Ungentlemanly Conduct

THE PROLOGUE

The detention area beneath the ‘new’ Wembley Stadium lies twenty feet below its hallowed turf. It had been designed for one specific reason; incarceration of those hell-bent on causing violence and destruction at the holy shrine of International football.

As with most major building projects, Wembley Stadium had been subject to a multitude of cost-saving design iterations during its construction. One of these ‘minor’ cost modifications was the last minute re-configuration of the detention area. The well intentioned Ugandan architect responsible for this design modification had never set foot in an English football stadium, let alone experienced the cauldron of emotions that continue to stymie the world’s leading anthropologists, psychologists and other academic ‘ologists’ who have tried and abysmally failed to understand the contorted behaviours of those who follow the beautiful game.

As a consequence, the original configuration that consisted of rows of traditional ‘cells’ designed to hold two or three detainees was replaced by two opposing ‘holding areas’ each of which has the capacity to hold one hundred and twenty rival supporters. The architect’s erroneous rationale was simply to separate rival fans. The fundamental flaw in the design iteration was that the facility merely separated tribes; it did not provide isolation for psychopaths.

Another of the architect’s innovative ideas was to incorporate transparent walls into the design. His notion being that in these days of widespread litigation against employers, the stadium’s security personnel could openly observe their captives without opening cell doors that in the past had led to escape, ambush, assault, and as with a quartet of Turkish detainees, gang-rape of security personnel. Perspex walls also provided an ideal replacement for the time honoured cell bars that allowed rival fans to hurl bodily produce at each other.

The outcome of the architect’s well meaning but extremely naïve design was that two sets of detained supporters were separated by just two transparent walls with a metre-wide walkway in between. The reinforced polycarbonate had the strength to contain the impact of a Double-Decker bus travelling at fifty miles per hour. However, the flaw in the design did not lie within its structural integrity; the monumental oversight was the effect of the transparent walls. The transparent Polycarbonate served no more than to amplify frenzied eye contact, verbal onslaught and tribal wall pounding. Consequently, two opposing groups consisting of over two hundred psychotic football fans could stand almost toe-to-toe, separated by little more than two layers of toughened plastic.

The flawed design of the detention area was no more evident than when those incarcerated within its Polycarbonate walls were the supporters of two of the bitterest international rivals on the planet. The captives occupying the holding areas on this occasion displayed the frenzied adrenalin rush, archetypal wounds and ripped attire of bloodied football Hooligans minutes after a ferocious street brawl. Albeit the venom and hatred exchanged between the transparent walls equalled that of the most intense football rivalries, these fans were different. They were adorned in what was left of expensive suits. Most were in their fifties and not a tattoo in sight. One holding area conversed in English, but most distinctive, was that the tongue used in the opposing holding area was that of an archenemy of this green and pleasant land.

In the English speaking holding area, a delirious nervous wreck of a man sporting a generous nosebleed yelled at a lonely dishevelled man slumped on a bench with his head in his hands completely oblivious the cacophony around him.

‘How could you let this happen? You fucking idiot!’ yelled the hysterical man with nosebleed. ‘How could it all come to this? I knew it would be a mistake to include you, despite your fucking blackmail. I knew I should have just come clean and admitted everything . . . . AND WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME IF THERE HAVE BEEN ANY SHOTS FIRED IN THE SOUTH ATLANTIC!’

A well-spoken gent with a cut head was busy giving the occupants of the opposite holding area a torrent of abuse and two fingered salutes when he heard the man with the nosebleed rant at the dishevelled man sitting on the bench.

The well-spoken gent with the cut head turned around and then too channelled his anger towards the dishevelled man.

‘You blithering buffoon’ said well-spoken gent in his royal drawl. ‘You’ve made a real dog’s breakfast of this. Poor show if you ask me. I’ll have you put in the bloody tower when I get out of here.’

The attacks aimed at the desolate figure on the bench started to penetrate. In a desperate attempt to escape his tormentors, he got to his feet and walked to the Perspex wall at the front of the holding area. He placed his hands flat on the Perspex and dropped his head.

‘Zat is him! Zat is the fucking dummkopf who stated zis fucking var!’

The dishevelled man slowly looked up. Across the gangway in the opposing holding area, a middle aged rotund woman with a German accent wearing nothing but a bra, a ripped skirt, a black eye and a deeply split lip screeched at him from behind the Perspex.

‘You haf insulted my great nation you cock sucking schweinhunt, ve vill hunt you down and kill you like a dog!’ she screamed hysterically from the German holding area.

Ignoring the black-eyed woman’s diatribe, the friendless, dishevelled man trudged wearily toward an empty corner in a vain hope of finding solitude. He sat down and looked up at the ceiling. It was then that the seriousness of his predicament began to register.

The delirious man with the nosebleed was Sir Michael Brookes, the British Prime Minister. The abusive well-spoken chap was no less than HRH Prince Charles and the fat German bird with a black eye, split lip and her tits hanging out was Gunda Ruhmann, the German Chancellor.

Ordinarily, any other mortal in this situation would have been thinking long and hard about how to commit Hari Kari in a room devoid of light cables and sharp objects. But the man slumped in the corner was different, he couldn’t care less about the title or lineage of raving individuals, nor did he care that he alone had caused the biggest international incident since the Gulf War. All that mattered to him was that twenty feet above his head, England was playing in their most important match in almost half a century.

He looked down from the ceiling, surveyed the chaos he had caused, and burst into delirious laughter.

A morbid silence fell on both holding areas. The silent occupants of the English holding cell formed a curious semi circle around the man with the now silent Germans looking on through both layers of Perspex.

