzard’s Rob

Smyth said, “With destruction intrin-

sically more controllable than cre-

ation, it [makes] sense to prioritise

the former.”

In 2007/08 Mancini’s title-winning

Inter team conceded 11 fewer goals

than any other team in the League.

Last season, his first full campaign in

charge at Eastlands, City finished

with 18 clean sheets, the most in the

Premier League. Let him do his job

his way, I say -- and if that way in-

cludes deploying a fearless warrior

in front of his back four, I’ll be

watching. What’s more, I’ll defend

that warrior to the death, when,

here and there, he momentarily

loses that intrinsic control.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Years later, when I am famous --

don’t laugh, it’s inevitable -- I’ll be

interviewed, and some eager young

journo will ask what meaning I

found in laying waste to the greatest

rock band in history.

“Zeppelin were great creators, the

best in their field,” I’ll say. “At the

top of their game, they were the

biggest band in the world, and I




wanted to depict them being

destroyed by this great warrior, this

ultimate destructive force that was

the Yin to their Yang. Everything is

relative; great creativity can only be

measured in contrast to great prag-

matism. The two elements need

each other to exist, and in one there

is always the seed of the other.

“Who better to choose for the ulti-

mate force of negativity than Nigel

de Jong? The scene is more a tribute

to the great destroyer than anything

else, and I think it wipes the floor

with traditional compilation reels. It

gets to the root of the man; it tells

universal truths. There was a song

around in those days by Biffy Clyro

called ‘God and Satan’, that included

the line, “I talk to God as much as I

talk to Satan ‘cause I want to hear

both sides.” De Jong is my Satan; my

other side; my balance.

“Choosing Kashmir was a very con-

scious decision, as well. It evokes

images of battle, titans clashing with

gods, events unfurling to a climax

that never quite comes. Plant re-

vealed that his inspiration was a

seemingly never-ending desert road

in Kashmir, a road that, to me,

mirrors the life of a football club.

There is no end. When one season

finishes another is prepared for

immediately, and this in turn is a

beautiful microcosm for the cyclical

nature of life.

“Also, it’s a fucking great tune.” ■




The drizzle continued at a steady

pace. It wasn’t heavy enough to see,

unless there was a puddle nearby, or

you looked up into a street light.

Nigel had fashioned a mac for

himself, and an umbrella, but, upon

arriving, he had found a convenient

recess containing a shop entrance.

From there he had a perfect view

across the street to the service

entrance of the Bagliano, and could

remain dry while waiting for the

waitress to emerge.

He may have had a grip on himself,

as he’d told Dio, yet he still had no

clue as to what he would say to her.

Everything he’d rehearsed in his

mind had come out sounding like

twaddle.

He hadn’t waited long when there


Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word


was movement across the street. She

came out, followed by the Brunello

manager and a large fellow who

must have been the house detective.

The two men stood in the doorway,

watching her walk down the steps.

When she reached the pavement, she

turned and lifted her arm, bidding

them both a rather impolite farewell.

Then she turned and stomped off

down the street.

Nigel waited a moment for the two

men to go back into the hotel and

then followed. She wasn’t wearing

her uniform anymore. Instead, she

had on black jeans, a waist-length

black leather coat, matching cap and

thigh-high boots with four inch

heels. She had done her face in stark

black makeup. The current genera-

tion referred to that heavy mono-

chromatic style as gothic, Nigel

knew, although none of them had

seen that period in colour, and so,

knew little of what their chosen

fashion bespoke.

He thought, even from a distance,

that too much make-up did her as

much a disservice as none at all.

Then he made a mental note not to

make matters worse by communicat-

ing that sentiment to her.

She wound through several side

streets, heading towards a warehouse

district, if he remembered aright.

There was no-one else on the streets,

with the weather and the late hour,

and even he had to give her a wide

berth, in order not to be noticed.

He stopped for a moment and con-

sidered that. If he was following her

to apologise, why was he so reluc-

tant to make contact?

Muttering to himself at his own fool-

ishness, he picked up the pace and

rounded the corner that she had just

taken. The girl was nowhere to be

seen but there was a gaggle of people

gathered outside a large set of doors

across the street. They were all

young, like her, dressed similarly

and not a one with the sense to carry

an umbrella. Thus they were all

hunched against the drizzle,

dragging on cigarettes and stamping

their feet as they waited to get inside

the large building that the doors

guarded.

In front of the doors stood a massive

fellow, as big as an auroch, although


SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD


with less hair on him than a shaved

peach. Every piece of loose skin on

his head -- lips, ears, eyebrows --

was pierced by bits of studded stain-

less steel. Multicoloured tattoos

emanated from under his collar and

swirled about his shaven pate. Nigel

had come across a few characters of

this bent since awakening. Re-

minded him of druids, they did.

Only without the intelligence. The

auroch’s job was obviously to keep

out people who did not belong.

Nigel looked at himself in a dusty

window. Elegant mac, tailored

slacks and fine leather shoes. He

definitely did not belong and, having

stood under a bright streetlight, for

all the druids to see, it was too late

to change that now.

He looked up and down the street.

Senses straining, he could detect no

trace of the girl moving away from

the block. The drizzle washed out

any scent she may have given off,

and the thudding bass emanating

from behind the doors made it

impossible to pick out any footsteps

beyond the normal range of hearing.

She had to have gone inside.

There was nothing for it then but to

introduce himself to Ox.

Crossing the street and skirting the

line of party-goers, Nigel walked up

to the doors and, standing in front of

their massive keeper, made a show

of lowering the umbrella, shaking

out any excess water and then

collapsing the instrument and fasten-

ing it shut with a crisp snap of its

clasp. Only then did he look up,

smiling cheerfully at the bouncer.

“Oo are you, then?” When he spoke,

another stud was revealed in the

middle of his tongue.

“The name’s Nigel!” the god stuck

out a hand, cranking his smile up to

full wattage.

Ignoring both the smile and the

proffered hand, the big man

produced a clipboard which had

been well concealed under a massive

bicep. After consulting it for a mo-

ment, lips moving as his eyes

scanned down, he looked up from

the paper and down on Nigel.

“You ain’t on the list, mate.”




The easy way would have been to

make a slight ‘mental’ adjustment to

the list and ask the fellow to check

again, but Nigel was never one to do

things the easy way.

“No, mate, I’m not. Didn’t even

know there was one, to be honest.”

Nigel’s jaw was beginning to hurt

from maintaining the smile.

The big man said nothing and just

looked down at him.

“Didn’t even know this place was

here till I came ‘round the corner, for

that matter.” Nigel made another

show of looking around the auroch,

at the doors and the wall above them,

cocking his ear at the muted bass.

“Sounds interesting, what’s it called

then, this place?”

The doorman squinted his eyes,

sizing Nigel up.

“Look, mate. You’re either a copper

or you’re some well-heeled bloke

slumming it, yeah? Either way,

you’re trouble and I’m paid to keep

trouble on this side of the doors. So,

do us a favour and push on, yeah?”

Nigel ratcheted the smile down to a

rueful grin and put up his hands.

“Normally you’d have me dead to

rights, friend, on the second count at

least,” he said, shaking his head.

“Tonight, though, I’m already in

trouble and I need to get on the other

side of those doors to fix it.”

The big ox shifted his weight

slightly, preparing for the worst, but

Nigel turned up the smile and raised

his hands again.

“Look, friend,” he explained, “a girl

just came in here. Pretty girl, short

dark hair, bit heavy with the make-

up, dressed all in black, nice boots?”

The bouncer nodded his head

slightly and replied, “Liv. You in

trouble with Liv? You don’t seem

her type.”

Nigel nodded and went on.

“No, no, mate. It isn’t like that.

There was a spot of trouble at her job

tonight and, long story short, it was

my fault but I think she might have

gotten the sack for it.” The smile left





his face completely as he added, “I

just want to apologise and make

amends if I can.”

The big man looked at him for

another moment.

“You sure you’re not a badge?”

Nigel laughed and held open his

jacket in answer.

The gatekeeper finally relaxed and

gave a short barking laugh. “Yeah,

you’re much too flush to be a copper,

ain’t you? Nigel, is it?”

“Yeah.”

The fellow nodded, tucked the clip

board back under his arm and ex-

tended a massive paw.

“Alex,” he said.

Nigel’s hand was swallowed and

nearly crushed by Alex the Auroch’s

welcoming grip, but the man turned

him loose in short order and took a

step up and back to open one of the

doors for him.

As Nigel followed, there was a snarl

and a rush from behind him.

“‘Old on!” A voice behind him

yelled. “I been gettin’ right soaked

for the better part of an hour. This

codger ain’t goin’ in before me!”

Without changing expression or

turning to look, Nigel jabbed out and

down with the umbrella, striking

home. There was a gasp as air was

expelled from lungs and then the

clatter of a body hitting the ground,

followed by a drawn out moan.

Alex looked past Nigel and then

stuck a thick arm across the

threshold.

“You’ll have to leave that with me,

Nigel,” he said. “There’s no weapons

permitted inside.”

“Weapons?” Nigel laughed. “It’s a



bleedin’ umbrella, Alex.”

Alex smiled and nodded over

Nigel’s shoulder. “Tell that to ‘im.”

Nigel turned and looked down at a

fellow in a black leather jacket with

a chain embroidered into the waist.

He was rolling back and forth on the

wet ground, in agony, holding

himself just above the belt line

where Nigel had made contact. As

Nigel and Alex watched, the fellow

went pale, let out another moan and

suddenly lurched to his knees,

retching on the shoes of the people

gathered round him, bringing down

a rain of curses and several vicious

kicks.

Nigel tutted, shook his head in

disgust and held out the umbrella for

Alex to take.

Taking it, the big man smiled and

then offered directions.

“The main dance floor is downstairs.

Make your way across and to the

spiral stair to the left. You’ll find Liv

up there, on the balcony. And

Nigel...?”

The god looked up from the melee to

see Alex gazing at him an approv-

ingly.

“You remind me of me dad, a bit.

He’s still in Brixton. Do us a favour

and don’t do anything he would

while you’re inside?”

Nigel nodded. All he was concerned

with was having a word with Liv and

he’d be on his way, and he told Alex

so.

Alex nodded in turn, and barked out

another laugh.

“Good luck with that,” he said.

Nigel shook his head in appreciation

of the warning, although he had

already been given a sampling of

Liv’s temper. Stepping inside, he

found himself in an alcove, with a

caged booth to the left and another

set of double doors ahead.

Inside the booth sat a woman with

purple hair, a black tank top and

more studs than Alex. She was

surprisingly uninterested in how out

of place Nigel was. Expressionless,

she directed him to put his arm in the




small opening in the cage. He com-

plied and she snapped a coloured

plastic band onto his wrist, looked at

him again and placed a plastic packet

in his hand. Pulling his arm out, he

examined the transparent baggie and

found that it contained a pair of ear

plugs.

Nodding appreciation, he popped

them in. She just gestured at the

second set of doors. When he

reached them there was a loud metal-

lic click. He pulled open the door

and, even with the protection, the

muted bass suddenly became a loud

throbbing thunder which assaulted

his senses.

The scene in the club was surreal. A

scattered array of multi-coloured

strobe lights, working in tandem

with sweeping laser beams, offered

him a series of still shots of a mass

of writhing bodies, cycling through

red, green, blue, yellow and an

almost ghoulish black and white.

Bars were set up here and there;

cages with scantily clad women

dancing inside were suspended from

the ceiling; in other places, large

pedestals allowed some patrons to

tower over the rest; and, while peo-

ple were dancing everywhere, in the

middle of the vast room there

seemed to be a pit filled with burly

youths throwing themselves against

each other. It was madness.

Nigel stood in front of the entrance

for a moment, accustoming himself

to the scale of the place. Finally, he

picked out the staircase, off to the

left, and began to make for it. About

a third of the way across the floor, he

realised that it was useless to say

sorry, ‘scuse me and beg pardon to

everybody he bumped into. He had

made up half the remaining distance,

taking a winding route and squeez-

ing between knots of wassailers

when he realised he had seen a single

face three or four times.

It wasn’t a face, actually, but a man

in a hood, wearing dark shades and

talking into a cell phone. He was

short and slight but with his hand

covering his jaw line, Nigel couldn’t

make out any features. As he waded

through the crowd, Nigel had seen

him to one side, then the other,

momentarily appearing between a

pair of shoulders here and sidling

away behind a couple snaked around

each other in a lewd embrace there.




What was puzzling was how anyone

could possibly hold a conversation in

this din?

A few steps from the stair, Nigel

spun and tried to pick out his tag-

along from the crowd, but he was

nowhere to be seen. Giving up, the

god elbowed his way through the last

pack of revelers and climbed to the

balcony.

At the top, the noise was appreciably

lower. You’d still have to yell to

make yourself heard and lean in to

catch any reply but at least it wasn’t

oppressive. Liv was sitting in an

overstuffed arm chair against the

wall, not twenty feet away. The

small lamp on the coffee table in

front of her cast a soft blue light that

made her eyeshadow seem even

heavier. Wearing a sour look, she

hadn’t noticed Nigel yet. She was

turning a glass of some kind of alco-

hol slowly back and forth, staring

into it, her mind elsewhere, likely

stewing over the events of earlier in

the evening.

