Download - 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.
>
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
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< CONTENTS 1 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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Enough to see ethical judgements repealed.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.
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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
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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-
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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.”
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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-
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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.
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
“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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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.
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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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
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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... ■
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WINNING UGLY -- PART ONE MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
< CONTENTS 17 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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ART OF WINNING JOSHUA ASKEW >
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
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ART OF WINNING JOSHUA ASKEW >
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. ■
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ART OF WINNING JOSHUA ASKEW >
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
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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,
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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
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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!”
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“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
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RUB-A-DUB-DUB, TWO GODS IN A TUB
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?”
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RUB-A-DUB-DUB, TWO GODS IN A TUB
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
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RUB-A-DUB-DUB, TWO GODS IN A TUB
next hour of kow-towing to mindless
foreigners.
“Mon Dieu! I am so sick of this shit-
hole!” ■
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RUB-A-DUB-DUB, TWO GODS IN A TUB
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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
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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
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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
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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >
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
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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >
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
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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >
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... ■
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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES DAVID HARTRICK >
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?”
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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
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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
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ANOTHER FINE MESS
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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.”
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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
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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
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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.
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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. ■
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ANOTHER FINE MESS
< CONTENTS 49 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
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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.
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“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
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* 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
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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
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THE ANTICHRIST JUDE ELLERY >
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
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THE ANTICHRIST JUDE ELLERY >
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
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THE ANTICHRIST JUDE ELLERY >
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
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THE ANTICHRIST JUDE ELLERY >
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.” ■
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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
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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
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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.”
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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
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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
SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
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
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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.
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SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
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,
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SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
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
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SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
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. ■
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SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
< CONTENTS 69 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
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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.
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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,
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WHO SAID LIFE WAS FAIR? RAE SINGH >
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. ■
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WHO SAID LIFE WAS FAIR? RAE SINGH >
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
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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
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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
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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
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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. ■
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PAGE TITLE AUTHOR NAME
< CONTENTS 79 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
< CONTENTS 80 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
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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
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ESCOCIA! ARGENTINOS! EMELIE OKEKE >
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
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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
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ESCOCIA! ARGENTINOS! EMELIE OKEKE >
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”. ■
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.”
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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. ■
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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.
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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
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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-
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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.
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IS IT BEAUTIFUL? GARETH MILLWARD >
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.
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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
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IS IT BEAUTIFUL? GARETH MILLWARD >
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
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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
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IS IT BEAUTIFUL? GARETH MILLWARD >
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.” ■
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IS IT BEAUTIFUL? GARETH MILLWARD >
< CONTENTS 107 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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?”
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“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
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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-
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WINNING UGLY -- PART TWO MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
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
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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?” ■
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WINNING UGLY -- PART TWO MARTIN PALAZZOTTO >
< 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.
< CONTENTS 130 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
CONTRIBUTORS
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.
< CONTENTS 131 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
CONTRIBUTORS
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.
< CONTENTS 132 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
CONTRIBUTORS
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.
< CONTENTS 133 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
CONTRIBUTORS
< CONTENTS 134 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >
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.
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