He stopped laughing and gazed eerily at the onlookers. Then, through gritted teeth and with Churchillian defiance he addressed his audience:

‘Do you know what the funny thing is?’ he asked.

A long silence followed.

‘NONE OF YOU WANKERS KNOW JACK-SHIT ABOUT FOOTBALL!’ cried the dishevelled man as he burst into delirious laughter once again.

As the holding area fell silent, an entourage of two Police officers accompanied by four security guards marched swiftly along the dividing walkway and stopped at door to the English holding area. As the leading security guard unlocked the door, the detainees moved aside and the two Police officers entered. The two officers quickly identified their target and marched purposefully toward the far corner of the holding area. Then, in a very distinct Geordie accent, the much larger officer broke the stunned silence.

‘Alan Boothroyd?’ said the Policeman.

The dishevelled man hunched in the corner had not noticed the Police officers entering the holding area. After a long tired pause, he wearily lifted his head.

‘Yes’ he replied softly.

‘Will yez come with us please!’ ordered the Policeman.

Alan Boothroyd was completely stunned when he recognised the very familiar faces of the two Policemen. He somehow managed to mask his surprise as the Police officers lifted him to his feet. The smaller Police officer brusquely pulled Boothroyd’s hands behind his back and quickly handcuffed him. The two Police officers then placed themselves to Boothroyd’s left and right and simultaneously grasped each of his upper arms.

With two security guards at the front and two behind, the two Policemen manhandled the prisoner out of the door and swiftly out of sight of the remaining detainees.

CHAPTER 1

393 Days, 10 hours and 40 minutes earlier . . . .

‘Where the fuck is he? Give him another ring!’ barked the manager.

‘I’ve rang the fat wanker three times, fuck knows where he is. We’ll just have to kick-off without him’ countered Fitzie.

It was 10:05 a.m. on a spring Sunday morning. Denham Wanderers were congregating outside the Dog and Duck, their usual pre-match and post-match rendezvous.

The manager turned to his players, four of which were ball-juggling in the car park.

‘Did anyone see Pancake last night?’

‘He was a real mess at about eleven, must of drank about twenty pints of that shite ‘e drinks, didn’t see where he went after that’ replied one of the keepy-uppers whilst balancing the ball up on his forehead.

‘For fuck sake!’ snapped the manager testily, ‘Fitzie, just ring the prick once more, will yer!’

‘Alright, alright, don’t get your sack in a twist.’

Fitzie pulled out his phone and re-dialled the number.

Shortly after putting the phone to his ear, a crackled version of Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf began to impart from a group of bushes at the far edge of the car park.

Fitzie removed the phone from his ear.

‘Can you hear that?’

A baffling pause followed.

‘That’s Pancake’s phone!’ said Fitzie.

The famous lyrics: Get your motor runnin’, head out on the highway had now attracted the attention of all in the car park and promptly caused the ball juggling to stop.

The manager looked up and around like a startled Meerkat.

‘Where the fuck is that coming from?’

‘It’s coming from those bushes over there’ said Fitzie as he scanned the pub car park.

Fitzie and the manager walked gingerly towards a crop of bushes in the far corner of the car park. As they got closer, they saw a familiar pair of Doctor Martin boots protruding out from underneath the bushes.

‘They’re Pancake’s boots aren’t they? What are they doing there?’ asked Fitzie inquisitively.

The manager crouched down and looked further under the bushes.

‘Yeah’ sighed the manager, ‘They’re Pancake’s alright, and surprise, surprise, the fat fucker’s still in ’em.’

The unconscious heap under the bushes was Denham Wanderer’s goalkeeper, ‘Pancake’, drunk as the proverbial Skunk, with an inane smile on his face.

A fifth generation of Tyneside mining stock, Vivian ‘Pancake’ Patterson was a big piece of machinery. He was weaned on a diet of Newcastle Brown and chips that in later years elevated to a more sophisticated pallet consisting of Real Ale and Phaal Curry. His six-feet six and nineteen stone frame reared in Byker and the Gallowgate End shaped Vivian Patterson into a distinctive presence. In addition to his formidable stature, his unique moniker distinguished him even further from the male genus. As a rule, nicknames are an abbreviation of some part of a name, Bozzer, Robbo, Smithy etc. Pancake’s was more fitting. Contrary to popular belief, his tag was not derived from his nutritional regime; it actually originated from his birthday falling on Shrove Tuesday. Thus, ‘Pancake’ was first coined by his grandfather when he was just two years old. As unique as it was for a two year old to be called ‘Pancake’ the youngster welcomed his new title as a considerable improvement on Vivian.

‘Is he dead?’ enquired Fitzie unsympathetically.

The manager looked down with contempt on the flaccid mess under the bush.

‘Nah, he’s still breathing, look. He was the same last Sunday when we found him in the rubbish skip.’

‘Well, at least you can’t fine him for being late—he’s been here since closing time last night’ sniggered Fitzie.

‘Fucking wake him up and get him in one of the cars!’ barked the manager.

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ replied Fitzie.

‘I’m fucked if I know, just use your imagination’ bemoaned the manager as he walked away.

The manager faced a dilemma. At least he now had a goalkeeper for this morning’s game. Nevertheless, a badly hung over Pancake made him very nervous, particularly when he considered the big Geordie’s recent performances between the sticks when he had been sober.

Fitzie kicked the boot of the unconscious Geordie and then thought long and hard about how to wake the goalkeeper from his alcohol-induced deep slumber. Then, a devious thought struck him.

John Fitzgerald, known to all and sundry (even his mother) as ‘Fitzie’ was a modern day ‘Spiv’. He developed his unique talents during his adolescence in the Aylesbury estate in Walworth, South London. At twelve years old he was expelled from school for running a gambling syndicate (this included the regular patronage of the Science, Music and Geography teachers). In his teens he moved to ‘procurement’ that included six fully stocked lock-ups scattered around South London. By the time the loveable rogue was twenty-one he had the reputation as ‘the bloke who can get it for you’ regardless of whatever it was.