As though aware that eyes were

focused on her, Liv came out of her

reverie, looked up searchingly and

immediately noticed Nigel. Her

eyes widened in surprise, her jaw

dropping just for an instant. It

snapped shut immediately, however,

into a thin hard line. Almost quicker

than he could duck, the glass in her

hand came hurtling at his head.

As he straightened back up, Nigel

realised that the force of the throw,

and the trajectory, had probably

carried it into the crowd below. He

wasn’t too concerned about the

repercussions of that, as Liv was

heading right for him.

He could read her lips more than he

could hear the words screamed at

him.

“What the bloody hell are you doing

here?”

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise?”

Nigel just nodded.

“Do you know what you did?”

He shook his head but yelled, “I’m

guessing they sacked you. I’m sorry,




really.”

Liv gazed at him in amazement for a

moment. Then she went into another

rant.

“You’re sorry? For getting me

sacked? How the hell did you know

I -- you followed me, didn’t you?

Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

Nigel shrugged. Focused on her

mouth, he forgot about the anger in

her eyes and began to think about

how pretty she was. Suddenly, his

head was ringing. She had slapped

him. Hard.

His head cleared and she tried to slap

him again. Paying attention now, he

caught her hand easily, and then the

other. When she tried to knee him,

he was ready for that, as well. What

was the phrase, they used nowadays?

Been there, done that.

She screamed at Nigel again.

“You got me fired!”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

She tried to kick him in the shins

three or four times and then she was

suddenly crying into his shoulder.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do

about that but he finally put his arms

around her gently, one hand on the

back of her head. She pushed away

immediately and smacked him in the

chest with both hands. This wasn’t

going well.

She moved towards him again, fists

raised but this time there was an

unnatural movement off to his right.

Ages-honed instincts kicked in. He

pushed her hard, sending her wind-

milling backwards into the soft chair,

a shocked expression on her face.

He turned towards the movement in

time to see a small form in a hooded

jacket leaping over the rail.

Nigel raced to the rail but the strobes

only revealed a crater of empty space

which had opened up among those

dancing below. There was a slight

ripple in the crowd, near a fire exit.

The door slammed open and his

mysterious shadow vanished into the

night.

He turned back to Liv. She was

advancing on him with murder in her

eye. Calmly he raised a hand and




pointed to the wall behind her. She

turned to look. There was a round

hole in it, at least fifteen centimetres

in diameter. Smoke was emanating

from it. Her lips formed a round O.

Nigel smiled to himself. It had been

a long while since anyone had tried

to kill him. ■





DANNY CHADBURN >

A big, bouncing pair of size 5 Jabulanis,

Regulation shorts, sit just above the knees.

Women’s football has escaped the 1960s.

>


RAE SINGH >

I was gabbing with my dad this

morning about the Women’s World

Cup and women’s football generally.

Now, my dad is a British Indian who

arrived in the UK in the late 1960s,

when racial abuse and ‘Paki bashing’

were the norm, not the embarrass-

ing exception; football was, under-

standably, the least of his concerns.

The notion that women could have

the slightest interest or involvement

in anything but the dishes and what

to cook for dinner was simply

unconscionable.

Fast forward 40-odd years and

things have changed somewhat.

Dad remarked that he’d watched


WHO SAID LIFE WAS FAIR?


some of the WWC and admitted, to

his surprise, how skilful some of the

players were. He’s far from being

alone in that surprise. In all honesty,

when I think about football, the

women’s game isn’t the first aspect

to spring to mind. I suppose one of

the myriad purposes served by the

WWC (quite apart from perhaps --

allegedly -- lining Sepp Blatter’s cav-

ernous pockets) is raising awareness

of women’s football, not least

among women themselves.

Here’s the did-you-know bit. Foot-

ball is played worldwide by over 1.5

million teams and 300,000 clubs.

Think about that for a second. Oh,

and that includes over 20 million

women players, the numbers of

which continue to grow year on

year. So much for us not under-

standing the offside rule, right?

Unfortunately, when you dig a little

deeper, the outlook for women’s

football, in England at any rate, is

fairly bleak. In the USA, ‘soccer’ is a

girl’s game; not so on this side of the

Atlantic. Documents like the

Women’s Sport and Fitness Founda-

tion Factsheet on women and girls

in football in the UK makes for very

depressing reading: the numbers of

women and girls playing football

continue to languish in the nought-

point-somethings.

At the risk of stating the glaringly ob-

vious, the primary reason is money.

Not enough funding to produce

decent women coaches, so not

enough funding to nurture young

female footballing talent. And why

is that? Because men’s football is

considered ‘more exciting’. Excite-

ment generates interest which, in

turn, affords sponsors with a not-to-

be-missed opportunity to peddle

their wares to unprecedented

numbers of unsuspecting punters

who would otherwise never know

that Energy Drink X would make

them play exactly like multi-million-

aire-and-playboy Player Y.

Cynical jesting aside, it is heartening

to see that the English FA is taking

steps to draw greater numbers of

the fairer sex to football. There’s a

lot to be said for kicking a black-and-

white pig’s bladder ‘round a pitch,

even without having to resort to

Keira bloody Knightley pouting her

way through Bend It Like Beckham.


WHO SAID LIFE WAS FAIR? RAE SINGH >


But what exactly are the roles to be

played by women in the more gen-

eral world of football, anyway?

Does that world always have to be

divided along the most clichéd of

gender lines?

The fact is that women and football

are still viewed as completely

incompatible, with no room in the

latter for the former. The other fact

is that, in spite of such

perceptions, there are

women in football and

in various capacities,

even if this displeases

the Andy Gray and

Richard Keys types who

continue to lurk and

mutter in dark corners. Karren

Brady has been a lone woman in the

upper echelons of club manage-

ment for years; then there’s Delia

Smith and her love for Norwich City;

Helen Chamberlain, Soccer AM

presenter and Torquay United

supporter (nice tattoo, Helen); Sian

Massey and her fellow female offi-

cials coming through the refereeing

ranks...

These women are the most obvious

examples; each of them plays a

different role in the

wider sphere of their

favourite sport. Pick

any given aspect of

football and there’s

probably a queue of

women with the

qualifications but no

window of opportunity. Women’s

football isn’t being developed suffi-

ciently while men’s football is,

putting it mildly, a closed shop. The

Andy-Gray-and-Richard-Keys-are-

sexists hullabaloo showed that

those attitudes are still widespread

in football, or at least among Sky

commentators.

Endemic prejudice aside, the Delia

example also illustrates another fact

of football: growing numbers of

women not only watch football, but

follow their teams with the same

kind of passion and fervour as one

can expect from male supporters,

and in exactly the same terms. Yes,

even down to that inexplicable

understanding of the offside rule.

At the friendly between England and

the USA in 2008, for instance, the

greater part of the coarse language

and liberal use of the C-word (to be

expected at football matches,



There’s probably

a queue of

women with the

qualifications but

no window of

opportunity


admittedly) came *gasp* from the

women in the crowd.

As shocking or surprising as that

may seem, it is what it is. Female

attendance at domestic and interna-

tional matches is palpably on the

rise. Going to the game is no longer

the preserve of men, the weekly

escape from the womenfolk that it

used to be in the days when my

Grandad Bob and Uncle Ralph

headed down to Prenton Park on a

Saturday afternoon to (a) get away

from my Nana and Auntie Madge

and (b) sneak a few pre- and post-

match pints at the pub.

But if that fact can serve as any

gauge at all, will we eventually see

women managing teams of male

players at club level, subject to the

same demands and pressures as

their male counterparts? I don’t

know.

Hope Powell’s long tenure as

manager of England’s women’s

team clearly has its pros and cons,

though my fear is that the cons lay

in the inherently paternalistic atti-

tude adopted when women are

seen to be doing something -- any-

thing -- that is otherwise considered

to be a male activity. Furthermore,

would it be possible to make the

same allowances for a female club

manager in, say, the Premiership,

where the stakes are so much higher

and the chances of getting the sack

after a handful of games are so

much greater? I’m inclined to think

that the answer would likely be no,

whether the manager in question

were male or female.

Perhaps, then, that’s pointless spec-

ulation. The situation today is that

women are increasingly hammering

on the doors of another male en-

clave. It would be heartening to see

the football world take the same

steps to combat sexism as it has to

deal with racism (though one could

argue that the latter issue is far from

resolved); it would also be hearten-

ing to see female involvement in

football generally (not just women’s

football) reflecting women’s

growing interest in the sport overall.

Maybe one day. ■




Nigel leaned against the balcony rail,

looking out across the Thames to the

Charing Cross Station. The corpo-

rate flat he had ‘borrowed’ had an

almost unmarred view across the

Jubilee Garden, if you didn’t mind a

large Ferris Wheel and a few

rooftops, with patches of tar,

generators and air conditioning sys-

tems blocking off sight of the near

bank.

It wasn’t all horrid, though. The

morning sun was just climbing over

East London behind him, its rays

reaching out to touch the glass

facade of Charing Cross Station, on

the far side of the river, setting them

ablaze with a golden light. A tug

was pulling a barge under the rail

bridge, gulls crying as they swooped

to pluck prizes from its bounty of


Good Day, Sunshine


Man’s cast-offs.

Over his shoulder, the remains of a

breakfast sat on a wicker table, the

dregs from the orange juice pitcher

in a glass in his hand. The rest of the

meal would eventually end up on the

barge below, or one similar, and

then, hopefully, in a seabird’s gullet.

Nigel smiled. There were connec-

tions everywhere, if you looked.

Liv was in the shower. He had

brought her here last night, after the

incident at the rave. She had be-

lieved the killer was after her and

having reason to, would not be

dissuaded. Apparently, she was in-

debted to some ‘independent busi-

nessmen’. Something to do with a

brother who was now a guest of Her

Majesty in Aylesbury. Whatever his

trouble, and how Liv was caught up

in it, Nigel was fairly certain that

small time moneylenders didn’t

carry the type of weapon that would

bore a hole straight through eight-

inch masonry. No, whoever it was

had been after him.

With an unnerved Liv clinging to

him, he’d been unable to follow the

assailant and, before he could get the

two of them out of the club, Alex the

Auroch had come bounding up the

steps, to find out what had caused

the commotion below. Widespread

panic had ensued when the hooded

assassin had landed on the dance

floor, a ten metre drop, unhurt, on his

feet, waving a gun and then dashing

off.

Alex had stuck his finger in the hole

in the wall, quickly yanking it away

and sucking on it, to cool the burn.

He stared back and forth between

Nigel and Liv, unfortunately taking

her side, that the killer was after her.

The hulking security man had

offered to take her back to his place

for protection, but she declined.

Nigel should have encouraged it, to

separate her from the real danger and

allow him to get back to his own

business. Instead, his mouth had

volunteered that he had a flat in a

nearby highrise, with security.

Insisting upon on driving them there

himself, Alex had parked them in the

club office while he saw to getting

someone else on the door. It turned

out that he had a significant interest

in the club, a few other local busi-

nesses and a nice comfortable



Mercedes SUV, with a 9mm stored

in the armrest.

Well, well, Alex wasn’t such a dumb

ox, after all. Once he had dropped

them off, with the missive to call

him, not a cab, if they needed to go

anywhere, he promised Liv that he

would inquire after matters regard-

ing her debt, and then winked at

Nigel. The god was reasonably sure

that Liv had one less problem in her

life.

Back in the now, he turned away

from the view and made about

clearing the morning meal. With

that done and the dishwasher hum-

ming, he washed and dressed in an

elegant white shirt and black

trousers. Liv was still doing what-

ever women did, so he sat in the

parlour, trying to sort out his next

move.

With the girl in tow, he options were

limited, both because explaining

himself to a mortal was always

complicated and had never ended

well -- Bladud was a prime example

of that -- and when the next attack

occurred, he’d have to protect her, as

well as himself. Still, Nigel found

himself considering how he might

do just that, rather than pushing her

off on the obviously eager and capa-

ble Alex. That was the thing about

connections: once you made them,

they could be very difficult to break.

As he pondered, he noticed that the

light was flashing on the flat’s

answering machine. He had

rerouted the number for his own use

but had only given it to Hamish,

Cwm and Padraig. Curious, he

pressed the button.

“Nigel, it’s Aldo... Have I caught you

in...? [a muttered oath hastily

followed by] Listen, I have been try-

ing to contact you. I meant to speak

after the match at the Monumental

but you left Buenos Aires before I

could get hold of you. It is important

that we speak, however, or you know

that I would not bother. Unfortu-

nately, there are matters, pressing

matters, here that I cannot abandon.

I must ask you to come to me. I give

you my word that you will be safe to

come and go. And Nigel, it is also

imperative tha --”

The machine cut Aldo off. Nigel

checked but there was just the one



message.

“Friend of yours?”

Nigel turned around. Liv was stand-

ing in the entrance to the parlour, one

towel wrapped around her torso, an-

other atop her head. She hadn’t

applied a new coat of gothic, as yet,

but looked gorgeous just as he was.

He was sorely tempted.

There was business, though.

“You’re still not dressed?”

