Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Football Agent
    The Football Agent
    The Football Agent
    Ebook95 pages1 hour

    The Football Agent

    By Frank Bukowski

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Rich Dinero is the world’s richest football agent. His job is turning modest young men into money-grabbing mercenaries earning two hundred grand a week. Three hundred, if he can swing it. Screw the fans. Loyalty is for losers. When Dinero shakes hands with a kid and looks into his eyes, he doesn’t see a young footballer looking back, full of hopes, dreams and aspirations. He sees a piece of livestock to be sold on the market, to the highest bidder. His own cut is a lucrative twenty percent. It’s a racket that’s brought him a champagne lifestyle of fast cars, beautiful women and private jets. The secret to his success? He never takes no for an answer. The word isn't even in his vocabulary. Until he meets Fliss, the pretty young receptionist who won’t play ball. And the game is on.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFrank Bukowski
    Release dateApr 22, 2015
    ISBN9781311924124
    The Football Agent
    Author

    Frank Bukowski

    Frank Bukowski is currently on his thirteenth life. Previous incarnations included a welder, building labourer, trainee civil engineer, barman, burger flipper, sperm donor, call centre operative, body double for Oliver Reed, marketing assistant, advertising copywriter, studio head and creative director. Frank studied at the Universities in Brighton, East Anglia, and Queens’ College, Cambridge. Two of those august institutions he tricked into awarding him degrees: a BA in Graphic Design, majoring in illustration, and an MA in Creative Writing, where he was lucky enough to be taught by Malcolm Bradbury and Rose Tremain. Frank now hides out in Norfolk, UK, where it rains 400 days a year. Since marriage, divorce, and the birth of his son landed like a salvo of missiles in the 90’s, Frank has spent the last two decades helping to raise his kid, who recently graduated with his own BA in History, making Frank the proudest dad on the planet. To keep steam on the table and a roof over their heads, Frank has held down a full-time job for more years than he cares to remember at the hated UK loan-shark company UK Cash Cowboys, where he runs their creative studio. Frank looks after a team of copywriters and designers who churn out oceans of junk mail and advertising. Frank loathes the company and its hideous management team of ruthless corporate cyborgs in human form. He describes working there as a slow death of the soul. He once likened it to a ten year prison stretch for a crime he didn’t do. At weekends he gets out on parole, but Mondays come around all too quick. Frank’s escape plan involves making it as a writer. For over a decade he’s been tunnelling away in secret, writing poetry and short stories in the scraps of time left over. These finally coalesced into his magnum opus, the 700pp collection Sex on the Brain, which he e-pubbed in the fall of 2012. Frank writes earthy literary fiction leavened with black humour, aiming for laughter in the dark. His latest book, hot off the virtual press in June 2014, is a dystopian novella called Reality TV. Toying with magic realism, Reality TV parodies our obsessions with fame, celebrity, and trashy reality shows. When he’s not writing or banged up in Cowboys Penitentiary, Frank likes to watch quality television. Mostly stuff about fame, celebrity, and trashy reality shows.

    Read more from Frank Bukowski

    Related to The Football Agent

    Related ebooks

    Humor & Satire For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Multi-club Ownership

      Apr 16, 2021

      Multi-club Ownership
      5 min read

    • Article

      Mino Raiola

      Jan 22, 2021

      Mino Raiola
      3 min read

    • Article

      Jot Shot

      May 13, 2022

      Jot Shot
      8 min read

    • Article

      Blue Sky Thinkers

      Jul 27, 2021

      Blue Sky Thinkers
      11 min read

    • Article

      David Dein

      Sep 21, 2022

      David Dein
      13 min read

    • Article

      A Pot of Gold

      Oct 1, 2019

      A Pot of Gold
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Agents Of Change

