Football Crazy (18 page)

“
That twenty thousand pounds has always been very helpful in the past,” said George.

“
And the suppositories,” Donny added. “A few of the lads suffer from constipation,” he expounded.

“
That doesn't surprise me at all,” said Price, “they have trouble passing t' ball as well.”

“
Oh very funny, Mr Price,” smiled Donny, but seeing that Price wasn't laughing he got rid of the smile as fast as he could, hoping that Price hadn't seen it.

“
I suppose you'll be wanting Price's Pies on the shirts, Mr Price?” ventured George.

“
We could have both on, Mr Price,” Donny chipped in, hoping to redeem himself, just in case Price had seen him smile. “We could have Price's Pies at the top and Smiths Suppositories on the bottom.”

Price glared at him. “There'll be nowt disfiguring t' shirts. T’ players aren’t advertising hoardings. T’ shirts will be like this,” he shook the shirt, “Exactly t' same as they were in 1935.”

“
And what about the sponsorship deal with Smiths?” asked George.

“
It's off. Tell 'em as they can stick their twenty thousand pounds where folk stick their suppositories. Anyroad, players won't get constipated now they're on a gradely diet.” He turned to Donny. “But if any of 'em does, just send him to me; t' man hasn't been born as Joe Price can't make shit himself.”

“
Yes, Mr Price,” said Donny.

It was early afternoon and Sarah Jane was reading the latest edition of the Frogley Advertiser, Fentonbottom dozing at her feet in glorious Technicolor, when Stanley came in from his morning shift at the pie factory.

“
And where did tha get that?” she enquired of her husband, on looking up from her newspaper and observing Stanley's black eye.

“
Tha'd think as folk would want to watch t' Town now as they're going to be great again, wouldn’t tha, Sarah Jane” Stanley complained.

Sarah Jane didn't follow up her enquiry. Her husband had probably asked for the black eye if she knew anything. Instead she held out her hand, palm upwards. “Wage,” she demanded. Stanley’s reaction to his wife’s request was not to hand over his wage packet as bidden but to shuffle his feet uncomfortably. Sarah Jane was immediately suspicious. “I hope for thy sake as tha hasn't spent it on having more lottery tickets printed? Because there should be no need for thee to do that anymore, now as moneybags Joe Price owns t' football club.”

Stanley was defiant. “I haven't spent it on lottery tickets.”

“
And a good job too!”

“
I've spent it on paint.”

“
Paint?” Sarah Jane could scarcely credit it. “More bloody paint?”

“
It's good stuff, Sarah Jane,” said Stanley, defending his purchase. “It's that as has t' big dog on it.”

Dogs can't understand the English language, despite the claims of some doting dog lovers, dreamers who proudly impart the information to anyone not too bored to listen that their mutt 'understands every word you say'. These people should try saying to their dog 'If you don't move from where you are immediately a brick is going to fall on your head and brain you', and see if it moves. The chances of it remaining exactly where it is, and wagging its tail stupidly, are far more likely.

Other than their name, and not always that, and simple command words like 'sit' and 'stay', the average dog understands about as much English as a one-year-old Chinese with learning difficulties. Stanley's dog Fentonbottom, smarter than the average canine, understood the words 'sit, 'stay', 'fetch', and 'dog'.

What can be claimed with some justice however is that the sound made by a particular word, without a dog in any way understanding the meaning of that word, can have a profound effect on a dog. The word whose sound had a profound effect in the case of Fentonbottom was 'paint', and on now hearing it come from Stanley's lips, in close proximity to the word 'dog', the effect it had on it was to cause it to prick up its ears, howl, then bolt from the room with its tail between its legs.

Stanley watched it go, puzzled. “I wonder what's got into Fentonbottom?” he mused.

“
It's not what's got into it, it's what it thinks you might be putting on to it,” said Sarah Jane, returning her attention to the Frogley Advertiser.