She smiled and shrugged. “My jeans

aren’t dry yet, and I don’t carry a

wardrobe with me. So, I’ve been

dawdling. Who’s Aldo then?”

“A business associate, of sorts. It

would seem that I have to pay him a

visit.”

“So I heard. Buenos Aires. Never

been, always wanted to, though, and

it seems that I need to make myself

scarce for a while. Would you care

for some company?”

The only way she would be shot at

again would be to come with him.

She’d be much safer with Alex and

he ought to tell her so.

“Sure, why not?”

Thus, with the jeans now tumbling

over Liv’s hips instead of inside the

dryer, Alex was called. He arrived

so quickly that he might have been

waiting around the corner, which,

after stealing another look at Liv,

wouldn’t have surprised Nigel in the

least. In short order, they had

stopped off at Liv’s place to pack a

bag and then headed to Heathrow.

Nigel was now strapped in for the

second leg of his second journey by

air, with the connecting flight out of

Madrid now taking off. He felt no


PAGE TITLE AUTHOR NAME


more comfortable this time than he

had on the first, with this trip

promising to be much longer in

duration.

Playing at being mortal was no way

to go through life. He was going to

have to make a decision, one way or

the other, about whether he wanted

to keep Liv around, consequences be

damned, or let her go her own way,

his feelings be damned. Screwing

up his nerve, he turned to face her.

She was looking out the window at

a bank of clouds that was covering

the receding Spanish capital. Turn-

ing, she caught him looking at the

curve of her neck.

“What?”

Drawing up every ounce of courage

he possessed, he opened his mouth

and spoke.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “I’m going

to try to sleep. Wake me when we’re

going to land, will you?”

Liv smiled and went back to gazing

at the clouds.

Coward, he thought to himself. ■


PAGE TITLE AUTHOR NAME



DANNY CHADBURN >

Another early exit. How many more times?

New Maradonas not fit to rack up his lines.

Consolation sought in whiskeys and wines.

>


EMELIE OKEKE >

Alphonso loved the nostalgia, espe-

cially the late 1980s vintage. And

why not? That hallowed period will

forever and a day will be remem-

bered as a golden era for followers

of La Albiceleste. Whether you’re a

devotee of River Plate or Boca Jun-

iors, or indeed Newell’s Old Boys,

those were good times to be an

Argentine. After the triumphant

ticker-tape carnival of Buenos Aires

1978, the halcyon days overflowed

into the following decade, with a

Maradona-inspired victory in

Mexico in 1986.

The good vibrations did not stop in

the ‘90s, either. Yet another World


ESCOCIA! ARGENTINOS! VAMOS! HOOTS

MON THE NOO!


Cup final appearance, this time in

Italy, and successive Copa America

victories in ‘91 and ‘93, all thanks to

the exciting new generation:

Batistuta, Simeone, Roa, Caniggia...

Ah, Claudio Caniggia. Alphonso’s all-

time favourite. Not like these im-

posters nowadays. Not like these

failures who have perennially let

faithful Alphonso down for 18

straight years. Supposed modern

saints and “new Maradonas” --

more like prima donnas -- have

come and gone without a tint of sil-

verware. The Olympics? An Under-

23 tournament is hardly something

to pop the cork over. Ortega, Lopez,

Riquelme, Aimar. All of them dined

out on the plaudits they received

from the stands, feted for their

immeasurable talent. Yet, with the

famous blue and white striped

number 10 shirt on their back, they

all played as if their boots were

made of lead. Bastardos.

The good times really have been few

and far between. Yes, Argentina

always looked impressive in the

group stages of major tournaments,

and, yes, they could scare the life

out of Peru. But Alphonso craved

more than that. Look at what Brazil

had achieved in the last 18 years:

three World Cup finals, continental

prizes, Confederations Cups, all

those Ballon d’Ors.

“Oh when will another one of ours

be hailed as the world’s best?”

Well, Alphonso’s prayers were an-

swered in the shape a of 5’ 6”

playmaking, goalscoring, show-

stopping demigod, schooled in the

fine arts by the Catalans of La Masia.

Lionel Andrés Messi. He would be

the one to drag Argentina back,

kicking and screaming, to the

pinnacle where they rightly belong.

Alphonso was convinced that

Buenos Aires, the place where it all

began, would herald a new dawn for

Argentine fútbol. At 17.45 on 24

July 2011 the long-suspended ticker-

tape carnival could resume.

Alas, no. Quarter-finals, again.

Defeat by penalties, again. Yet an-

other disappointment, yet another

tournament victory for the old foe,

Uruguay. Another coach out the

door. A disgusting situation;

Alphonso was a true ABU: Anyone

But Uruguay. The Brazilians could


ESCOCIA! ARGENTINOS! EMELIE OKEKE >


have 10 more World Player of the

Year awards as long as poor long-

suffering Alphonso never had to see

those Gauchos win another match.

Messi -- was he not the chosen one?

Apparently not. Bring in the next

demi-god!

Alphonso walked through the Santa

Fe streets, just an-

other blue and white-

laden drop in the

spillover of disap-

pointment emanating

from the Elephant’s

Graveyard. It was

nicknamed so in

homage to Colon’s

numerous giant-killing

victories over the years in that

cavernous old stadium, cutting the

likes of Boca and Newell’s down to

size. And River Plate too, when they

used to befit the title ‘giants’.

The local taberna. The rank odours

of cigarettes and stale beer fighting

to win out over the aromas of em-

panadas, carlitos and espresso.

Loud cursory rants and gesticula-

tions over the ills of the composition

of the present-day

national team. Glass

of the rioja. Large.

Then another. Then

another. Then a...

double malt whiskey?!

Indeed -- courtesy of

Wallace, who would

explain everything;

Wallace, with whom

Alphonso would forge a kinship that

would re-establish links spanning

two centuries; Wallace, who would

take up the story on how his Scottish

forefathers put Argentina on the

path to world domination.

“Youse lads canna, nay, shouldna

forgit wha’ da Broon clan did for

yous.”

Wallace had resided in Latin

America for the best part of half

a century yet still retained his rich

Scots brogue. It was hard enough

for those Argentines fluent in

English to decipher, let alone those

inhabitants of Santa Fe who

communicated with the red-

headed extranjero in their mother

tongue, Espanol.

Fortunately for Alphonso, a compre-

hension of the harsh Celtic inflective

was near second nature, thanks to



Wallace, who

would take up the

story on how his

Scottish forefathers

put Argentina on

the path to world

domination


numerous pilgrimages to Dens Park

and Ibrox to watch his hero Caniggia

in action for Dundee and Rangers,

towards the book-end of the leg-

endary forward’s career. Aye, Wal-

lace had a story about wee Claudio

too. Born and raised in Henderson,

Buenos Aires. Henderson, named

after a Scottish clan who settled in

Argentina’s largest province in the

19th century.

However, a more significant influ-

ence on football in this proud,

mountainous nation, with a firm

agricultural backbone, a long history

of sporting, cultural and, indeed,

military adversity with England --

this is Argentina we’re speaking of

here by the way, not Scotland -- is

the aforementioned Brown family.

Farmer James Brown arrived in

Monte Grande in the spring of 1825

with his wife Mary, seeking a better

life on the Argentine plains. Five of

his grandsons would go on to play

for the couple’s adopted country.

Jorge Gibson Brown was the most

illustrious of his brotherhood, repre-

senting La Albiceleste 23 times,

playing the majority of his club

career for Lanús and the now-

defunct Alumni Athletic Club.

Jorge would turn out for his country

with brother Ernesto and cousin

Juan Domingo in the same game in

1910, against Uruguay. The enemy.

Alphonso flinched at the mere men-

tion of the name. He then bristled

with pride as the wizened Wallace

regaled with tales of how the three

Browns gave the Uruguayans what

for in the Copa Centenario of 101

years ago.

“Amon’ tha scorers tha’ day were an

Arnoldo Pencliffe, Watson Hutton,

and a nippy wee striker lad, Jose En-

rique Hayes -- known as Harry

Hayes. Son of English immigrunts.

We nay bother talk ‘bout him much,

the Hayes lad.” Alfredo, Carlos and

Eliseo Brown would all represent

Argentina over the turn of the 20th

century.

Alphonso was agog, and enthused

at the same time to hear of such

tales of bonny Scots lads doing Ar-

gentina proud. Sure, he had heard

of Jose Luis Brown, 1986 World Cup

Winner, the uncompromising

defender who marked Peter Beard-

sley out of the quarter-final victory

in the Azteca against England. He




was the one overshadowed by those

Maradona goals. Big Jose Luis

Brown, goalscorer in the 1986 World

Cup Final against West Germany,

playing on heroically with a broken

arm in the final throes. Proud of his

Scottish heritage. Even prouder of

his Argentine nationality. Then

there was Carlos MacAllister, whose

name confused many an Argentine

commentator -- not an easy feat at

the worst of times. He played with

the passion and vitriol of a High-

lander. Dios, he even sported a

shock of deep red ginger locks. He

made just three appearances for his

country, but they encompassed vital

matches, including two caps gained

from his contribution to the USA ‘94

qualification play-offs against Aus-

tralia. MacAllister now runs a soccer

school in Santa Rosa, and is a mod-

ern-day connection to over 180

years of Scots-Argentine heritage.

Today, there are around 100,000

Argentines with Scottish lineage.

The only country with more people

of such ancestry is the United King-

dom. Watson Hutton’s father,

Alexander, is considered the “father

of Argentine football”

and has been commem-

orated by the Argentine

Football Association

accordingly, with the na-

tional football governing

body’s library named in

Hutton Sr.’s honour. It

isn’t just footballing talent that Scot-

land has brought to Argentina

either. The actor Alejandro Ander-

son, and Juan Peron, 41st President

of Argentina no less, can both trace

roots of their family tree to Caledo-

nia.

Chucking out time in the Taberna.

History lesson over, at least for

tonight. Alphonso had enjoyed the

company and old Wallace’s stories

to such an extent that he had

temporarily forgotten the forlorn

state which his national

team had left him much

earlier in this long and

eventful evening.

“How can I thank you?”

beamed Alphonso as the

Scotsman and the

Argentine shook hands.

“Wun fer tha’ road?” was Wallace’s

inebriated response, knowing smile

breaking from beneath his bushy



Even the 41st

President of

Argentina can

trace his roots

to Caledonia.


ginger beard.

“Next time, for sure,” promised

Alphonso, indicating the now-closed

bar.

“I’ve a spare season ticket for River

Plate in next season’s Primera B

Division. You wanna take it up? I

could do with the company.”

Wallace weighed up the offer -- for

about a nanosecond. “Sure thang,

laddy!” he exclaimed. “Tell me,

young hermano, to whom does tha’

ticket belong?”

Alphonso broke into a grin as he fin-

ished his whiskey and answered

Wallace’s question. “It’s in the

name of my grandfather, Alphonso.

Alphonso MacTavish”. ■




Nigel was becoming very worried.

He and Liv had been in Buenos

Aires for almost a week, with no

sign of Aldo. Over the four centuries

since the Porteño had installed

himself in the burgeoning city, he

and Nigel had come to blows on

several occasions. Still, that was

down to the fiercely independent

spirit of the Argentine.

Every single argument between them

could be traced to Nigel’s lads at-

tempting to horn in on Buenos Aires’

thriving trade. The British had only

succeeded the once and that hadn’t

lasted long, as Aldo had found allies

on the opposite bank of the Rio de la

Plata and returned to show the Eng-

lish the door. The best that Britannica

could manage was a beachhead on

the Falklands -- Los Malvinas, Aldo


Kids These Days


would correct were he here -- an

archipelago filled with sheep and

numpties, hundreds of miles off the

coast.

Aldo had moved to reclaim the

islands while Nigel was ‘napping’,

but the numpties had strapped into

their Harriers and held on to their

rocks and sheep. There was just too

much crude under the sea to let the

Argentines have their own back.

Nigel couldn’t fathom what was hap-

pening now. Aldo was the direct

sort; he didn’t play games. If he

invited you to a meeting and failed

to show or send word, then some-

thing was keeping him. It was a

cause for concern.

Aldo had a suite of offices in the

Dock Sud, the city’s secondary port,

but when Nigel presented himself

every morning and called in the af-

ternoon, his receptionist apologised

for Aldo’s continued absence, mak-

ing excuse after excuse. Still, after

a few days, she couldn’t conceal her

growing anxiety from Nigel. Every

day, her face became more lined and

her voice faltered a little more.

As well, when he arrived or departed

from the outer offices, he would

cross paths with a young man,

dressed in a tailored suit, sporting

immaculate hair and dark-framed

glasses. He, too, seemed to be wait-

ing on Aldo and growing more anx-

ious as the days passed. The boy

blithely ignored Nigel on each

encounter but something about him

tickled at the old god’s mind. At

first, he thought it might be the inci-

dent in the club, but this fellow was

too tall, he thought. Where in the

blazes was Aldo?

They may not exactly be friends, but

the Porteño was a good enemy to

have; one who stood against some

other, more malevolent types in the

region. Nigel was convinced that

something was seriously wrong.

Liv, on the other hand, was in

seventh heaven, and her joy had kept

Nigel from acting on his instincts.

