Football Crazy (7 page)

To Martin Sneed it meant he had found a new enemy. Price had got on the wrong side of him by telling the national newspapers about the takeover before the Advertiser had had the chance to reveal the news. Well Martin Sneed would show him! His articles and match reports on the Town's fortunes might have been scathing in the past but they were as nothing to what they would be like in the future.

Price hadn't seen anything from him yet! Headlines continually jumped into his mind. 'Frogley Town – The Team You Wouldn't Pay To Watch At Any Price'. 'Another Stale Performance From The Pie Men'. 'The Price Is Wrong For Frogley Town'. Snatches of copy followed - 'If ever the meat wagon fails to show up at Price's Pies factory leaving them short of filling for their meat and potato pies Joe Price need look no further than the Town back four for an adequate substitute to mix in with the potato'. 'Price may be a success as a meat pie manufacturer but it takes more than filling a pastry case with meat, fat, gristle, sinew, offal, bone, snot and God knows what else that goes into his pies, to make a successful football team, as last week's dire performance clearly demonstrated'. 'The Town played so badly that when three of the players picked up bookings the referee, instead of giving them yellow cards, would have been more than justified in exposing them as the cripples they are by handing them green cards'.

Even the muse struck him.

Sneed rubbed his hands together. The new season couldn't come too quickly for him.

To Superintendent Screwer it meant there would probably be even more football hooligans to deal with. It was a simple equation - more money to spend equals bigger crowds equals more hooliganism. But it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle. They wouldn't be dealing with his predecessor at Frogley, that soft touch Superintendent Soft Twat or whatever he was called, the barmy bastard whose apparent method of policing football matches was to get Constable Balfour to drop in. Not a bit of it. Things would be different. They would be facing Superintendent Herman Screwer now. They would be dealing with a man who had previously held the unofficial all police divisions in-house record for personally braining football hooligans for four years on the bounce; and some of the bastards he’d brained had bounced!

Screwer’s stunning performance, in both senses of the word, was nine hooligans and a man carrying a sandwich board bearing the legend 'The End Of The World Is Nigh', who happened to get in the way. After Screwer had finished with him his end very nearly was nigh, and would have been nigh if it hadn't been for the skills of the doctors at Leeds General. No, to Superintendent Screwer it was just a little more grist for the mill, with the football hooligans of Frogley being the grist and himself being the mill.

“
And that is only the third time a player has scored the opening goal on his birthday in the Premiership this season, and the twenty fourth time I have come out with yet another load of meaningless trivia during this commentary” - John Motson

The players were usually given the day off after a match, but the day previously the Town had lost three-nil to a Blue Square North team and Donny had brought them in for extra training. He had emphasised to them that this wasn't intended as a punishment, merely to get their fitness levels up.

In the post-match briefing he had told them that overall he was pleased with the result, at the end of the day, as it was proof they were turning things round, and that if any proof of this were needed they only had to look at their last two results - in the match before last they had lost four-nil to a team in the Unibond League, and in the last match they had lost only three-nil to a team in the Blue Square North, which meant they had lost by one goal less to a team from one league higher. In turn this meant that if they were to continue this rate of improvement it would mean that if they played a team from the Football Conference, one league up from the Blue Square North, they would lose by only two-nil. Carry the theory through to its logical conclusion and it would mean that they would only lose one-nil to a Coca-Cola League Two side, draw nil-nil with a League One side, beat a Championship side one-nil, and if they were to play a team from the Premiership they would beat them two-nil.

Although a few of the players harboured the odd doubt that they would struggle to win two-nil away at Chelsea or Manchester United their manager’s reasoning seemed to make perfectly good sense so they were putting a really big effort into their training that morning.

From the direction of the portakabins Dave Rave, carrying his portable recording equipment and a football, now approached the pitch. As he climbed over the perimeter fence he called out to the players, “Hi fellas!”