Although he never ventured into narcotics or prostitution, his ever-growing empire was a cause of concern to particular factions of organised crime in South London. His downfall came on the fateful night when he sold five hundred Laptops to Mad Ziggy, a psychotic Polish gangster. Unfortunately for Fitzie, he didn’t inspect the Laptops before fencing the consignment and had no idea that they were programmed to operate in one language; Korean. Mad Ziggy, accompanied by four associates, lived up to his reputation. Two weeks after being dumped on the South Bank of the Thames, Fitzie was finally discharged from hospital. He returned home to find his flat and his car had been torched. With nowhere to go, Fitzie made his way to Denham where he stayed with his uncle for six months. Without any intention of ever venturing back to South London, he soon began to operate in the ‘procurement’ business in Denham, this time mindful of impinging on the local underworld.

The transition from serene slumber to head-thumping hangover is one of life’s harshest experiences. In this case, the warm, salty fluid splashing against Pancake’s face exacerbated the transition.

Pancake was now fast arriving in the land of the living. His eyes flickered and he licked the warm salty fluid from his lips. It was during these first moments of consciousness, when the brain seems detached from the rest of the body, did Pancake squint and focus on a man standing above him.

Upon returning to the world of physical sensation, he vaguely made out the words Paybacks a bitch you fat Geordie Bastard coming from the man standing over him.

After a further neural delay, he realised that the fluid was coming from the man’s mid region. Upon full return to earth, Pancake at last realised that the man standing over him was his Denham Wanderer’s team mate Fitzie, and Fitzie was in mid-stream of giving him a morning shower, more specifically, a golden shower.

‘What the fok are you doing!’ screamed Pancake as he spat Fitzie’s urine out of his mouth.

Fitzie took great pleasure in accurately drenching his team mate from the neck up, however, he also knew when it was time to run. He zipped himself up and ran to one of the awaiting cars and climbed in.

‘Ok let’s go’ he said to the driver.

‘What about Pancake?’ replied the driver.

‘He’s fine, he’ll play a fucking blinder today, Avanti, Avanti!’ replied Fitzie.

As the driver began his rapid exit from the pub car park, Fitzie wound down the window.

‘See you at Membury Park’ he shouted to the manager as he drove past.

‘Oh, thanks a fucking bunch!’ scorned the manager as he realised that it would now be his responsibility to get the Pancake to the game.

The manager’s dread was Pancake’s notorious Sunday Morning flatulence. Many a driver had to pull-over and retch after one of Pancake’s gut-wrenching Saturday night / Sunday morning colonic symphonies. Thus, ferrying Pancake to the game on Sunday was something to be avoided at all costs.

Pancake emerged from the bushes and stormed toward the manager. The rage radiating from Pancake’s face, his stained tee-shirt and the emergent stench of urine suggested that Fitzie had once again excelled himself.

‘The fokker pissed on us!’ bemoaned pancake. ‘I cannae believe it! The dirty fokker pissed on us!’

‘So have a few Squirrels and Badgers’ replied the manager sardonically.

‘The fokker pissed on us!’ reiterated Pancake in ever growing disbelief.

‘He didn’t mean it, he was only trying to wake you up. Don’t hurt him, not today anyway.’ The manager could see that Pancake wasn’t about to accept any form of appeasement.

‘Wha’ are yez on aboot, he didn’t fokkin’ mean it? O’ course he fokkin’ meant it!’

‘We’re gonna be late for kick-off, just get in the car and I’ll sort it all out later. I’ll make sure that Fitzie apologises.’

‘You’ll sort it oot? I’LL FOKKIN’ SORT IT OOT!’ roared Pancake. ‘I’ll rip his fokkin’ ‘ed off.’

The manager had now abandoned any attempt at placating the big Geordie.

‘The game starts in fifteen minutes, so for fuck’s sake, just get in the car.’

‘I’m still gonna dee the little Bastard’ maintained Pancake resolutely.

‘Fine, do what you’ve got to do after the game, but just get in the fucking car’ insisted the manager.

‘Alreet Alreet, I’ll get in, but I’m still gonna fokkin’ dee him’ moaned Pancake as he got in the back of the manager’s car.

‘Budge-up you fat Bastards’ barked Pancake to the two considerably smaller occupants of the rear seat. As Pancake got in, his fellow back seat passengers were almost crushed by the big Geordie’s enormous frame. Then, the odour kicked in.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell Pancake, you stink!’ uttered the passenger in the front seat.

‘So would yooz if some twat had just pissed in yer face’ snapped Pancake.

Pancake then turned to his fellow rear seat passengers.

‘G’ann, budge up!’ growled the big Geordie, and with one last effort Pancake shuffled-in and managed to slam the door shut behind him. Finally, the car rolled out of the car park and onto the road.

The Landlord of the Dog and Duck had been watching the entire fracas from his bedroom window. As an ex-professional footballer himself, he smiled nostalgically as he witnessed the time-honoured testosterone-fuelled ritual we know as Sunday league football was still alive and well.

The Landlord was just about to return to his eagerly awaited breakfast, when in the distance he saw the manager’s car abruptly pull over and stop.

All but one of the occupants quickly got out and began vomiting on the grass verge.

‘Pancake, you need to see a Doctor’ gasped the manager as he wiped the puke from his chin. Still bent over he added ‘That’s not natural, there’s something fuckin’ ‘orrible decomposing in your guts.’

‘Aye, a ring-stinging Phaal and aboot two and half gallons of Owld Bishop’ replied Pancake proudly from the back the car.