Upon returning from Aldo’s offices

early, time after time, he had spent

the empty hours showing her the

city; by day the Japanese Gardens,

museums and boutiques; by night

the restaurants, galleries, endless

bookstores and,of course, the clubs


KIDS THESE DAYS


and dance halls. The girl had ab-

sorbed the culture in so short a time

that he almost didn’t recognise her.

She even insisted upon being called

Olivia now.

The old god would have taken ex-

ception with that had the transforma-

tion changed her basic nature.

Underneath, however, ‘Olivia’

hadn’t changed at all. The blunt,

honest, forthright young woman was

still there; only refined. It was like

a flower blooming. Gone was the

heavy make-up and black clothing;

replaced by subtle hues, coordinated

outfits and flowing dresses; the dark

Liv supplanted by the demure

Olivia. Manco’s chameleon had

nothing on her.

Her initial suspicions of Nigel were

gone, too; the incident at the

Brunello now something to recall

with laughter, rather than be held

against him. A bond had developed

between them and he sensed, or

thought he did, that she’d be

amenable to a more intimate rela-

tionship. The trouble was that she

didn’t know what she was getting

into and until he found the nerve to

tell her, Nigel felt it only proper to

keep her at arm’s length. Well, as

much at arm’s length as you could

with a woman who could tango like

that.

He had installed the two of them in

a suite, with two bedrooms, at the

Sofitel. It was a bit loud for his

tastes -- normally, he’d have pre-

ferred the Estancia Villa Maria, a

beautiful, elegant resort in the

countryside just outside the city --

but, then, he hadn’t expected to be

here long, had he?

In bidding Liv goodnight, the

evening before, he stoically ignored

how close to him she moved and

kissed her forehead like a father

would a daughter. He had felt her

stiffen at the rejection and, instantly

wanted to toss his convictions out

the window. Get a grip on yourself,

old fool, he had thought. He turned

his mind back to Aldo and business

steeled him against the disappointed

look Liv gave him, and the swish of

her derriere as she walked back to

her room alone.

In the morning, there was a knock on

his door. A new version of Liv

walked into the bedroom without


KIDS THESE DAYS


waiting for an invitation. Dressed in

a long white blouse, silk, with black

slacks flared out over a pair of ele-

gant heels, she was all business. Her

hair was moussed, pushing forward,

and she carried a large designer bag

to hold her laptop. It was a very

professional look.

He looked at her quizzically.

“I’m coming with you today.”

“I don’t think that’s --”

“Oh, shut up, Nigel. I don’t care

what you think. I’m tired of waiting

on you to take me seriously. If you

won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll

find out for myself and if that’s not

to your liking, well then, I’ll just go

my own way...”

“Look , Liv --”

“Olivia.”

Nigel sighed. “Olivia. Look, you

just don’t know what -- or who --

you’re involving yourself with. I

wish you’d just trust me and give me

a bit more time to sort this out.”

Liv rolled her eyes.

“I’ve given you almost a week to

sort this out, Nigel. I’ve enjoyed

myself and I’m grateful for your

company but, I swear, if you treat me

like your little girl for one minute

longer, I’ll scream.”

He turned to face her, trying to find

a way to put her off. When he put up

his hands and opened his mouth to

explain, she stepped forward, put her

left hand on his chest and, stretching

up, used her right to pull his head

down to hers, giving him a long,

searching kiss. Although the kiss

lasted for an eternity, the search

ended quickly, as Nigel gave in to his

feelings and responded.

When he came up for air, she pulled

him in again. When she went for

three, he had to put his hands firmly

on his shoulders and push her away,

otherwise, the mystery of Aldo

would be put off forever.

“Look, Liv --”

“Olivia!”

Nigel shook his head.


KIDS THESE DAYS


“No, for me, you’ll always be Liv.”

She actually blushed at that.

“Listen to me. I need to sort this

mess with Aldo out today. I’m not

going to be put off again. Too much

time has been wasted -- you know

what I mean! -- and something must

be done. Whatever that turns out to

be, it could very well be dangerous;

moreso if I have to look out for you

as well as myself. I can’t promise

that I can protect you. It would be

much better if you waited here.

When I come back, we will sit down

and talk this over. I promise.”

Her face became serious, defiant.

She looked him straight in the eye

and warned, “Nigel, if you leave me

behind, I won’t be here when you

come back.”

He stared at her, hoping that she

would back down.

Reading his mind, she shook her

head, then said, “I can take care of

myself, you know. I was doing it for

quite a while before you came

along.”

He tried to stare her down for a mo-

ment longer but she refused to be

cowed.

Sighing, he gave in. “Alright, but

when we get there, you stay behind

me at all times, yeah?”

She laughed. “Of course. You need

someone to watch your back.”

“This isn’t a game, girl.”

She reached up and gave him an-

other kiss, quick and hard this time,

pulling hard on his hair and biting

down on his lip sharply just as she let

him go. When he pulled back, there


KIDS THESE DAYS


was fire in her eyes.

“Stop thinking of me as a girl!” she

ordered, then turned and marched

out of the bedroom.

“Coming?” came the sweet call from

the door to the suite a moment later.

Nigel would have muttered a curse

but he was too busy sucking on his

lip. Grabbing his jacket, he followed

after her.

Their cab pulled up in front of the

building housing Aldo’s offices.

Heavy fencing walled the public

entrance off from the port on the

other side, and vice versa, but it did-

n’t hold back the sounds and smells

of the river.

Large forklifts and trucks were

crossing back and forth on the

tarmac behind it. Men called to each

other. A large crane was loading a

ship at the nearest pier, the Ingrid

Betancourt, as gulls circled over-

head. With or without Aldo, his

business was thriving.

The building itself was modern steel

and glass, eight stories high. Once

in the lobby, the quiet a stark contrast

to the industry outside, they crossed

the gleaming marble tile and, arriv-

ing at the security desk, registered

with the guard.

He nodded and smiled at Nigel, now

well acquainted with Señor

Inglaterra. Taking in his new com-

panion, the guard barely noted Liv’s

passport, merely copying the name

and number. When he had passed

the document back and gestured

expansively with an open arm, they

walked across the rest of the lobby

and around a corner to a bank of

elevators.

It took a moment for one to arrive,

but just as its doors were closing to

carry them to the top floor, a brief

case jammed the door open. Reluc-

tantly, the heavy steel receded and

the young man in the heavy glasses

squeezed on, and mumbling an apol-

ogy, nodded to Nigel and Liv, then

sheepishly pushed the button for the

eighth floor again. Standing in front

of them with his head down he

waited as the bell ticked off each

floor.

When the doors reopened, Aldo’s

lobby greeted them. His receptionist


KIDS THESE DAYS


rose from behind her desk, looking

even more perturbed than the day be-

fore. She glanced at the young man,

dismissed him as unimportant, and

turned to Nigel to apologise again, in

broken English, for Aldo’s continued

absence. She claimed that, today, he

was in an important meeting in

Cordoba. That was over six hundred

kilometres away. Convenient.

Another elevator opened and a

courier bearing a small box arrived.

The receptionist signed for the box

and then, to Nigel’s surprise, nodded

for the man to take it into the office.

What in the Light was going on?

Nigel regained the receptionist’s at-

tention and politely asked who, if not

Aldo, was in the office? The ques-

tion made her twitch for an instant,

but she regained her composure,

assuring Nigel that it was merely the

company comptroller going over

some important files, which were

kept in Aldo’s safe.

The courier, suddenly looking as

wary as the receptionist came out of

the office, nodded at them, and hur-

riedly crossed to the elevators, where

he began to push the button furi-

ously.

Nigel’s eyes narrowed and the recep-

tionist twitched one more time.

Comptrollers didn’t usually frighten

delivery men. He smiled at her and

explained, in impeccable Spanish,

that he would not be leaving today.

She became visibly alarmed at the

announcement, waving her hands

and babbling she rounded her desk

to dissuade him. Nigel frowned and,

gently laying his hands on the

woman, moved her aside. She was

growing frantic.

He turned to Liv and, in a stern voice

commanded her to stay in the wait-

ing area. The receptionist covered

her face and started wailing when

Nigel made for the doors to the inner

office. Liv ignored his order and

followed. So did the boy.

Nigel pushed the doors open and

stepped inside. It was a big office,

perhaps fifty feet deep. At the other

end, Manco was standing behind

Aldo’s desk, the box from the

courier laying open on the desk and

a Blackberry Messenger in his hand.

There were two large men, armed,

flanking Nigel, two more, one each


KIDS THESE DAYS


at the wall to his right and left, and

two more sitting in leather chairs in

front of the desk, facing Manco.

When the Incan spoke, they

swiveled to take in Nigel, Liv and

the young man.

“I have been waiting for you to come

through those doors for a week, my

English friend. I do not remember

you having this much patience.”

Nigel allowed the anger inside him

to build as he strode across the of-

fice. Manco cackled in that weird

way of his and held up the Black-

berry.

“Perhaps you can expl--”

Nigel didn’t wait for Manco to finish

the sentence. Without changing the

expression on his face; not betraying

himself with a gesture or change in

his pace; giving no sign at all; he let

loose every bit of anger in him.

Manco didn’t expect patience? Well,

Nigel wouldn’t disappoint!

Everything began to happen at once,

the two men came off their walls and

the other two began to rise out of

their chairs, all four reaching for

shoulder holsters. Too late now.

They should have had weapons in

hand when he entered. There was

movement behind him, he knew, but

Manco was the danger.

“--ain this?”

The last bit barely escaped Manco’s

mouth as everything between him

and Nigel -- chairs, tables, mon-

strous desk, guards, air -- all of it --

rushed towards him. At his back, the

window, which offered a panoramic

view of the port, shattered outward

and down. Manco, his eyes widen-

ing in surprise and his reflexes too

slow to react, was caught in the

storm and hurled out the gaping hole

and dropped out of sight. The furni-

ture followed him, as did one guard

screaming as he, too, fell eight

flights to the ground below. His

partner clung desperately to a large

shard of glass, still rooted to the win-

dow pane, face and arms bleeding

but desperately clinging to life.

The Blackberry remained behind,

hovering in the air.

“Might need that,” a voice behind

him said.


KIDS THESE DAYS


The men to either side had their guns

clear now but Nigel’s arms came up

before theirs could extend. The men

flew backwards just as Manco had

done but the walls behind them re-

mained intact. The pair crashed into

them with reverberating thuds, then

slumped to the floor.

Quieting his anger, Nigel walked to-

wards the window. When he was

within ten feet of it, a large crow rose

into view and gave a harsh laughing

croak. Nigel flung his arms towards

it, releasing again, but, with a

squawk this time, the bird lurched to

one side, losing a few feathers from

the force of Nigel’s glancing blow

and flew off hurriedly.

Nigel stood in the frame of the

window and watched it fade into the

distance.

Bastard, he thought.

“Señor?” a voice below him begged.

He looked down at the guard still

clinging to the glass. He was cut

badly, bleeding too profusely from

his neck and arms to last much

longer.

“Por favor, Señor!”

“Where is Aldo?”

The man’s eyes widened in despair.

He shook his head as much as he

dared.

“No se, Señor, no se...”

Nigel shrugged his shoulders.

“Too bad,” he said, and kicked at the

glass.

The man cried out as he fell away.

Nigel didn’t wait to see him land.

Turning, he looked at the ruin of the

office. At the far end, Liv and the

young man stood over the slumped

form of the two remaining guards

and the receptionist.

“She fainted when you kicked the

other one out,” the young man ex-

plained. He held the Blackberry in

his left hand.

“You’re English,” Nigel said.

The boy nodded and took off his

glasses. Nigel was stunned. He was


KIDS THESE DAYS


the spitting image of Liv.

“I told you I had a brother,” she said.

“I just fudged a bit on him still being

in Aylesbury.”

He looked at her for a moment, pro-

cessing just how deep the deceit had

gone, and then back to the boy.

“Do you have a name?”

“Malcolm,” he said. “People call me

Mal.”

“Alright then, Mal,” Nigel answered.

“People call me Nigel.”

The boy nodded.

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.”

Nigel held out his hand and Mal,

after a moment’s hesitation, tossed

the Blackberry to him.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing

with powers?” Nigel asked.

Liv finally spoke, looking very un-

comfortable.

“We both have them,” she said.

“Lovely,” Nigel murmured. “And

where exactly did you come by

them?”

Mal broke in.

“They were given us,” he said a bit

too proudly.

“Oh, were they now? And just who

bestowed them upon you?”

Liv spoke again.

“It was the Lady,” she said. “Who

else? She came to us a few years

ago, said that Albion was missing its

representative and she didn’t know

when, or if he would return.”

She took a nervous step towards Mal

when Nigel’s eyes widened. “She

said we were to take his place.”

“You are aware that you mean my

place?” he asked, his tone growing

colder.

She nodded, nervously.

“As well,” he added, “if anyone

would have known where to find me,

it would have been the Lady. I was

nestled in her bosom.”


KIDS THESE DAYS


Liv shook her head, this time, blush-

ing slightly at his terminology.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she

said. “We haven’t heard from her

again.”

Mal stood there defiantly, ready to

challenge him. Foolish boy. Liv

took a step towards him and he held

up a hand to stop her.