She turned a page and came to the first of the sports pages. Sport held no interest for Sarah Jane and never would unless husband flogging ever became a sport, and she was about to put the paper down when she suddenly saw Stanley staring back at her from the page. She blinked and looked again. It was Stanley all right; there couldn’t be two people who looked as stupid as that. What on earth was a photo of her husband doing in the Frogley Advertiser? It was printed alongside an article with the banner headline: 'Local Lothario Is Big Town Fan'.

She read the article. Then she got up, walked over to Stanley, and punched him in the eye that wasn't black. It very quickly became so, a perfect partner for his other black eye.

Big Donny Donnelly was worried. The first game of the season was due to take place tomorrow and he still didn't have a mistress. That is he had a mistress but they hadn't yet had sex. They had tried to have sex but Donny had been unable to. He had no idea why, it had certainly never happened to him before, and he had definitely been up for it - or rather he hadn't been up for it, which was the trouble. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink that night and it was his first experience of brewer's droop? Possibly, but he doubted it, he'd only had two pints of lager. Just enough to stimulate the desire without dulling the performance, if his past efforts between the sheets were anything to go by.

Maybe it had something to do with his mistress, Carol Ann? Again possible, but hardly likely, for she was young and pretty, certainly as young and pretty as his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had been when she was young and pretty. Something was wrong though, definitely, because he'd tried for over an hour, and nothing. Zilch.

He had even tried closing his eyes and imagining having Kylie Minogue from behind, an erotic fantasy that usually gave him a stiffy up to his belly button, but even the thought of getting up close and very personal to that wonderful antipodean bottom had failed to stir Little Donny into life. In the end he'd given up and had taken Carol Ann for a fish supper instead.

Now, topping up his tan on the sun bed, as he wanted to look his best for the game tomorrow, obviously, he wondered whether it counted if you had a mistress but hadn't yet had sex with her? If buying her a fish supper was an adequate substitute? He was aware that, given the choice, many women would actually
prefer
a fish supper to sex. This was certainly the case when couples had been married for a few years, he knew that for a fact, because his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had once said the same herself (though not to him, but over the fence to their next door neighbour, when she'd thought that Donny had been asleep on the sun lounger).

Donny hadn't thought to ask his lovely wife Tracey Michelle what she’d been doing in the Frogley Arms on Tuesday lunchtime last week. Not that he wouldn’t have liked to have done, but because he couldn’t do so without admitting to her that he had been there too. So he had dismissed it from his mind, persuading himself that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had obviously just popped in for a quick one while she was out shopping, as it could be thirsty work, shopping. Oddly though, when he had asked her what sort of day she'd had, she’d told him she'd had a very quiet one, she'd stopped in all day because she'd had one of her headaches. But that hadn't fooled Donny, she'd obviously said that because she'd probably been shopping for a present for his birthday next month and obviously didn't want him to know about it. That would be just like his lovely wife Tracey Michelle, thoughtful to a fault.

So, his potential mistress Tracey Michelle having failed to materialise, Donny had done what all good football managers do after a setback, which was to put it behind him and get on with the next fixture.

In fact he didn't get on with the next fixture, it was the next after that, because the next one turned out to be a transvestite. The experience had almost put Donny off the idea of having a mistress altogether - up to then the only male penis he'd ever had hold of was his own and after having now had hold of a second one he certainly didn't want to risk getting hold of any more, thank you very much. However on learning that in addition to Ron Atkinson, Malcolm Allison and Tommy Docherty having had mistresses, that ex-England manager Bobby Robson had also had several mistresses at the height of his success, which had confirmed further the soundness of his plan, it was a risk he was prepared to take. Which had led to Carol Ann. And in turn had led to him being in his present worried state.

As he lay on the sun bed soaking up skin cancer he tried not to worry. After all, worry was one of the things that caused impotence, according to the club doctor, Dr Grimshaw.