‘Owld what?’ asked the manager as he wiped the last of the puke from his chin.

‘Owld Bishop! Proper beer, not like that fizzy piss yooz aall drink’ replied Pancake.

The group vomiting session finally stopped and the manager and his charges returned to the car. Once again, the two smaller rear seat passengers were condensed into the size of one to accommodate Pancake’s colossal rump.

No one in the car made eye contact or conversation with Pancake.

Owld Bishop is an extremely potent traditional Real Ale enjoyed in moderation by thousands of Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) members. However, its high yeast content has a propensity to accelerate the digestive tract. After twenty or so pints, the digestive tract turns into a Howitzer. The fetid gas emitted from Pancake’s stomach was merely a precursor to what was churning around in his colon. After a few minutes, the contents Pancake’s considerable gut began to gurgle and bubble like hot larva at the bottom of a very angry volcano.

‘Stop the car!’ pleaded Pancake.

‘What for?’ asked the manager.

‘Just stop the fucking car!’ implored Pancake as he began to profusely sweat.

‘Why!’

‘Stop the car . . . . PLEASE!’ cried pancake through his clenched teeth.

The manager was now looking through his rear view mirror at the sweating hulk in the back seat.

‘We’re five minutes from Membury and we’re gonna be late for kick-off, what’s so important?’

‘I GOT NAE BRAKES!’ winced Pancake through his ever tightening clenched teeth.

‘What do you mean, you’ve got no brakes?’ enquired the nervous manager.

‘I’m gonna shite me sel if yooz don’t fokkin’ stop.’

‘Aghhhh! Get the fat Bastard out’ cried the back seat passengers in harmony.

‘We’re nearly there, hold it for two minutes and you can have a dump at the ground. Besides, there are no bogs around here.’

‘I don’t care, I’ll shite in someone’s garden! Please . . . . stop the fokkin’ car!’

As Pancake desperately pleaded with the manager, the car finally pulled into Membury Park’s car park. All of Pancake’ muscular energy was now channelled into clenching two areas of his body; his teeth and his sphincter. Pancake opened the door before the car had stopped outside the ram shackled changing rooms. He jumped out and headed at pace toward the changing rooms. To avoid any premature squirts, he ran with buttocks clasped, knees together and his left hand performing the role of butt plug.

His enormous frame almost demolished the door when he burst into the home team’s dressing room. With the finishing line in sight, he headed for the lavvy in the corner, pushing aside the half stripped back-four in his wake.

Smiling with blissful relief he arrived at the door and turned the handle. To his horror the door was locked. Locked by the occupant inside.

Pancake pummelled the locked door.

‘Who’s in there? Open up! It’s a fokkin’ emergency!’ screamed Pancake.

‘Take a number and fuck-off!’ came from inside.

Pancake instantly recognised the voice occupying the toilet. It was Mark Fenn, Denham Wanderer’s left hand side mid-fielder.

‘Fenny, let us in, I’m gonna fokkin’ shite me sel’ please!’ begged Pancake.

You ‘aving a Giraffe, I’m busy in here. Besides, you’ll stink the fucking place out.’

‘Please Fenny, I’m fokkin’ desperate’ beseeched Pancake as the butt plug became active again.

‘Fuck-off, go in Rover’s dressing room’ was muffled response from behind the door.

‘I won’t forget this, yer Bastard’ hissed Pancake.

‘Toodle-pip’ was the unaccommodating response from behind the door.

Pancake knew when he was beaten, and more importantly, knew when he was totally desperate.

He turned about face and once more knocked the back-four over like skittles as he charged toward the dressing room door. He crossed the corridor and arrived at the away dressing room. Pancake pushed the door but it would only open six inches. The person blocking it was Pancake’s old adversary; Blackstone Rover’s trainer and bucket man, Mickey Parker. As Pancake tried force his way into the dressing room ‘Nosey’ Parker as he was known in local football circles, poked his head around the door.

Nosey was completely bewildered by the big Geordie’s request.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ scowled Nosey.

‘Let us in will yer, I need to use your bog.’

‘Fuck-off! The gaffer’s doing his team talk.’

‘Please Nosey, I’m desperate, I’m gonna crap me sel’ if I don’t get to a bog soon.’

‘You’ll crap yourself anyway when our big centre-half comes up for corners’ smirked Nosey.

‘Please Nosey, let us in’ pleaded Pancake.

‘No! Now fuck-off!’

Ordinarily, this would have been a complete mismatch, Pancake would have simply flattened most mortals, but by now, both of Pancake’s hands were required for butt-plug duties. Consequently, Nosey was able to slam the door shut in Pancake’s face.

With the primeval instincts of a wounded animal, Pancake looked for a solution. No options in sight. Nothing . . . . That was until he looked down at his feet.

Just to the left of the away team’s dressing room door he saw the trainer’s bucket and sponge.

As a bucket of water in a small dressing room packed with players warming up is an accident waiting to happen, the ever efficient Nosey would arrive early and fill his bucket. He would then leave it outside the dressing room and collect it on the way to the pitch.

Pancake seized his chance. He picked up the bucket and disappeared into the cleaning closet at the end of the corridor. After he had locked the door, he pulled down his trousers and pants and squatted over the bucket. Whether it was animal, vegetable or mineral that left Pancake’s digestive tract in such a hurry would be subject to scientific analysis, but the two and a half gallons of Owld Bishop in combination with Pancake’s insalubrious diet of Phaal Curry, produced one of the most ungodly creations ever known to man or beast.

The adrenalin driven roars such as ‘Let’s fucking ave it!’ and ‘Let’s do the Bastards!’ resonating from Blackstone’s dressing room drowned out Pancake’s loud cries of relief and even louder rectal blasts.