“Nigel...” she began

“It would seem we both have our

secrets,” he said.

She nodded sadly.

Nigel looked down at the Blackberry

in his hand. ‘You have a text mes-

sage’ it blinked at him. He pushed a

couple of buttons and the screen said

‘Message from Aldo’. Nigel clicked

on ‘View Message’. A short sen-

tence appeared on the screen.

‘Don’t trust in the Good Times. A.’

He looked back and forth between

Mal and Liv. Good times, indeed. ■


KIDS THESE DAYS



DANNY CHADBURN >

Welcoming you to the convenience auction.

Truth is optional, as marketable delusion.

Traditional rationality. Going, going gone.

>


GARETH MILLWARD >

History is a commodity. Just look at

those stones inserted into old

buildings. Est. 1891. Today it’s a

curiosity. Hey, it might even add a

few thousand onto the listing price.

In 1893, I’ve no doubt that it simply

looked pretentious.

The Premier League (est. 1992 or

1888, depending on your outlook)

makes billions of dollars worldwide

not just because of the atmosphere at

the grounds, the style of play or the

quality of the players. Partly, it's be-

cause European football traffics in a

commodity that the rest of the foot-

balling world either does not pos-

sess or fails to fully value: tradition.


IS IT BEAUTIFUL?


The problem is, of course, that it’s all

a myth.

What is dangerous is when Tradition

is invoked as a blocking mechanism

for anything that people don’t like.

This philosophy assumes that things

just exist; they have no history; their

moral worth comes from simply ex-

isting rather than from any intrinsic

value. Things are ‘good’ because of

their age; because they always have

been and always will be.

Rationality, on the other hand, is

built on reason. Good, solid reason.

Decisions should be made not on

feeling or on misconceived notions

of convention. They should be

made on hard facts, designed to cre-

ate the best product in the most

efficient way possible. This is the

realm of order, bureaucracy and

commercialisation.

Yes, Tradition is irrational. Yes,

Tradition is emotional. The thing is,

we need both irrationality and emo-

tion in football as we do in life. I

have become worried, however,

that this irrationality is being

misused. Those who rely upon it

too heavily risk being disregarded as

sentimental fools. Those who ig-

nore it completely risk turning the

sport into a soulless corporate mess.

We must embrace emotion in foot-

ball -- lest we lose the game entirely.

Truth is relative

Plenty of football writers have

delved into the myths and cultures

of football to show that what we

believe is not necessarily true.

Rafael Honnigstein’s Englischer

Fussball is an excellent window onto

England’s game from a journalist

with one foot in and the other outside

the game on that island. There’s little

need to produce here a long list of

reasons why the myth is ‘wrong’.

History has always been -- and will

continue to be -- misused. This is

not always an active attempt to de-

ceive, but certain events, trends,

and people will always be ascribed

meaning and symbolism which

distorts their ‘true’ position. The

myths surrounding modern football

in this country are just that: myths.

The fact that some of those can be

backed up with scraps of historical

evidence merely serves to fuel that


IS IT BEAUTIFUL? GARETH MILLWARD >


fire.

But it doesn’t matter if myth is sci-

entifically ‘untrue’. It doesn’t have

to stand up to rigorous and meticu-

lous analysis. It holds sufficient

power with sufficient people to be a

reality. As philosopher/South Park

character Kyle Broflowski once said:

“Whether Jesus is real or not, he’s

had a bigger impact on the world

than any of us have. And the same

could be said of Bugs Bunny, and

Superman, and Harry Potter.

They've changed my life, changed

the way I act on the Earth. Doesn't

that make them kind of ‘real’? They

might be imaginary, but they're

more important than most of us

here. And they’re all going to be

around long after we’re dead. So in

a way, those things are more realer

[sic] than any of us.”

It’s this powerful tradition that

makes Western European football

so marketable. Marquee names

such as Manchester United,

Barcelona, Real Madrid and Bayern

Munich cannot be created

overnight. Their histories (selec-

tively chosen by their fans, owners,

and the media) give a sense of Tra-

dition that few can rival. Other

clubs, such as Chelsea or Manchester

City, can gain prestige passively from

the competitions they play in. These

teams are also highly prized by their

owners, but more because of where

they play rather than a long track

record at the highest levels of the

sport.

So whether England has more

history than any other footballing

nation, or whether it is a working

class sport is, frankly, immaterial.

People believe it. I -- consciously or

subconsciously -- believe it. It is

incredibly powerful, and no football

equivalent to Richard Dawkins is

going to turn us agnostic.

The danger of commercialisation

This is where commercialisation is a

major problem. It colonises Tradi-

tion and twists it towards its own

ends. It assumes that certain

aspects of history are more impor-

tant than others, completely

dismissing that which it does not

find convenient.

The most obvious case is the ‘foot-




ball was invented in 1992’ syndrome

which affects anyone working for

Sky Sports. Ryan Giggs and David

James have the ‘record’ for Premier

League appearances (573), despite

being well behind the record for top

flight appearances (Peter Shilton,

849). Yet, Manchester United have

won 19 titles, and Liverpool have

played Everton 215 times in the

Merseyside Derby.

History sells -- as long

as it’s convenient.

But it allows more

sinister behaviour. It

is, of course ‘tradi-

tional’ to have a game on Sunday

evenings at 4pm -- since the mid-

1990s it has been, at any rate. The

fact that Newcastle fans might strug-

gle to make it to Fratton Park and

back at that time is, of course, incon-

sequential, even though 30 years

ago the game would have been at

3pm on a Saturday.

It allows the ‘history’ of Premier

League regulars West Ham United to

move into the same borough as ‘his-

toryless’ Leyton Orient (who have

never been in the Premier League).

Even more depress-

ingly, it allows Leeds

United’s owners to

increase season

ticket prices by 13%

because it is ‘tradi-

tional’ that Leeds

have a large hardcore of fans who

will turn up no matter what. Leeds

are not the only club to do this -- but

Ken Bates deserves to be attacked

whenever the opportunity arises.

Tradition good/commercialisation

bad

We should not get too carried away

here; commercialisation has

brought benefits. Despite the incon-

venience of going to Portsmouth at

4pm on a Sunday, you can watch the

game live on television. For some

this may not give the ‘proper’ fan

experience, but for a number of

others it gives the opportunity to

see players far more regularly than

they otherwise might. Has every

Newcastle fan always had the

financial and practical means to

watch every game? Should they be

seen as lesser fans if they

can’t/won’t go to every game? It’s

certainly not (awful pun warning)

black and white.



It allows Leeds

United’s owners to

increase season

ticket prices by 13%


‘Untraditional’ practices such as

three points for a win, allowing

non-champions entry to the Cham-

pions League, the abolition of the

wage cap, and the removal of terrac-

ing have all received varying degrees

of disdain from football fans. Yet

each has brought positives and

negatives. And then there’s this

absurd notion that business and

football have not been bedfellows

since the very beginning. Profes-

sional football is, almost by defini-

tion, commercial. Clubs generate

revenue and pay their players. From

the late 19th century it became

clear that northern factory workers

needed to be compensated for their

time in order to make football a reg-

ular, viable business. This destroyed

the Tradition of football as a gentle-

man’s game.

Or, rather, it turned football from a

game run by the aristocracy and Old

Etonians (FA Cup winners 1879 and

1882) to a game of the working

classes. Yes, commercialisation gave

the game to the people. That does-

n’t sit well in the football myth

though, does it? And so it is rarely

brought up when commercialisation

is attacked for ripping the game

away from its core support. The

convenient use of history goes both

ways.

Irrationality for the win

So, why should we care? If we can

calmly and logically show how

Tradition is irrational (and often

misused), why shouldn’t we em-

brace the rationality of the brave

new commercial world? Because

football is irrational. We must not

equate irrational with ‘bad’, rational

with ‘good’. Love is irrational. The

holocaust was rational. If you’ll

excuse my submission to Goodwin’s

Law, irrationality is the beautiful, the

good, the exciting and the awesome.

Rationality is the dispassionate, the

cold, the logical and the utilitarian.

We need to use rationalism wisely.

We should not invoke i t ‘ just

because’. We need to understand

that the past was not better and

that the present is not worse. As

one historian put it, each epoch is

equal under God; there is no such

thing as ‘progress’ -- every period

has its positive and negative points,

but none is inherently ‘better’ than

the others.




Cultures change, tastes change, but

what we keep is a sense of beauty.

Part of the beauty of football is its

(relatively) deep history and sense

of Tradition. That does not mean

that everything ‘old’ is beautiful, but

that old can be beautiful, and that

something old can be old because it

was (and remained) beautiful.

The decisions about the future of

the game need to be beautiful. Or

at the very least they should not be

ugly.

Etihad and the City of Manchester

Stadium

Let’s take, for example, the move by

Manchester City to sell the naming

rights of Eastlands to the airline

Etihad. Oliver Holt was very dismis-

sive of the whole thing on Twitter,

invoking Tradition as a key reason to

oppose it.

I’m not so sure. I don’t want to at-

tack Holt -- I feel no strong emotions

one way or the other on the issue.

The question is, is the Etihad deal

‘ugly’? On a number of levels it is.

The price seems obscenely inflated,

designed as an attempt to raise

more money that the club could

probably raise in a ‘fair’ market

place. Football should be competi-

tive and ‘fair’. Arsène Wenger might

call it financial doping. We can

definitely call it ‘ugly’.

Then there’s the brazen commercial-

isation – naming your stadium after

an airline. That’s the sort of thing

that Americans do, where they sell

advertising space on anything that

does or doesn’t move (Americans

are not Traditional in football, and

are, therefore, ugly). Wenger might

call that... actually, Wenger works at

the Emirates. Perhaps he’d better

keep quiet on that one.

Yet, the stadium had no real ‘name’

– that is to say, the name for the sta-

dium was just the name for the sta-

dium. To some, it’s the converted

Commonwealth Games stadium.

It’s only 10 years old. It isn’t -- and

this is more than a simple point of

geography -- Maine Road. Maine

Road was more than a ground, and

a ground is more than a stadium.

Maine Road represented a concept,

a place of identity for Manchester

City fans. The Etihad isn’t Anfield. It

isn’t Hillsborough, Villa Park, or even




Spotland. It’s a new stadium, built

this century without the symbolic

meaning of the old Maine Road.

Calling it the ‘Etihad Stadium’ might

not be beautiful -- but is it really any

uglier than what preceded it? It

benefits the club financially, allow-

ing them to play more beautiful

football. I don’t think Tradition --

beauty -- works as an argument in

this case. There are far more ra-

tional objections which should be

raised.

Terracing

All-seater stadia have been a mixed

blessing. Along with the rise in

corporate seating and middle class

fans from the late-’80s onwards, the

argument is that we have lost the

atmosphere in the English game.

In some cases that’s clearly true.

The Emirates, while an excellent

place to watch foot-

ball, is not the best

place to go to a foot-

ball match. It’s com-

fortable, you get a

great view, and you

can join in the songs

that ripple through

the stadium. You also know what it

isn’t? It isn’t Anfield on a big

European Cup night. It isn’t even

the Britannica on an FA Cup Satur-

day.

Despite the loss of atmosphere, the

new stadia are both a positive and

negative step. For one thing, hooli-

ganism is no longer the endemic and

widespread problem it once was.

Safety is also significantly improved.

I do not believe in progress. While

in some ways the games of the ‘80s

were probably more

enjoyable to attend, I

have absolutely no

doubt that in other

ways they were far

worse.

It is this selective use

of history which backs up too many

Traditional arguments. The rose-

tinted view of history -- or at least

the one that prioritises personal

tastes over the needs or desires of

everyone else -- serves nobody well.

Hooliganism was ugly. Rickety old

stadia were ugly. And, yes, soulless

plastic stadia are also ugly. To fix

one problem, however, one does



Despite the loss of

atmosphere, the

new stadia are

both a positive and

negative step


not necessarily have to look back-

wards. While there may be beauty

in Tradition, there is also beauty in

being radical, daring and new.

Game 39

The 39th game is an anathema

because it would unbalance the

league competition and would take

the game away from the local fans

of those clubs -- it, too, is unques-

tionably ugly.

But the 39th game shows precisely

why beauty matters. There are log-

ical, rational reasons for introducing

it. Asia pumps so much money into

English football, and there are so

many fans of English clubs on that

continent – why shouldn’t our clubs

play there? Why shouldn’t the mar-

ket which has helped fuel the

Premier League expansion get to

see the action close up? Wouldn’t

the extra cash be useful to those

clubs? Would they be able to use it

to reduce ticket prices, or at the very

least buy better players?

Indeed, in this globalised economy

it makes far more sense to play in-

ternationally. But in doing so they

would make the game so ugly that

nobody could bear to look at it.

The beauty in Tradition here is not

that it’s old. There are plenty of ‘old’

practices in English league football

which were (in my opinion) rightly

changed. Three points for a win

distorted the initial meaning of the

league system. Automatic relega-

tion is a ‘new’ concept -- in the early

years teams used to play off against

each other. Does anyone remember

using goal average to decide the

order of teams on the same number

of points?