      Jun 23, 2022

      The Agents Of Change
      11 min read

    • Article

      Captain Sensible

      Mar 9, 2023

      Captain Sensible
      6 min read

    • Article

      LeTteR BocKS

      Jun 24, 2021

      SCIENTISTS say that in the future, all meals will be in the form of a pill. Let’s hope they are right, and they don’t develop them in the form of a suppository. I think that would make dining out a most unpleasant experience. Umberto Coaltit, Hull YO

      13 min read

    • Article

      Comic Timing

      Feb 2, 2023

      Comic Timing
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Golden Years

      Feb 6, 2022

      The Golden Years
      2 min read

    • Article

      The Joy Of Kendrick

      Feb 24, 2022

      The Joy Of Kendrick
      7 min read

    • Article

      How To Be A Real Man

      Jun 1, 2020

      How To Be A Real Man
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Last Pawnshop Treasure

      May 14, 2018

      The Last Pawnshop Treasure
      3 min read

    • Article

      Nostalgia – It Ain’t What It Used To Be

      Mar 22, 2022

      Ey up mates, how’s things? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you all, before this bloody virus took over the world. Luckily Mrs Bodger’s looked after me and confined me to the shed until it all blew over. She’s a good ’un, is Mrs B. Endless cups of t

      3 min read

    • Article

      Nostalgia – It Ain’t What It Used To Be

      Mar 22, 2022

      Ey up mates, how’s things? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you all, before this bloody virus took over the world. Luckily Mrs Bodger’s looked after me and confined me to the shed until it all blew over. She’s a good ’un, is Mrs B. Endless cups of t

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Art Of Conversation

      Nov 1, 2023

      The Art Of Conversation
      4 min read

    • Article

      Welcome To The Jumble

      Nov 30, 2019

      Welcome To The Jumble
      7 min read

    • Article

      People Are Strange

      Oct 13, 2019

      People Are Strange
      5 min read

    • Article

      Shaun ‘Budgerigar’ Derry

      Jul 3, 2019

      Shaun ‘Budgerigar’ Derry
      4 min read

    • Article

      LeTtERbOCKs

      Mar 7, 2024

      letters@viz.co.uk | toptips@viz.co.uk Your correspondence to VIZ editor HAMPTON DOUBLEDAY I HAVE never once seen an advertising campaign encouraging people to eat radishes, and yet there they are on every supermarket shelf in the country, just quietl

      10 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Football Agent

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Football Agent - Frank Bukowski

      The Football Agent

      by

      Frank Bukowski

      The Football Agent

      Frank Bukowski

      Copyright © Frank Bukowski, 2015

      Smashwords Edition

      The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Pretty please. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      To my son, whose good opinion of me matters more than all the world.

      Rich Dinero. Heard the name? You must be the only person in Britain who hasn’t. Like where have you been these last three years? In a deep freeze? Put it like this. Can you name me another football agent more famous than the footballers he represents? An agent who, on a good day can have enough deals cooking to gross more than the entire GDP of a small country like Britain? Okay, I exaggerate, but you get the point. I shit you not, I probably spend more time on News at Ten than the Prime Minister.

      When Rich Dinero says a deal is on, the world sits up and takes notice, kapeesh? Who else commands that kind of respect? Jake Cherubson? Rupe Steigler? Do me a favour. There’s only one agent who knows where the players are going before the players themselves. Before their clubs know. Even before the clubs they’re going to. Permissions, like scruples, are for losers like Rupe and Jake. Fuck the fans. Fuck the chairmen. Fuck the players. When Real signed Prima Donakebab from Man U, did Rich Dinero give a flying fuck that neither Prima nor Man U wanted him to go? Or that Real were not the least bit interested in signing him? I wanted them to sign him. Me, Rich Dinero. People understand me because I talk the language of money and I talk it very well. A twenty per cent take on a two hundred mill is forty mill. Do the math. Prima walked away with eight, and on two-fifty a week. It was basic arithmetic. Scratch the surface and we all talk the same language. The deal went through because Rich Dinero wanted it to. I made it.