Upon completion, the big Geordie daintily wiped himself with the sponge and placed it clean side up in the bucket. He gently unlocked the door, and opened it just wide enough to look down the corridor. There was no one in sight, and the shouts from each dressing room were now getting louder.

‘The wankers are still having their poxy team talk’ sniggered Pancake to himself as he picked up the bucket and tiptoed back down the corridor. He very gingerly replaced the bucket where he had found it and made his way back to Wanderer’s dressing room. As he entered Denham’s dressing room, the Blackstone dressing room door opened and the players made their way toward the pitch. After the last player had left, Blackstone’s manager, Phil Harden, locally known as ‘Hard-on’ and ‘Nosey’ Parker followed their charges. As they left the dressing room, Nosey picked up his magic bucket and followed his players.

‘I hate coming here’ he moaned to Blackstone’s manager, ‘It always stinks like a fuckin’ sewer’ whinged Nosey.

The manger took a deep, disapproving breath.

‘Yeah, it smells like something has fuckin’ died.

Pancake entered the Denham dressing room and quickly shut the door behind him.

‘Oh, nice of you to join us, feeling better are we?’ asked the manager sarcastically.

‘Aye, that’s a fokkin’ big weight off me mind’ grinned Pancake. Most of the team grimaced in disgust at the mental image.

Pancake then looked at Fitzie. His grin quickly disappeared as he ran his index finger across his throat imitating what Fitzie had coming to him.

The manager resumed control, his team was running late.

‘Ok, Pancake, get changed as quick as you can.’

The manager scanned the compact room and took in a deep breath to relish the atmosphere.

The Testosterone charged banter and the distinct aroma of lineament in a musty old dressing room is what fuelled Alan ‘Boots’ Boothroyd’s unadulterated passion for football. It was time to do his manager stuff.

A native of Denham, Boots had not been blessed with the footballing skills of his boyhood idols such as Glen Hoddle, Bryan Robson or Ray Wilkins. In fact, during his years at Denham Comprehensive School, the sadistic Welsh P.E. teacher, Mr Jenkins, would often remind young Boothroyd of his paucity of footballing skills.

‘Oi Boothroyd! You look like a bloody Stick Insect with cement in yer boots. Get off my pitch. Yer bloody ‘opeless boy!’ was a frequent holler often heard on the sports fields of Denham Comprehensive School.

At the age of thirteen, undaunted by the malevolence of Mr Jenkins, Alan Boothroyd decided to attend the trials for the school under-fourteens football team. Eleven boys turned up, just ten were selected. Rather than include Alan Boothroyd in the team, Mr Jenkins had decided to play the under fourteen’s first game with just ten players. Young Boothroyd was devastated. At that early age he accepted the sad fact that his footballing dreams were over.

Nevertheless, young Boothroyd had many other talents. Although he would never admit it, the gregarious Boothroyd was highly intelligent, humorous and possessed outstanding organisational skills. Indeed, Alan Boothroyd was blessed with many rare qualities that most senior executives could only admire. However, Boots simply had no aspirations to live in a world that he found grossly hypercritical, and in most cases, completely nonsensical. Thus, from an early age, Alan Boothroyd had very little professional ambition.

But Boots loved football and wanted to be more than a mere spectator. Having accepted the fact that he would never enjoy the thrill of playing, his passion for the game and his exceptional talents offered an ideal alternative; Management.

In the dressing room, Boots the football manager raised his voice to attract the attention of each and every one of his charges in the dressing small room.

‘Ok lads, let’s get serious for a minute, let’s go through the line up.’

Boots pulled out his notebook, he quickly checked his team selection, looked up and scanned his players and then returned to his notebook.

‘It’s the normal 4-4-2. Here’s the starting eleven.’

The fact that Boots only had eleven players was beside the point, he was the manager and he wanted his team to believe that he had spent many a bemusing hour deliberating over his team selection and formation. Boots began what he thought was an eagerly awaited announcement, even though everyone in the dressing room knew they would all play for ninety minutes.

‘In goal: Pancake’

‘Right Back: Smiffy’

‘Left Back: Slug’

‘Centre-half: Mickey’

‘Sweeper: Dickko’

‘Right hand side midfield: Fitzie’

‘Holding central midfield: Olly’

‘Attacking central midfield: Tommo’

‘Left hand side midfield: Fenny’

‘Up front: Dunney and Biggsy.’

‘No surprises there then’ whispered Slug to Smiffy ‘We haven’t had a sub for the last six weeks.’

Boots went on to the second part of his team talk:

‘Both full-backs on the posts when we’re defending corners, Fitzie, you take our free kicks and corners, Dickko you’re on penalties. Mickey, dominate at the back, Slug, Smiffy, push on when you need to. Fitzie and Fenny, take ‘em on in the last third. Biggsy, feed of Dunney’s flick-ons . . . .’

With selection and formation complete, Boots then moved on to a more emotive subject.

‘It’s the last game of the season so we want to finish with a good performance. A win will mean we finish sixth, which is a big improvement on last year.’

Boots knew what he was about to say would really raise the hackles of Denham Wanderers.

‘And don’t forget Andy Mulligan plays for this shower of shit’ concluded Boots.

An eerie silence instantly fell around the dressing room and all eyes focused on Pancake.

The reason for the collective anguish of the dressing room was that ten years ago, despite his adverse dietary habits, Pancake was a much slender and accomplished centre-half playing for Remsbey Town in the Home Counties semi-professional league. During a title deciding game, Roxton United’s centre-forward, Andy Mulligan launched himself into an X certificate two footed tackle. The impact on Pancake’s right knee instantly severed his Posterior Cruciate Ligament. Ave that you fuckin’ Geordie wanker! hissed Mulligan as he stood above Pancake. The tackle ended Pancake’s outfield career. However, the big man’s love of the game wouldn’t let him quit. Two years after retiring his number five shirt, Pancake decided the number one shirt would give him the opportunity to play on, albeit in the much lower leagues.