The beauty lies in what that Tradi-

tion provides -- a balanced league

calendar, built around the histori-

cally constructed idea of playing

home and away matches between

teams of a similar ability. Tradition

segregates leagues based on

national boundaries, and while that

may be an accident built upon capi-

talist, sexist and racist notions of

nationality, it adds meaning to intra-

national rivalries between cities,

counties and regions. In England

one of the key elements of a profes-

sional football match is the rivalry

between the home fans and the




away fans. Would that exist in

Bangkok, Singapore or Doha? Not in

the same way. It wouldn’t have the

same beauty. That is why the 39th

game is ugly.

Is it beautiful? Is it ugly?

The recent FIFA scandal raised so

much ire because it was quintessen-

tially ugly -- it was the archetypal

example of an oligarchy of corrupt

men doing favours for each other

and ignoring the community they

were meant to be representing.

FIFA should reform because the

Beautiful Game should be run by a

beautiful body. A beautiful, rational

body with clear rules governing its

behaviour.

And that is the ultimate conclusion.

Football needs the right balance

between a rational structure and

the beautiful irrationality of emo-

tion. Without that it ceases to exist.

Commercialisation is rational, and

there can be a certain beauty in

rationality -- but not all rationality is

beautiful. Tradition can be beauti-

ful, but that does not mean that

nothing should change or that

everything should revert to how it

was in the past. If those who want

to change the game are serious,

they should ask those with power a

simple question: “What you want to

do: is it beautiful? If not, don’t do

it.” ■





DANNY CHADBURN >

The big clubs; therein lies opportunity,

They’re the place to be if that’s your priority.

Beware of their actions, not all are heavenly.

>


MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >

PART TWO

Vlad stood at the door to his locker,

soaking up the atmosphere. It was

incredible. The buzz in the room

was still difficult to come to terms

with, despite it having become a

regular occurrence over the course

of the season. Other than one sig-

nificant instance, results on the

pitch had been business as usual

this season; Stygian was rolling over

everyone and, for once, they were

reveling in each and every en-

counter.

In the past, the squad had treated

the campaign as just so much work


WINNING UGLY


-- until it was time to play Paradiso,

of course. Previously, the side had

been stocked with some of Ab-

badon’s most talented agents, but,

as the Boss held his place by pitting

his own against one another, the

clubhouse had always been quieter

than death, with most of the players

eager to accomplish the task at hand

and get back to their own existence.

That lack of trust, despite a common

purpose, was what had held the side

back against Paradiso, the vampire

realised in hindsight.

Scrooge had been brought in from

Victorian and had overhauled the

roster.

His first piece of business had been

to sign a new goalkeeper and, mis-

leadingly, the choice had Abbadon’s

fingerprints all over it. Khali, the

Hindu Goddess of Death, the De-

stroyer as she was commonly

known, had a fearsome reputation.

Certainly, she brooked no opposition

in marshaling her defenders, but in

the clubhouse, she was respectful to

everyone. Despite her reputation as

a loose cannon, you couldn’t ask for

a better, more level-headed team-

mate. And six arms were an added

bonus for a netminder, to be sure.

There would be no worries at the

back.

But if observers believed that Ebbie

was merely a figurehead and

business would proceed as usual at

Stygian, with Abbadon, or, in his

latest skin, Moggi, pulling the

strings, the manager’s remaining

signings dispelled the notion.

Jacob Marley had been brought in,

ostensibly to be the gaffer’s man in

the clubhouse. He wasn’t very per-

sonable, though, just staring at you

with dead eyes if you asked him a

question, occasionally mumbling an

unintelligible response. No, he was

the spy to combat Abbadon's spies,

unless Vlad missed his guess. He

was a decent player, in the bargain,

so the vampire had no complaints.

You had to play the game or it

played you.

The hunchback, Quasimodo, was

recruited as a reserve full back. He

was another quiet soul at first, but

would open up to those who took

the time to get to know him. On

Stygian, that was just the one man

at first.


WINNING UGLY -- PART TWO MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >


De Bergerac had been the surprise

coup in the Celestial League transfer

window. No one could believe that

the pleasant, engaging gentleman-

footballer had agreed to sign with

the Inferno. However, Paradiso had

spurned innumerable opportunities

to take him on, and Cy had the de-

sire to win.

On the pitch, he was a midfield

magician, cutting through defences

like the renowned swordsman he

had been in another life. In the

clubhouse and on the training

ground, he had become fast friends

with ‘Quasi’, and was forever pester-

ing Ebbie to bench either Sammael

or Anteus, the demonic full back

duo, and give his friend a ‘deserved’

chance.

Needless to say, the two Hellions

were visibly displeased at such sug-

gestions and quickly moved to

discourage the new man from stick-

ing his nose in where it didn’t

belong. Cy didn’t back down an

inch, prepared to fight whatever the

odds. Sammael and Anteus seemed

only too happy to oblige, until Vlad,

his smile exposing razor sharp

incisors, appeared at Cy’s right

shoulder and a grim-countenanced

Dorian Gray, a rather sharp looking

nail file in hand, at his left. When

someone provided you the quality

service that Cy rendered, you made

sure no harm came to him.

From his office, Ebenezer had

watched the demons shamble off

with a grin on his face. He might just

have a squad, after all.

The early season match against their

nemesis, held at the Judecca, had

been a revelation. Ebbie’s squad had

played fluidly and selflessly, jumping

out to an early lead. With Cy in the

midfield, both Vlad and Dorian had

flourished. In his first Heaven and

Hell derby, De Bergerac had gifted

both of them an early goal.

Yet, as usual, Paradiso had come

roaring back, scoring one on each

side of the break and then another

on the hour. Perseus repeatedly

crept behind Medusa, with the

Gorgon unusually red-faced and

furious in her inability to contain

him. The American, Paul Revere,

had been racing down Stygian’s left

flank, delivering sublime service into

the box. On the other end of it, the

Greek had burnt the Gorgon for a




brace and David had snuck in at the

rear post for the third.

Ebenezer had seen enough with

that. Sammael was summarily

yanked in favour of the hunchback,

taking a moment to deliver some

choice words to the gaffer on his

way into the clubhouse. Honestly,

Vlad thought,what did he expect? If

an ancient and powerful demon

couldn’t contain a mere mortal,

what use was he?

Quasimodo’s entrance had met with

jeers and catcalls from the Stygian

support. He certainly cut a strange,

cumbersome figure, and the sup-

porters obviously did not rate his

chances of making a difference. Yet,

Revere suddenly found every av-

enue cut off and the ball lightly

nicked from his feet each time he

dared overlap into the final third.

Soon enough, he was relegated to

defending his own end, as his

ungainly opponent began making

the runs, sending tantalising deliver-

ies into the box and letting loose

with the occasional booming volley

from distance. Worse, he was

laughing and singing as he went

about it.

When Gabriel shifted Paradiso's for-

mation to compensate, Stygian was

ready. There was the slightest rattle

of chains to alert Simon Peter, in

goal, but it came just a moment too

late. Jacob Marley ghosted in from

behind and buried Cy's flicked-on

header. How De Bergerac’s exceed-

ingly prominent nose didn’t inter-

fere with his ability in the air was a

mystery -- you certainly had to be

wary of taking a step back when tap-

ping him on the shoulder in a

crowded pub -- but the stunner for

both sides was that Stygian had

leveled.

Everyone stood in utter silence after

the ball hit the back of the net. Vlad

looked to the referee and linesman

but the flags were down and, appar-

ently, no phantom call was going to

snuff out this goal. Even the fans

needed a moment to confirm what

they had seen, before breaking into

thunderous applause.

Tradition had long dictated that

Paradiso would overcome an early

deficit and Stygian would

meekly capitulate. It had always

been so. This was completely new




territory and the home side quickly

warmed to the change. As the Sty-

gian fans watched with increasing

delight, the visitors stormed the goal

with abandon and before it was all

said and done, three more strikes

had found the twine.

When the whistle blew for full time,

the stadium lights exploded like fire-

works as the delirious support chan-

neled their ecstasy. Fire rained

down on the pitch again, as it had at

the end of the previous season, but

this time it was offered in praise

rather than derision. A chant of ap-

preciation, a hundred thousand

voices strong, replaced the typical

barrage of insults. The players,

standing in one close circle, raised

their hands in triumph and greeted

the chaotic serenade with smiling

faces.

The celebration in the clubhouse

afterwards had lasted well into the

night. For the most part, the bond

that had been formed that evening

only grew stronger. Every match

since had been a pleasure and

yielded maximum points.

Vlad found that he was actually en-

joying himself. He had doubted Ab-

badon’s scheme to bring in Scrooge

and, in turn, the talent that Paradiso

had so easily rejected out of hand,

but it was proving an inspired plan.

He kept one eye on the table,

however.

As he had anticipated, Paradiso

responded to the defeat with a

fierceness that didn’t bode well for

the final weekend of the season.

They had routed every opponent

and remained just a point behind

Stygian. The Judecca was in for an

epic encounter to conclude this

season. Both sides would leave

everything on the pitch; no quarter

asked, none given. The vampire

licked his lips at the thought and

turned to dress.

Looking in the mirror, he saw Cy

come out of the shower and, from

around his waist, remove his towel

to crack it like a whip at the exposed

buttock of an unsuspecting Quasi.

The hunchback let loose with a

thundering ‘Merde!” and clambered

recklessly across benches, bouncing

off lockers and teammates as he

chased Cy, screeching in mock ter-

ror, about the clubhouse, finally




pouncing on his back and playfully

pretending to pound him into a

pulp.

Vlad laughed along with everyone

else and yelled encouragement.

Well, not everyone else. Dorian

stood at this locker, ignoring the

tumult as he groomed himself,

making certain that not a hair was

out of place.

He wouldn’t be coming out with the

lads tonight. At first, he had joined

Vlad, Cy and Quasi on post-match

pub crawls, but he’d soon been put

off. With the obvious physical

abnormalities of the other two, one

would have thought that he and

Vlad would have the pick of the

women. Not so. Cy and the hunch-

back, one with a suave confidence

and the other with a humble cour-

tesy, seemed to charm the ladies off

their feet and out of their undergar-

ments without any noticeable effort.

Stuck with the left-overs, the narcis-

sistic Dorian had soon gone his own

way. There was something else in it,

too. Where Dorian's manner had

once been an air of superiority,

there was now a reluctant reticence.

He'd come back to the team eventu-

ally, the vampire reasoned. He

enjoyed the game too much.

Meanwhile, Vlad took it as a chal-

lenge to see if he could outdo Cy

and Quasi each week. It rarely

occurred but that didn’t make the

competition any less enjoyable.

As the commotion settled into good-

natured banter, he took a mental

inventory of the clubhouse and, not

seeing Marley, also made note of

the manager’s darkened office.

Those two were inseparable and

could just be off having a private

drink to celebrate another win, but

some instinct warned him that they

were up to something.

Cy, half dressed, sidled up to him

and winked.

“Coming out tonight then, Vlad?” he

asked with an easy smile.

Dracula sighed, “Not tonight, I’m

afraid, my friend. Sadly, something

has come up.”

De Bergerac looked disappointed at

missing the pleasure of Vlad’s com-

pany and a strange feeling pulled at




the vampire’s heart. Friendship was

unfamiliar territory to him.

“Quasi will be sorry to hear that,” Cy

murmured. “He wanted to intro-

duce you to someone.”

The feeling grew worse. “There will

be another night, my friend. That I

can promise. Please offer my apolo-

gies?”

Cy nodded and wandered off. Vlad

felt no better, but there was no get-

ting around it. Work came before

play.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Rebekah sat in the sidewalk café

across from the Paradiso offices.

The evening breeze was cool and

people walked by, bathed in the soft

street light, their auras -- to which

she was now becoming attuned --

glowing brightly as they chattered

gaily to each other. Rebekah still

couldn’t get used to the lack of cell

phones and music players. People

here seemed to value the company

of those they were with.

She ran a finger down her cheek,

subconsciously. Though it still trou-

bled her, the cut had healed into a

barely visible white gossamer thread

running from the corner of her eye

down to her jawline. Strangers had

to be attentive to notice it and, truth

be told, it was only evident then due

to the prominence of her freckles.

She looked at the gleaming building

across the plaza in frustration. She

had tried everything she could think

of to crack the club’s security but it

was simply unbreakable. None of

Murdoch’s hackers could find a way

in and none of his thieves or cut-

throats would venture near the

place.

Getting dirt on the Paradiso players

seemed impossible. She had

searched high and low for an insider

with an axe to grind. On Earth, such

people were readily available. The

wealthy and prominent, no matter

their nature, attracted the bitter and

envious. It was human nature to

sidle up to and praise your betters,

then rip them down from their

pedestal like a pack of wolves bring-

ing down a deer. Here, the aura of

such scavengers marked them out

and, as a result, they remained in




their own Circles.

Rebekah could see no way of carry-

ing out Murdoch’s wishes, which,

had the consequences of failure not

been so personal, would have

pleased her no end. One journey

through a personal hell was suffi-

cient for her. Once, she had tried to

explain the futility of the task and

her reluctance to carry it out, only to

be met with His full fury.