Donny had gone to see Dr Grimshaw ostensibly about the knee injury he’d sustained when jumping through one of the plate glass windows of the Frogley Arms, and had taken the opportunity to ask the physician about impotence 'on behalf of a mate'. Dr Grimshaw, who in thirty years as a general practitioner had never once had to advise so much as one solitary man on the subject of his impotence, but had advised well over a hundred men who had been asking 'on behalf of a mate', had gone on to tell Donny the other causes of impotence. Apparently they were high blood pressure (in Donny's case, no), heavy smoking (no), heavy drinking (no), drug abuse (certainly not), old age (no!), physical trauma such as an accident (possibly), and hormone abnormalities (do you mind!). Which meant that in Donny's case it was possibly just worry.

Recalling this he breathed a sigh of relief. Because if it was worry that was causing the problem he would be back to normal by five-o-clock tomorrow; for by then the Town would have won their first match of the season and then there wouldn't be anything to worry about anymore. But….hey, hang on a minute. What if they didn't win? What if buying your mistress a fish supper as a substitute for having sex with her didn't count and he still didn't have a genuine mistress?

He immediately began to worry again.

And here at Middlesbrough, Jonathan
Greenin, in excellent position to score the
winnin goal, has just
been guilty of hittin
the side nettin - Trevor Brookin

“
It's the Day...ayve...Rave Show. Good afternoon everybody, this is Dave Rave your fave football commentator welcoming all fans past and present to Frogley Radio for live exclusive coverage of this afternoon's Frogley Funeral Services sponsored Coca-Cola League Two opening game of the season clash between your favourite team and mine Frogley Town…Hoorah, versus Grimely Athletic...Boooo! And hopes are running high here at the Offal Road Stadium, or, as some people call it, The Stadium of Lights. Don't get that myself, so if any of you out there in Frogley Radio Land do happen to know why they call it that, please call or write and let me know, Dave Rave always like to hear from his listeners, as I'm sure you all know. Big Donny Donnelly has informed yours truly that his lads are really up for today's game, and it's a lovely spring day, perfect for football. In fact the only blot on the landscape is that shithouse Superintendent Screwer….”

The weather was indeed perfect for football; dry with not a breath of wind, but not too warm. The match had attracted a gate approaching six thousand, by far and away the highest attendance at the ground since the late seventies, on the occasion Frogley Town had stumbled into the Third Round of the FA Cup and had been rewarded with a home game against a First Division side. (0-7)

The crowd consisted of the hard core of spectators from previous years, bolstered by quite a few ex-supporters who had been drawn back in the hope that the arrival of Joe Price and his money might herald better days for the club, plus the three thousand-odd new season ticket holders from Price's Pies, most of whom, to spite Price, had gone along to cheer the opposition.

Initially most of the employees, on receiving their season tickets, had said 'Bollocks to Price', or even more disrespectful words to that effect, and had sworn not to use the tickets in protest. Then it dawned on them that they were already in receipt of the season tickets whilst the rise they would otherwise have been paid wasn't due until Christmas, so in a way it was like getting something for nothing, and probably the only chance of getting something for nothing out of Price that they would ever be presented with; and, as several of them remarked, 'A lot can happen between now and Christmas'.

The stadium itself was already looking much more spick and span. Casual labour had been taken on to weed and sweep and generally tidy-up the terraces, and paint in Royal Visit proportions had been put to good use. The portakabins, formerly painted a sickly duck egg blue, had been re-painted in the Town's colours, a sight which, when he first saw it, had almost caused Stanley Sutton to cry with sheer joy.

Stanley had been one of the first through the turnstiles, and was now ensconced in his favourite spot behind one of the goals. Despite the state of his eyes, both of which were still severely blackened, Stanley could not have been happier if he’d just won a record payout on the National Lotto. This was it. This was what it was all about. A new season. Frogley Town at home. Magic!

Police presence was massive. The entire Frogley Police Force was in attendance, their ranks reinforced by twenty 'Specials'. Had Screwer received a tip-off that Osama Bin Laden would be attending and bringing along Lord Lucan as his guest there could hardly have been more of the boys in blue in attendance.