Boots focused on Pancake.

‘Keep your cool out there big man. Don’t do anything daft.’ He then re-focused on the rest of the dressing room and clapped his hands together as he shouted ‘Ok lads, let’s finish with a good result, let’s get out there and give these fuckers a good spankin’!’

The players reciprocated Boots’ enthusiasm.

‘Come-on lads!’ and ‘Let’s ‘ave it!’ were but two of the frenzied chants that bellowed through clenched teeth as their metal studs clattered in unison when they left the dressing room and headed for the pitch.

Pete ‘Dickko’ Dickinson led Denham Wanderers out onto the pitch. Blackstone’s players were already out on the pitch with Nosey taking his players through a professional warm up. Denham’s approach to pre match warm-up was marginally different. The back-four were huddled together, hands in their shorts and in conversation about their antics on Saturday night, a couple of the midfielders were kicking Denham’s only ball about whilst the strikers were laughing at Blackstone’s warm up routine.

All of Blackstone’s players were going through the warm-up with one exception. Blackstone’s’ number ten was outside the dressing room deep in conversation with a couple of spectators whilst taking the last drags of a cigarette.

As usual, Pancake was two minutes behind his team mates. As he finally emerged from the dressing room and jogged toward the pitch, he failed to notice Blackstone’s number ten and his cronies.

‘Morning Vivian, how’s the knee?’ leered Andy Mulligan. He flicked away the stub of his cigarette and his small group of sycophants began to snigger.

If Pancake hated one thing in life it was being called Vivian. Being called Vivian by the slimy Bastard that ended his dreams of making it as a pro was simply too much.

The red mist descended. He stopped in his tracks, made an about turn and charged like a bull toward Mulligan. As Pancake grabbed Mulligan by the throat, Mulligan’s cronies jumped on Pancake.

Slug, Denham’s left back, was one of the back-four chatting away with his hands inside his shorts when he noticed the fracas outside of the dressing room.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell! Them fuckers are doin’ Pancake over’ he said pointing in the direction of the dressing room.

‘Quick, let’s help ‘im!’ cried Smiffy. The back four instantly dashed to the assistance of their keeper.

By now, Pancake had Mulligan’s three sycophants on his back but still grasped the semi-conscious Mulligan by the throat.

Denham’s back four arrived on the scene with the impact of Cavalry into crashing into foot soldiers. The remaining players from both teams looked up and charged toward the mêlée. The twenty-two man brawl went on for a couple of minutes, after which, the pacifiers finally began to take control. When peace was finally restored, both teams departed for their respective halves hurling belligerent verbals en route.

The events of the last few minutes had totally bewildered the referee. The referee knew he had to do something, although exactly what, totally escaped him.

Because of his profoundly crossed eyes, ‘Clarence’ as he was affectionately known, was an old-school referee who had been officiating Sunday league games in the district for the last twenty years. As a consequence, he had become on first-name terms with most managers and many of the players.

His solution was to summon both managers to the centre spot. Clarence began to lecture both managers but neither could work out who the cross-eyed referee was speaking to.

‘Boots, Hard-on-’ began Clarence.

‘That’s Harden’ interrupted Hard-on.

‘Whatever’ said Clarence as he began his lecture, ‘I don’t know who started it, and frankly I don’t care. We all know that there’s history between Pancake and Mulligan. Calm your players down before we start. Besides, I can’t be arsed to write out the reports if I have to send someone off.’

‘Tell you what’ smirked the ever arrogant Hard-on ‘I’ll leave Mulligan on the bench, I don’t need him to beat this shower of shit anyway.’

‘We’ll see about that, you cocky twat’ replied Boots.

Both managers gathered their players together in their respective penalty areas.

‘Ok lads’ said Boots, ‘Calm it down, it’s the last game of the season, let’s see it through without loosing our heads . . . . but if Mulligan gets on, fucking kneecap ‘im!’

Simultaneously, Hard-on addressed the Blackstone players.

‘Come-on lads, a victory here will land us the title, let’s keep our discipline, but if the opportunity arises, stamp on that fucking fat Geordie’s gammy knee.’

Both managers then retired to their opposing touchlines.

The referee called the captains together for the toss-up. Blackstone won the toss, their captain decided not to change ends. Denham kicked off.

Throughout the first half, both managers continuously bellowed and gesticulated instructions to their teams. Despite Blackstone enjoying the vast majority of possession and hitting the woodwork twice, the first half ended goalless. Upon a loud and concluding double blast of the referee’s whistle, both teams made their way to their dressing rooms.

Boots shut the door behind Slug, the last player to enter.

‘Ok lads, grab a cup of tea and sit down.’

Tommo was sitting on the end of the bench next to the table. He unscrewed the top of the thermos flask, picked up a plastic cup and poured himself a cup of hot, sweet tea. He then passed the flask and cups on to the next in line. Boots began his halftime team talk.

‘Well done lads, good half, keep it tight, let’s keep it on the ground . . . .’

Pancake was last recipient of the flask. He tipped the flask into the cup. Several of the team laughed as three solitary drops fell out of the flask into Pancake’s cup. Pancake held the flask up to his eye. Just as he thought, it was empty. Pancake feeling totally deprived, unintentionally committed the cardinal sin of interrupting Boots’ team talk.

‘Thanks a lot, yer Bastards’ bemoaned Pancake.

Boots turned his attention to Pancake.