She couldn’t understand it. The new

manager whom Murdoch had re-

cruited had done wonders with Sty-

gian. They had come from behind

and thrashed Paradiso. Every media

outlet in this place was on about it,

playing up the rematch at Heaven’s

Gate in the season’s final week, as

an epic confrontation, likely for the

title. By all accounts, Stygian was

going to finally end Paradiso’s reign

at the top.

Murdoch didn’t need her but had

still become enraged at the sugges-

tion that He release her. Winning a

championship wasn't enough. He

wanted to bring Paradiso down

forever and she was the key to that.

He had smiled coldly and promised

her endlessly exquisite pain if she let

Him down.

God help her, though, there was no

way out. Resigned to her fate, Re-

bekah glanced hopelessly at the

impenetrable edifice again and

reached for her purse to leave a tip

for the waitress. She would go back

over her tracks one more time and

pray that she had overlooked some

detail. She knew she hadn’t,

though. As she rummaged for loose

change, a voice interrupted her

gloomy thoughts.

“May I join you?”

Looking up, she was startled to see

a tall, handsome man in a white

linen suit, with an incredibly intense

aura. He was tanned, with flowing

brown hair drawn back into a pony

tail and an immaculately trimmed

beard and mustache. His smile re-

vealed perfect white teeth but she

was captivated by his soft brown

eyes. Then she realised who he was.

“Oh, Christ!” she blurted out.

Immediately she flushed a deep

purple and attempted to splutter

out an apology. What was wrong




with her?

He laughed gently for a moment,

before reassuring her.

“There’s no need to apologise. If I

took offence, as people imagine I do

every time they invoke my name in

vain, I’d have a truly miserable exis-

tence. So, don’t trouble yourself.”

Her face flushed even deeper, if that

was possible. She murmured an-

other apology, then, after searching

in vain for a proper appellation,

realised, “I’m sorry, I don’t know

how to address you.”

He laughed easily, again.

“Yes, once I'm standing right in front

of them, people suddenly don't

know what to call me.

"My name is Jesus” -- he made a pla-

cating gesture at the mortification

which sprang to her face -- “but very

few people feel comfortable calling

me that and I have no need for

honourifics. De Nazarene is fine, if

you like.”

“De Nazarene,” she murmured, re-

spectfully bowing her head. Then

she looked up and offered her hand.

“I’m Rebekah.”

“Yes, Rebekah. It’s wonderful to at

last make your acquaintance.”

As she stood goggling up at him, the

King of Kings and Chairman of Club

Paradiso gazed down upon her with

a patient smile. When it finally

became evident that she was at a

loss for how to proceed, he spoke

again.

“Well?”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“May I join you?”

Finally, she laughed at her complete

lack of grace.

“Yes, yes, of course, please do!” she

giggled nervously before her mirth

faded into fear. “Although I have no

idea why you would wish to.”

Sliding into a chair and waving away

the expectant waitress, De Nazarene

favoured her with another beatific

smile.




“I always enjoy making new friends,”

He said and waited again.

Another long silence gave Rebekah

time to collect her thoughts. Gath-

ering her courage, she asked Him

the question, the answer to which

she was certain would condemn her

for eternity.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. That is why I

came,” He nodded, His expression

finally serious. “I thought it might

be a good time to explain the rules

of this place to you.”

Rebekah swallowed back the bile

that was rising in her throat. Her

heart pounded mercilessly. She was

truly trapped between Heaven and

Hell.

“God help me,” she thought to

herself for the last time.

De Nazarene smiled as if she had

spoken aloud and reached across

the table.

The sound of a leg iron clanking

against concrete caused his smile to

fade. He pulled his hand back and

looked beyond her. Rebekah turned

and followed his gaze. A pale

apparition in chains, wearing a

somber expression approached

their table, half a step behind a

craggy-faced gentleman walking

with the aid of a stick. The latter

wore a shiny top hat and a long

black coat, bundled against the

breeze and covering him to below

the knee. His boots were polished

to a bright sheen and a large dia-

mond glittered on the end of his

stick.

As he strode up, Rebekah recog-

nised the bushy sideburns and thick

eyebrows.

“Rebekah, my dear!” Ebenezer

tipped his cane and doffed his hat as

if greeting an old friend rather than

a complete stranger. “Marley and I

have been looking everywhere for

you. Is everything well?”

“Y-yes, she stammered,” uncertain

how he knew her or where she

could run. Ebenezer, in Murdoch's

employ, had seen him with the

Enemy. All was lost, surely.




Scrooge turned to De Nazarene and

affected a sweeping bow. “M’Lord,”

he intoned.

“Ebenezer,” De Nazarene acknowl-

edged, nonplussed. “Are you enjoy-

ing your new position?”

“It has its benefits, M’ Lord. May we

join the party?”

Without waiting for an answer, he

took a chair and gestured at a reluc-

tant Marley to sit in the other. As he

did so, Ebenezer waved the waitress

over and ordered tea for everyone.

“Does Moggi know that you’re here,

darling?” Ebbie asked.

“Moggi?”

“Of course, how silly of me,” Ebbie

chuckled. “I meant Murdoch,

sweetheart. Is he aware that you’re

in this neck of the woods?”

“I believe it was Abbadon himself

who sent her,” De Nazarene inter-

jected.

“Really?” Ebenezer raised an eye-

brow quizzically. “How interesting.

Perhaps we should have a chat.”

It was De Nazarene’s turn to arch his

brow.

“I took this ‘position’ to prove that

there is more to the realm of Good

and Evil than just Heaven and Hell,”

the Victorian began bluntly. “Those

of us neither purely wholesome nor

malevolent have some worth, as

well.

"Now, before you warn me about

my choice of friends, I know my

employer well enough and have

kept an eye to see that his machina-

tions don’t interfere with my plans.

But you should know that just as I

won’t brook any hindrances from

the Prince of Lies, I’ll take none from

Yourself.”

His eyes met De Nazarene’s and held

them before continuing.

“I am going to end your reign, sir.”

De Nazarene merely smiled. Marley

let out a moan of despair and Re-

bekah wondered how her situation

could get any worse.




From down the street, in the shad-

ows, Vlad watched the goings-on

impassively. He didn’t know too

much about the woman, beyond the

fact that Abbadon was using her to

some end. Seeing De Nazarene in

her company was problematic. He

didn’t know his Master’s business

with her and, if he went to Abbadon

with this information, it could as

easily be taken for meddling rather

than concern. Centuries of experi-

ence told him that it wasn’t worth

risking Abbadon's wrath to speak

up.

Ebbie’s presence concerned him,

however. He had followed the Vic-

torian until he met up with his

lackey, Marley, a few blocks away.

The ghost had led them both here.

The gaffer had done well for the club

and, seemingly, had them on the

brink of greatness. Was this betrayal

then, or something else?

As he tried to decide the best course

of action, the entire party rose to

leave. Ebbie, shook hands with De

Nazarene, a grave countenance on

his face, and left with the woman

and the ghost in tow. The chairman

of Club Paradiso watched them

leave.

Vlad’s mind raced as he considered

the possibilities, then abruptly

stalled as he tried to arrive at an ap-

propriate course of action. He soon

found that above all else, he desper-

ately wanted to win the Champi-

onship. Somehow, he believed that

it would be something to cling to

through the rest of his miserable

existence. Was Ebbie threatening

that dream? And how to deal with

the Nazarene? If there was one per-

son he wished to come up against

less than the Master...

As that thought ran through his

head, the King of Kings turned his

head in Vlad’s direction. A piercing

gaze reached through the shadows

to lock on the vampire’s. As Vlad

considered fighting or fleeing, De

Nazarene smiled benignly, turned

and crossed the plaza into the of-

fices of Club Paradiso.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Abbadon sat in the spacious luxury

box, looking down onto the empty

pitch at Heaven’s Gate, his anger

plainly evident. Sammael and




Anteus, both now surplus to Sty-

gian’s requirements, stood behind

him, dressed in matching tailored

suits, their existence reduced to

‘protecting’ a being who could wipe

them from existence with a single,

whimsical thought.

It still rankled Sammael that he had

been supplanted by that disfigured

little human and even more so that

Dracula had sided against him. An-

teus, for his part, was regretting

accompanying his brother when he

had gone to complain to the Master.

Now, he too was off the team, his

place taken by some gangly little

whelp with multiple personality is-

sues, on loan from Shakhtar Mordor.

The piteous wretch constantly

muttered about something quite

dear to him but Stygian fans appre-

ciated that his ability to get behind

unsuspecting defenders made him

the perfect partner for Marley on

the left flank. They had not missed

Anteus one bit.

His bodyguard’s concerns were the

furthest thoughts from the Master's

mind, however. What had begun as

the most promising chance to

upend Paradiso had taken a turn for

the worse, somewhere along the

way, and half-time of the final match

of the season saw Stygian, still with

hope, but in desperate straits.

Matters had begun to unravel

shortly after Rebekah had come to

him, claiming that it was “more

hopeless than Labour winning an

election” to infiltrate Paradiso. He

had exploded in fury at her whinging,

making it clear that failure was not

an option. She had fled in tears.

Before he could formulate an alter-

native plan if she proved truly inca-

pable, Stygian inexplicably hit a

rough patch. They actually lost to

minnows Grimm 1812. He had been

furious and called Scrooge onto the

carpet. The Victorian had faced him

down, said there was a trust issue in

the squad and that it would take

time to sort. Abbadon had begun

looking for a new manager when

the two mooks now standing behind

him had come crying about their lot

in the team.

That explained the trust issue, he

thought. Ebbie had evidently been

too wise to cry about his minions

getting out of line. The problem was




solved quickly enough, bringing Gol-

lum in as a replacement for Anteus

and letting the hunchback take over

on the other side. The resolution

didn’t have the desired effect, how-

ever. Rather than victories, the loss

was followed by two late draws

against Albion and Asgard.

Then Wendi came to him after the

third poor result, with the news that

Dorian Gray had run up some

gambling debts and was possibly

throwing matches to get out from

under. Enraged, Abbadon got on the

horn immediately and every one of

his papers ran a pull-out insert of a

gnarled, decrepit old man under the

headline ‘Portrait of Dorian Gray’.

The following morning, Vlad came

into the c lubhouse ear ly and

observed an attendant sweeping up

a sizable pile of dust from in front of

Dorian’s locker. His nameplate was

already in the waiting bin. He

wouldn't be coming back, after all.

Meanwhile, Paradiso had rolled

right along and Stygian had gone

from being top to six points down.

Prospects had looked bleak for a

time and then Rebekah had burst

into his office, excited. She an-

nounced that she might have an

insider with dirt on Paradiso, waving

a manila folder under his nose, al-

though she wasn’t sure he was legit-

imate. He snatched the material

from her hand and immediately sent

Wendi to check it out. In the morn-

ing, his dailies ran another cover,

this one depicting David en flagrante

delicto with a satyr and two

nymphs.

There was the expected hue and cry

that Abbadon was up to his usual

slander and libel, but this time he

had proof. De Nazarene was forced

to admit publicly that his Father’s

Golden Boy had strayed again. Ab-

badon, delighted, still had a clipping

of the quotation in his breast

pocket.

“Club Paradiso regrets that attacking

midfielder David has had to take a

sabbatical due to personal issues.

He will seek counseling and hope-

fully return to the club in the near

future.”

Paradiso subsequently struggled in

their next two matches but

squeaked out wins in both cases.




Then Rebekah’s source came back

with another tip. This one was dyna-

mite but it had the potential to blow

up in Stygian’s face. He called

Ebenezer and the Gorgon into his of-

fice at the club. The conservative-

minded Victorian had immediately

wanted him to sit on the story,

threatening to resign if he published

it. The Gorgon had surprised them

both by giving her permission to run

with it and even offering a state-

ment.

Abbadon had almost ripped the

phone out of the wall, shouting into

it to hold the presses! The morning

editions were filled with the revela-

tions of the affair between Perseus

and the Gorgon. The old axiom that

opposites attract had never been

proven truer. This time every paper,

including the Celestial Guardian,

Heaven’s official news source,

picked up the story immediately.

The public lapped it up.

Abbadon was somewhat disap-

pointed that the couple were cele-

brated rather than condemned. It

had taken Perseus another three

days to finally stop denying the

rumours, even after Medusa had

given ‘exclusive’ interviews to every

publication and program which

asked. Yet there was no doubt the

Greek was in love with his ancient

enemy, even if he had difficulty

coming to terms with the fact.

Thus, his fans and the public in gen-

eral forgave him. Sometimes,

Abbadon really hated this place.

Happily, though, the paparazzi,

constantly on the couple’s heels

now that they had gone public, were

apparently a distraction to the

Paradiso hitman. While his popular-

ity reached new heights, his form

dipped to new lows and his club,

wholly impotent in attack with one

of their best out and the other lost

in a fog, stumbled to a defeat and a

draw.

Medusa, on the other hand, had

never played better. It was disgust-

ing to see her so happy, especially

when Khali went all maternal, or-

ganising her shower, and the bloody

Guardian scooped Abbadon to news

of the couple’s nuptials. Still, he was

willing to take the good with the

bad, now that Stygian were just a

point back with the game at

Heaven’s Gate set to decide the title.




Forty-five minutes into the match,

however, it was all coming apart and

he was ready to explode.