The nearest player to him was the Geordie midfield man Darrell Lock, ex-Bolton Wanderers, ex-Swindon Town, ex-Darlington, ex-any use, who raised a hand in salutation and greeted the local radio legend. “Hey up, Dave man, how's it gannin’.”

“
You know me Locky,” said Dave. “When was Dave Rave ever down?”

“
When you’re giving somebody a blow job,” said Darren Briggs.

The rest of the players had a laugh at Dave’s expense following this brilliant shaft of wit, which the radio presenter took in good part. Dave didn’t mind the player’s joshing him, it made him feel like one of them, like one of the lads, something a good DJ should always try to be.

“
What's brung yow here then, Doive?” asked Hereward Stock.

“
The number nine bus,” said Jimmy Floyd Cragg.

Two of the players groaned but the remainder of them laughed, and even the two who didn’t laugh thought it was funny and wished it had been they who had said it.

“
Big Donny has given Frogley Radio's fave DJ the OK to interview a couple of you for the Dave Rave Show Pre-Season Football Special,” said Dave. He remembered the football he was carrying. “Oh, and one of your fans at the mental hospital asked me if I could get you all to sign his football.”

“
So we're still popular at the mental hospital then?” said Lock.

“
I have it on the authority of no less a person than the Chief Psychiatrist that the one time the inmates can safely be left on their own is during my commentary of your matches,” said Dave, with some measure of pride.

“
Noice to know our efforts is appreciated, ain't it lads,” said Stock.

“
Even if they are nuts,” agreed utility man Chrissy Knox.

Dave corrected him. “Disturbed. Disturbed Chrissy, not nuts. There but for the grace of God, and all that.” He looked around. “So which of you guys would like to be interviewed?”

“
Me,” said Moggs, elbowing his way to the front.

“
You, Moggsy?” ridiculed Cragg. “Who wants tae listen tae an idjit like you!”

The big goalkeeper turned on the Scot. “Who asked you to stick your bleedin' oar in, Craggy?” Then he said to Dave. “Put me down Dave.”

“
That's one then,” said Dave. He turned to Briggs. “And how about you for another, Darren?”

Briggs shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Yeh, why not.”

Dave switched on his tape recorder, tapped the microphone to ensure it was working, then sang into it. “It's the Day... ayve...Rave Show.” He turned his attention to Briggs. “With me now is ace Frogley Town striker Darren Briggs. Tell me Darren, as a Frogley player, what is your reaction to the news that meat pie magnate Joe Price has bought the club?” He held the microphone out to Briggs and the striker spoke into it.

“
Well obviously Dave, I'm just over the moon about it.”

Moggs protested immediately. “Hey I was going to say that!”

“
Well you'll just have to fink of somefink else to say then won't you Moggsy my son,” said Briggs.

“
Moggsy?” said Barrel in disbelief. “Do us a favour Briggsy; he won't be able to think of anything else.”

Moggs turned on him. “Oh yes I will, Barrelly! We're not all thick Yorkshire bastards.”

“
No, some of ye are thick Lancashire bastits.” said Cragg.

“
Piss off, twatface,” said Moggs, bringing the eloquent repartee to an end for the moment.

Donny and George were in the latter’s office awaiting the arrival of Joe Price.

Even though it was his first job in football management and he had yet to prove himself Donny had no doubts whatsoever about his skill levels in his chosen vocation. Why should he have? He had everything required of a modern young manager; he had an FA coaching badge; he had a wealth of experience as a player for six league and three non-league clubs; he had a lovely wife Tracey Michelle; and, like Ron Atkinson, he had a Mercedes. (Donny's favourite anecdote about his hero concerned the time that Big Ron had taken over the manager's seat at Manchester United. Apparently when it came to the question of a car the chairman had offered him a Rover. Big Ron had told him that he didn't want a dog, he wanted a car, and had promptly demanded, and got, a Mercedes. When Donny had taken over at Frogley Town he hadn't even been offered a dog, much less a car, so he had been forced to buy his own Mercedes, a P registration job, but a Mercedes nevertheless).