‘What’s up now?’

‘Greedy fokkers ‘ave drank aall the tea.’

‘Sorry Pancake’ apologised Boots as he returned to instructing the back four to mark tighter. ‘Keep showing their wide men the touchline-’

‘Wouldn’t ‘appen at St James’ Park’ complained Pancake.

‘What wouldn’t!’ hissed Boots, as once again, he was distracted by the big Geordie.

‘Yer wouldn’t run oot o’ tea at ‘alftime.’

‘For fuck sake!’ shouted Boots as his patience began to wear thin. ‘I’ll get a bigger fuckin’ flask next season. Now, please can we return to the small mater of beating these shitheads.’

Boots returned to his back four. The rest of the team started to snigger at the exchange.

After a long pause Pancake uttered; ‘Just sayin’ that’s all.’

Boots’ gaze was re-directed toward the lamenting Pancake.

‘Just saying what?’ he enquired as his patience became thinner by the second.

‘Yer wouldn’t run oot o’ tea at St James’ Park, that all.’

‘So you have said, in fact twice if memory serves. Now can I please finish my fuckin’ team talk!’ roared boots, his voice rising in volume during each round of the exchange.

‘Carry on, don’t let me stop yer’ replied Pancake.

Boots took a few moments to regain his composure before returning his attention to the back four. Just as he was about to continue there was a loud knock at the door.

‘Ok lads, let’s go!’ shouted Clarence from the corridor.

The players got to their feet. Whatever pearls of wisdom Boots had for his back four were now lost forever.

Boots raised his voice for the last time as his players left the dressing room for the pitch.

‘Ok boys, forty-five minutes of the season left, go out there and enjoy it!’

Pancake, who as usual was last to leave the dressing room, received a disapproving frown as he passed his manager.

‘What?’ said the big Geordie defensively as he put on his gloves and headed for the pitch.

The teams changed ends and kicked-off. Naturally, Boots wanted his team to beat Blackstone, sixth place was a great improvement on last year. But avoiding defeat was far more important to Boots. It prevented Blackstone winning the title. The thought of Mulligan, Nosey and that smug Bastard Hard-on singing the ‘Campione’ song amid a spray of champagne sickened Boots to the stomach.

As the match drifted into the last quarter, Blackstone won a corner on the far side of the pitch. When the ball was crossed into the six-yard box, Blackstone’s centre-half rose above the static Denham defence to head the ball crashing against the underside of the crossbar. The ball rebounded downward and bounced two inches in front of the Denham goal line. Just as one of Blackstone’s midfielders was about to head the ball over the line, Pancake launched his big frame across the goal and somehow managed to palm to ball away for another corner.

‘Fuckin’ finish it, you twat!’ screamed Hard-on.

‘Score in a minute! Were gonna score in a minute!’ sang Mulligan’s sycophants from the touchline.

Blackstone took the corner, this time they played it short. Blackstone worked the ball to an unmarked player on the edge of the box. A strong right-footed drive saw the ball smash against Pancake’s left post and deflect out for a goal kick.

‘Fuck, that was close’ Boots thought to himself. He looked at his watch: twenty minutes to go.

Boots had to do something. He considered his options.

‘Biggsy, drop back into the back four’ he shouted to his centre-forward.

‘What?’ replied the bemused striker.

‘Drop back into the back four, we’ll play five across the back.’

The centre-forward shrugged his shoulders and did as he was told.

As the minutes ticked away, Blackstone continued to dominate.

Again, Boots assessed his options.

‘Dunney, drop back into defence!’ yelled Boots to his remaining striker.

‘What the fuck are you on about?’ replied Dunney tersely.

‘Just drop back into defence and mark someone’ instructed Boots.

Denham now had a flat back six with four defensive midfield players.

Albeit Boots’ strategy congested the play and made it difficult for Blackstone to create any form of penetration, Denham had completely surrendered possession of the football. With ten minutes remaining, Blackstone launched attack after attack but was unable to pierce Denham’s determined defence.

In the eighty-fifth minute, Blackstone’s right winger skinned Denham’s left back with ease. At the same time, six Blackstone players were arriving in the eighteen-yard box. The ball bobbled on the surface of the uneven park pitch just as the winger was about to deliver the cross. As a result, the winger spooned his cross behind the goal.

‘Billy, you fucking waste of space! What the fuck was that!’ screamed Hard-on at his teenage winger. The young player looked down at his boots and then nervously at Hard-on before slowly making his way back to the halfway line for the ensuing goal kick.

Clarence looked at his watch, there was three minutes plus about two minutes of injury time remaining.

Pancake thumped the goal kick deep into Blackstone’s half. But as there were no Denham forwards, the visitors quickly turned defence into attack. After some clever midfield interchanges, one of Blackstone’s central midfield players launched a screamer from thirty yards. Pancake fumbled the shot and spilled the ball rolled directly into the path of Blackstone’s centre-forward. Just as the striker was about to tap the ball across the line, Denham’s four centre halves converged on both ball and striker. The collision thwarted the striker from making clean contact. The ball skewed off the sandwiched striker’s toe, struck against the inside of the post and then bobbled across the goal line into Pancakes arms.

Hard-on had now completely lost it.

‘You fucking wanker! You’ll never play for this club again’ he shrieked at his centre-forward.

The striker picked himself up and slowly walked toward Hard-on and Nosey on the touchline.

‘You can stick your poxy team up your fat fucking arse!’ hissed the striker as he walked toward the dressing room.

Pancake launched the ensuing drop-kick as far up field as he could. The ball bounced out for a throw-in deep in Blackstone’s half.

‘Ref, sub!’ shouted Hard-on.

‘Andy, get stripped, quick!’