David, the randy bastard, had made

a surprise return for the derby final,

announcing in a pre-match inter-

view (with another network) that he

would be the best man at his attack

partner’s wedding and that he

couldn’t wait for the bachelor party.

Then the pair had come out and

scored a goal apiece in the opening

ten minutes, making Khali look like

she had all six of her hands tied

behind her back. Medusa had been

yellow carded after Perseus’ goal

and was lucky not to be sent off

when she clattered into him on two

other occasions on the edge of the

box. She was all flustered, her con-

fidence missing and timing com-

pletely off. One could only assume

that she was still in the match be-

cause the official was a romantic at

heart.

Abbadon wasn’t sympathetic to pre-

wedding jitters, however. Luckily,

Stygian regrouped and pushed their

opponents hard for the remainder

of the half. They hadn't been able

to peg one back, though.

It was taking every ounce of his

legendary patience not to go down

to the changing room and lay into

the squad. If Paradiso held on to

take the title, heads would roll and

the wedding would be going ahead

without the blushing bride! He

swore as blasphemous an oath as he

ever had at the thought of another

defeat.

Abbadon got to his feet. Who was

he kidding about legendary pa-

tience? Wendi, standing near the

back of the suite, running her deli-

cate fingers through a nervous Re-

bekah’s fiery strands, shook her

head. Stifling the will to scream, he

sat back down. Ebbie had bloody

well better have a handle on things.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

The pall in the Stygian clubhouse

was, appropriately, deathly. The

players were all slumped in front of

their lockers, with heads variously

bowed, in hands or thrown back

with eyes shut tight. The gaffer was

shut in his office, the dimmest of

lights visible through the drawn




blinds.

Abruptly, Marley’s sat up, attentive,

and then he faded from view. There

was a momentary murmur from be-

hind the closed office door, then it

creaked open. No one came

through but Marley materialised

back in his place, looked towards

Vlad and melodramatically raised a

pointing finger in the direction of

the open door.

Vlad rolled his eyes and getting to

his feet, walked into the inner sanc-

tum and, just to make a point, tele-

pathically closed the door behind

him. Surprisingly, it prompted a

short wave of laughter on the other

side.

Ebenezer smiled and gestured to

a chair.

Vlad shook his head. “I’ll stand, if

it’s all the same.”

“Up to you,” Ebbie shrugged non-

committally. “I haven’t had much to

say to you, since I arrived. At first, I

wasn’t sure that words would ac-

complish anything. Then I realised

that it wasn’t necessary. We’ve

been on the same page from the

beginning. Even when you followed

us that night.”

That surprised Vlad.

“You spotted me?”

“Neither hide nor hair, but Marley

told me afterwards.”

“I just want to win,” Vlad explained,

“as much on my own terms as

possible.”

“Same here,” the Victorian replied,

“but it's you that's going to have to

carry this team over the final hurdle,

mate. It's your team, after all.

You’re the one from this place. Not

me. Not Cy. No-one else. The other

Hellions look to you, as do the out-

siders. The reaction to that little

trick with the door proves that.”

Vlad shook his head. “What do you

want me to do?”

“Just lead them. It’ll be enough -- or

it won’t."

Vlad nodded again. “Any changes?”




“Should there be?”

“No, she’ll do the job and pick up

the pieces after.”

Ebbie took his turn to nod, then got

up and extended his hand over the

desk. Vlad took it. Amazing where

you found friends. He turned and,

using his hand, opened the door and

went outside. He only spared a

glance for the Gorgon.

Her look was pleading but deter-

mined.

“Any more foolish notions about

chivalry in your head?”

She flushed deeply and murmured,

“No, Vlad.”

“Good. If he's worth it, he'll be

there afterwards. Let’s go restore

the balance.”

He waited for her to rise and then

went out into the tunnel with her,

half a step behind. The others qui-

etly slipped in behind, grim intent

etched on their faces.

How quickly the first goal came, and

then the equaliser, mattered little.

That the winner came at the death

was only suitable irony for a side

from Hell. That Medusa made her

future husband look the fool more

than once was bare ly more

signif icant. Or that she held him in

her arms to comfort him, rather

than celebrate, afterwards. That the

vampire Dracula’s bending, twisting

free kick from 30 metres, around the

Paradiso wall and into the upper 90

sent a legion of traveling support

into raptures was immaterial. That

the Stygian Eleven lived the full 45

minutes, and excruciatingly long five

added on, for each other and each

other alone was the thing.

They stood on the podium in

Heaven’s Gate and received their

medals with quiet pride and to a

standing ovation from supporters on

both sides, they had played that

well. Vlad was the last to accept his,

just behind Smeagol, who looked at

his with an eye askance, tested it

with his teeth, smiled with glee, and

wailed, “Preciooussssss!”

After the medals were presented,

the cheering abruptly stopped,

thunder rumbled and darkness




threatened. Abbadon stood on the

stage now, awaiting the Celestial

League Trophy. It was handed over,

not without trepidation. Smiling

hideously from ear to ear, he hoisted

it above his head. The banks of

lights snapped out and the boos

rained down from all side. The Sty-

gian support was drowned out by

the wave of disapproval for their

Chairman.

In disbelief, he shouted, “I have

won! What more do you want?

Come to me!”

The derision only intensified. He

looked to the squad. They had

stepped down from the podium.

Only Vlad still faced him and when

their eyes locked, the vampire shook

his head and turned his back also.

Abbadon screamed in fury and fire

sprang up on all sides.

Just as quickly, however, it was

snuffed out and Abbadon was no

longer alone on the dais.

“Calm yourself, Cousin,” De

Nazarene advised.

“You? You have been beaten! Do

you come to grovel?”

Jesus laughed. “No Cousin. Only to

shake your hand in congratulations

and say thank you.”

“Thank Me?”

“Yes, thank you, Cousin. It was past

time that my players learnt some

humility. I was at a loss as to just

how to teach them until you sent

me Rebekah. I am sincerely grate-

ful.”

Jesus clasped his hands in front of

him and bowed his head.

“Sent you Rebekah?”

“Yes, Cousin,” came the answer, and,

answering his beckoning gesture,

Rebekah gratefully slipped away

from Wendi and came to his side,

not without a look of fear for her

former employer. De Nazarene put

a comforting arm around her.

“You needn’t be afraid, child.”

“She had best be afraid!” Abbadon

roared. “She broke her contract

with me and I am due compensa-




tion. You will hand the traitorous

bitch over to me!” The Devil raised

his hand in anger.

“I will not, Cousin,” Jesus answered,

repelling his relative’s anger with the

mildest of waves. “You know the

rules as well as I. She looked into

her heart and acknowledged the

truth of matters.”

“The truth of matters?” sneered the

Prince of Lies. “What care I for that?

She entered into a binding contract

with me of her own free will. She

invited me in.”

“Yes, Cousin, that is true. She did,”

Jesus remained placid.

“Then give her to me!” Abbadon

raged.

“No, Cousin. As I said, you know the

rules; they apply to each of us

equally. She acknowledged the

truth of matters and invited me in,

as well.”

Abbadon roared in frustration, then

suddenly laughed.

“Take her then,” he chuckled. There

are six billion more where she came

from who are less concerned about

the truth of the matter, so long as

someone other than themselves is

made to pay. They are so easily led

astray, Cousin. And she must go

back to live among them. Let us see

if they accept her repentance. Let

us watch as they forgive her. Let us

see if she still invites you in."

Abbadon hoisted the trophy one last

time and disappeared in a blinding

flash of light.

⑇ ⑇ ⑇

Rebekah Brooks uncovered her eyes

and blinked in the glare of repeated

flashes. She looked around, trying

to comprehend the gallery of

photographers and the panel of

MPs staring down at her with

murder in their eyes. Something

wasn't right. A hand was placed on

top of hers, and she glanced to her

left at her attorney, concern etched

on his face. Just beyond him, Rupert

Murdoch gave her a smile. A fleet-

ing thought evaded her grasp. It

seemed urgent, but then it was

gone.

Shaking her head, she turned to face




the panel. A man was glaring at her

impatiently. She read the name-

plate in front of him.

“I’m sorry, Mr Collins, can you

repeat the question?” ■




< CONTENTS DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

CLOSE DANNY CHADBURN >

If FIFA were a beautiful body, would it try to corrupt me?

Not sure I’d submit; it’s inherently gruesome.

Relationships built on value, not admiration or love,

Commercial interests an infectious influence.

Nations affix on a braided existence,

Betrothed, for better, for worse, they do.


Jude Ellery

Chief Editor

FOOTBALLFARRAGO >

@JudeEllery >

Inspirations include The Blizzard,

When Saturday Comes and World

Soccer Magazine. Likes to eat with

his fingers, can’t find his keys and

has no idea who Cyrille Makanaky

was.

Martin Palazzotto

Associate Editor

WORLD FOOTBALL COLUMNS >

@wfcolumns >

Once a stunning example of male

physiology, Martin has let himself

go with age, although his celebrity

has kept the women flocking to his

bed . Oh, wait. That's Arnold

Schwarzenegger. Never mind.

Dan Leydon

Cover art

FOOTYNEWS >

@blastedfrench >

A natural creative, be it with words

or pictures. When combining his

passion for football with his design

skills he produces top notch stuff,

like this month’s cover image. Con-

tact for similar projects.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/blastedfrench

http://hotfootynews.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/wfcolumns

http://worldfootballcolumns.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/judeellery

http://www.footballfarrago.com/

Joshua Askew

Guest writer

HOLDING MIDFIELD >

@LeJask >

Can be found glued to old footage

of Serie A like a mosquito to a zap

light. Claims to be able to write on

topics other than tactics...

zzzzappp... still waiting.

David Hartrick

Guest writer

IN BED WITH MARADONA >

@Hartch >

Soon to be published author,

IBWM Editor, personal blog 'I Know

Who Cyrille Makanaky Was'. Also

has articles strewn wantonly across

the Internet like torn up betting

slips.

Rae Singh

Guest writer

I AM A DIVA NERD >

@rachydivanerd >

Writer, translator and sociolinguist

whose love for shoes is out-

weighed only by her passion for

Liverpool FC. And it’s not all about

perving at Pepe Reina, either.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/rachydivanerd

http://rachycakes.wordpress.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/Hartch

www.inbedwithmaradona.com

http://twitter.com/#!/LeJask

http://www.holdingmidfield.com/

Emelie Okeke

Guest writer

RAMBLING WITH GAMBLING >

@Emelie_Okeke >

In this time of over-inflated transfer

fees, cynical gamesmanship and

administrative corruption, here’s a

writer to bring our beautiful game

down to firm ground for its real

heroes: us, the mere mortals.

Gareth Millward

Guest writer

TOUCHLINE SHOUTS >

@touchlineshouts >

Too late now to make football the sub-

ject for his PhD, has found an alternate

forum to discuss the history of the game.

A Walsall fan saddled with a Gooner

spouse, needs a place to hide where

no-one would think to look.

Gant Powell

Illustrator

GANTPANTS >

@gantpants >

An actual professional, featured in

numerous US publications, we are

wondering exactly what he did

wrong that finds him now working

for us. Not that we're complaining.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/gantpants

http://www.gantpants.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/touchlineshouts

http://touchlineshouts.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/Emelie_Okeke

http://www.emelieokeke.blogspot.com/

Christopher Lee

Illustrator

CHRISTOPHER LEE >

@_cdlee >

A card-carrying member of the

Geek Squad, his al ter ego is a

contemporary ar t i s t , l i v ing in

London. Said altar ego can't

draw, but then neither can Chris

-- or so he reckons.

Danny Chadburn

Poet Laureate

POETRY SEASON >

@totally_content >

There once was a poet named

Danny, whom we caught with his

poor neighbour's granny, so now

for a time, for us he will rhyme,

because admittedly his cadence is

uncanny.


CONTRIBUTORS


http://twitter.com/#!/totally_content

http://poetryseason.tumblr.com/

http://twitter.com/#!/_cdlee

http://www.christopher-lee.co.uk/


COPYRIGHT

Man and Ball Issue Two:

Living On Both Sides Of The Game

Nigel Etherington, Publisher

Contributing Editors

Jude Ellery

Martin Palazzotto

Guest Writers

Josh Askew

David Harttrick

Rae Singh

Emelie Okeke

Gareth Millward

Poet Laureate

Danny Chadburn

Illustrators

Dan Leydon (Cover)

Gant Powell (Features)

Chris Lee (Nigel)

All characters and events in this

publication -- even those based on

real people -- are entirely fictional.

All celebrity images are illustrated --

brilliantly. This publication contains

some strong language but, due to

its content, should be read by

everyone.

This Issue published 18.08.2011.

Copyright © manandball.com and

individual authors/illustrators.

All rights reserved. No part of this

publication may be reproduced, or

transmitted in any form, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, record-

ing or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the copyright owner.

If you would like to quote any of

these articles for fair use, please

get in touch and we’ll probably be

chuffed to see our work included

in yours. Be warned, however:

Nigel does not take kindly to

plagiarism.

Contact Man and Ball:

[email protected]

Website >

Facebook >

Twitter >

http://twitter.com/#!/Man_andBall

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Man-and-Ball/178620268860276

www.manandball.com