Despite his qualifications and obvious suitability for the job Donny was as aware as anyone that a footballer manager's job is never likely to be vying for top spot in the Job Security League, that his position is at best insecure and at worse bloody precarious. So, ever mindful of the tenuous nature of his profession, he had put a great deal of thought into his appearance for this, his first meeting with the club's new owner.

Donny had seen Price on three occasions in the past; once when they had both been boarding the train for Manchester, the other two times when Price had passed by in his Rolls-Royce. He had also seen Price's photograph in the local several times. On each occasion Price had been wearing a bowler hat. Well aware that to copy someone is the sincerest form of flattery Donny had considered wearing a similar type of headgear himself for their first meeting. The problem was that if he were to do this it would cover up his Ron Atkinson hairstyle, and that was just not an option. He had then considered wearing a bowler hat for Price's arrival, then taking it off and carrying it under his arm, like they did in old wedding photographs, thus getting the benefit of both worlds. This seemed to him to be the ideal solution and the one he adopted.

He had previously noticed a bowler hat in the window of the local Age Concern charity shop and had gone in to try it on. Unfortunately the hat had been much too large and had fallen down over his eyes. However the old dear behind the counter, who looked to Donny more like she should be receiving some of the profits of Age Concern rather than helping to create them, had seen a possible sale, and was now firmly intent on getting it. She took the hat off him and quickly lined it with folded newspaper. He tried it on again and now it fitted perfectly. The old dear clapped her hands together in delight and assured Donny that he looked very nice in it. Donny looked in the mirror and could immediately see why she should think this. Then she proceeded to put her foot in it by going on to tell him that he looked quite the little gentleman. As Donny had already half-convinced himself that the bowler hat made him look even shorter than he already was the old dear's confirmation of this was all it had taken to decide him against it. But he
did
want to impress Price. Which is why he decided to take the bowler hat but to just carry it under his arm.

With it Donny initially thought he might wear his powder blue jacket and lazer blue slacks, an outfit that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle liked him in so much, but when he tried it with the bowler hat in the full length mirror at home he found that the two clashed. Then it occurred to him that maybe Price might prefer to see his manager in a more 'hands-on' mode of dress, but found that his lime green track suit didn't go too well with the bowler hat either. In the end he'd plumped for the new cream number he'd bought for acquiring a mistress purposes.

He looked at his watch. A minute to ten. “Any sign of him yet,” he asked George, who was nearer the window.

George looked out. “Not yet. If I know Price he'll make us wait.”

“
Well he hadn't better make us wait too long,” complained Donny. “I want to get my number two in place today.”

Ever since Price had told him that he would be looking to him to get some new supporters for the Town Stanley had been racking his brains as to how he could best accomplish this. So far he hadn't come up with a single idea. And he'd thought of everything short of press-ganging people in the pubs of Frogley during the Saturday lunchtime prior to the match. (If he
had
happened to have
thought of it he would have put it to Price immediately and offered to be in charge of the press gang.)

But four days on he still hadn't come up with anything that would get more people though the Frogley Town turnstiles that wasn't already being tried, or that hadn't been tried before and had failed.

The problem was that Stanley really didn't have the sort of innovative mind that comes up with new ideas. He was a simple man; not mentally deficient in any way, or slow, but simple in the humble, uncomplicated, artless sense of the word. What Stanley was good at, and what he knew he was good at, was hard graft and being loyal to the causes he loved - and certainly nobody was better at displaying these virtues if his performances to the glory of Price's Pies and Frogley Town Football Club were the yardstick. But being a grafter and being loyal weren't much good to you when you were trying to come up with an idea which would fill the Offal Road Stadium to capacity every match day, a fact which Stanley readily admitted to himself as he sat in his living room in his red, yellow and green striped chair with his freshly-dyed faithless dog Fentonbottom at his feet.