      Let me put you out of your misery girls. Underneath this Canali suit (Saks, Fifth Avenue, if you’re asking) is a body so tanned and buffed it would frighten you. It’s the kind you see on TV ads for men’s deodorant. You didn’t know I used to be a body double for James Bond did you? There’s a lot of things you don’t know about Rich Dinero. See this six pack? Ripped. Like totally fucking spunked. Even my muscles have muscles. You don’t get guns like this without spanking some serious iron down the gym. Not any old gym mind. I’ve never been a big fan of working out with riff raff, catching all their scuzzy diseases. I had my own custom-built fitness centre installed at Parvenu Castle, complete with the latest Concept II’s and Stairmasters. Plus of course the eighteen foot Jacuzzi, steam room and Nordic sauna. It’s all over there behind the tennis courts, next to the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Have to say, the pool turned out to be a real babe magnet. Best two hundred grand I ever spunked. It heats up in winter. I had a sliding solar roof built over the shallow end, scattered a few recliners, champagne on ice, job’s a good un. There’s only one rule. No cozzies. Most of the girls I bring back here take one look at this place and their knickers hit the carpet before I can unlace my Salvatore Ferragamos.

      How rude of me, I haven’t even invited you in. Welcome to Parvenu Castle. It’s just a little pad I have in the south of England. Call it my office. Well, for four months of the year, during the summer and January transfer windows. The rest of the time I’m usually abroad scouting talent. Come on in. Have a look around. Course, it wasn’t always called Parvenu Castle. That was my little touch. Before that it was called Beaver or Heaver Castle or some bollocks. The previous owner, Lord fuckwit or somebody, said his ancestors had lived here for over nine hundred years. What do you do with a plonker like that? Like a lot of nobs, tax had had him by the balls for decades. He literally had sold off the family silver, right down to the last tureen. Twenty five K, Sotheby’s. What a mug. It cost me half as much again to get it back. I mean, what self-respecting castle hasn’t got its own set of family silver, I say. It’s like the drawbridge, and the Dinero coat of arms. I’m into all that shit. The bitches love it. Gets them out their kit quicker than a date rape pill in a flaming sambuca. Smile, it was a joke.

      Come on, don’t be shy, have a look around. It’s only a castle. This is the master lounge. Well, if you can call a football pitch-sized room a lounge. Thirteenth Century fireplace, obviously. That’s original Carolingian armour, either side. Then there’s the three hundred and thirty inch HD plasma down the bottom there. Why do they still measure telly screens in inches? I’m fucked if I know. Twenty five foot by twelve foot, anyway. Same size as the Leicester Square Odeon. Yeah I know, but look at the size of the wall it’s on. And if you’re down at this end near the Rubenstein, you can hardly see it in the distance. The bitches mostly make straight for the chill-out sofas down there by the big telly. I show them this neat trick I do with the remote, where the screen recesses and the sliding doors come across, see? I had the rollers dampened for an extra five K but it still sounds like a fucking earthquake. They usually brick it when they hear that, grab hold of me and cling on like their life depended. Every cloud, as they say. Hark at me, I’ve hardly shown you round a tenth of the gaff yet. Through here is the kitchens. When I’m in residence I employ four chefs and eight KPs on two twelve hour shifts, so whatever time of day or night, however many guests I’m entertaining, it’s sorted. A hundred and eighty K a year. Loose change.

      The staff all live in the flats I had built in the grounds half a mile away, over there behind the birch woods. If you’re wondering what that is in the distance, right by where the lawn meets the forest, it’s my chopper pad. Well, one of them. And this room here? Now this, my friend, is where all the action takes place. You with me? See that bed? I’ve had up to five in there at a time. Half the cast of East Enders at one time or another. Few models, can’t mention any names obviously. Three Big Brother contestants. No wait, make that four. Only slappers really but a poke’s a poke. Not to mention a certain pop-star wife of a certain

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1