Mulligan got stripped and Clarence beckoned him to the field of play.

‘How long ref!’ shouted Boots from the touchline.

‘A minute of stoppage time!’ replied Clarence.

The Blackstone left back hit a hopeful long ball toward the Denham goal.

For some inexplicable reason, for the first time that season, Denham’s defence tried to play the off-side trap. With just seconds of the season remaining, they stepped up. As the ball flew over the defenders heads, Mulligan timed his run to perfection. The ball dropped and bounced thirty yards from the Denham goal.

‘Offside!’ cried Dicko with his right arm raised.

Clarence glanced at the linesman. The line-o shook his head negatively as he held his flag firmly by his side and raced along the touch line to keep up with play.

‘Play-on!’ barked Clarence.

There was five seconds of the season left as Mulligan found himself one-against-one with Pancake. Hard-on and Nosey were transfixed as striker advanced toward the bouncing ball and Denham’s goal.

Boots put his head in hands and looked away.

The players froze as Mulligan advanced.

‘Come-out Pancake!’ yelled each the Denham players.

‘Finish it . . . . you slimy little shit’ whispered each the Blackstone players to themselves.

Pancake began his advance toward ball and player.

Mulligan was closing in on the ball.

Pancake appeared to be losing the race.

Mulligan was now five yards away and closing in on the ball fast. He weighed-up the angles and options before opting to lob the ball over the advancing keeper.

Pancake was still yards away from the ball.

The scene appeared to descend into slow motion.

Just as Mulligan was about to lob Blackstone to the title, Pancake launched himself knee first at the approaching striker.

The collision was identical to Harald Schumacher’s notorious challenge on Patrick Battiston in the 1982 World Cup semi final in two ways. Firstly, the advancing goalkeeper rendered the striker unconscious. Secondly, the ball bounced harmlessly beyond the goalkeeper and out for a goal kick.

Hard-on watched in despair as ball took an eternity to bounce wide of the goal and behind the dead ball line.

‘Penalty!’ cried Hard-on, ‘That has to be a fucking penalty ref!’

‘Fair tackle, and that’s the end of the game’ replied Clarence as he put his whistle to his lips and ended the match.

‘Bullshit, you cross-eyed twat, that’s a stonewall penalty!’ cried Hard-on.

The referee knew that if he awarded a penalty he would have to send the keeper off and a sending off equated to writing a report for the local Football Association. No penalty, no report, was the referee’s logic.

Boots looked up and saw the ball bobble to a halt behind the goal.

‘What happened?’ cried Boots.

Fenny was the nearest Denham player.

‘Pancake fuckin’ flattened him!’

Hard-on was now foaming at the mouth.

Despite his hatred for Mulligan, Pancake quickly realised that the condition of his nemesis could be serious. He kneeled down over Mulligan and frantically beckoned Nosey to come to the aid of his stricken player. Nosey picked up his bucket and sprinted toward the unconscious striker.

Unfortunately for Mulligan, the bucket Pancake used during his pre-match emergency had evolved into nothing less than a bio-hazard.

Nosey opened Mulligan’s mouth to check that he hadn’t swallowed his tongue. Fortunately for Mulligan, his tongue was where it should be. Nosey’s prognosis was that the striker had been simply knocked unconscious by the considerable impact.

As Nosey reached into his bucket and wiped what he thought would be cold water onto the striker’s face, Pancakes’ offspring was lying in wait, floating ominously beneath the sponge.

Nosey, still focussing on Mulligan, and not the bucket, daubed a full spongeful of Pancake’s hazardous bodily produce onto Mulligan’s face and mouth.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Nosey as he looked at the brown matter he had just smeared on Mulligan’s face.

Pancake instantly recognised the bucket, and more importantly its contents.

‘Erm I’ll leave yooz to it, it looks like yez knaa what yooz doin’ said Pancake as he began to back away.

Nosey leaned over Mulligan and took a sniff and winced.

‘Fuckin’ ell, that’s shit!’

After a few more seconds, Nosey sniffed the bucket and reached the obvious conclusion.

‘THOSE DIRTY FUCKIN’ BASTARDS HAVE SHAT IN ME BUCKET!’ screamed Nosey.

Nosey then turned his attention to Pancake.

‘Is this anything to do with you?’

‘Dunno what yez on aboot’ replied Pancake. The big Geordie turned around and ran toward his team mates as they headed toward the dressing room.

The contents of Nosey’s bucket did have one positive aspect. The overpowering stench had the reviving properties of smelling salts. The putrid odour wafted up Mulligan’s nose and abruptly stimulated his nervous system. Mulligan’s eyes flickered open. He licked his lips, and after a few seconds, fully regained consciousness. Mulligan then tasted what he could smell.

‘What the fuck have you put on me face?’

Nosey began to panic.

‘It wasn’t my fault son, it was those dirty Denham Bastards, they shat in me bucket.’

Mulligan hysterically tried to clean Pancake’s pooh from his face and mouth.

Aghhhh! . . . . You wiped shit on me face when I was knocked out. What are you a fuckin’ Witch Doctor or something?’

‘Calm down son. As I said, it was those dirty Bastards from Denham-’

‘You wiped shit in me mouth you fuckin’ psycho!’ gagged Mulligan as he got to his feet.

Boots and his players stood and watched from the dressing rooms as Mulligan picked up the bucket and chased after Nosey. After a short distance Mulligan caught up with the older man and rammed the inverted bucket, contents and all, over Nosey’s head. As Nosey struggled to remove the wedged bucket, Mulligan moved around to Nosey’s front. He then took a five yard run up and toe-punted the defenceless bucket-man mercilessly in the groin.

A very muted ‘Ooww!’ echoed from underneath the bucket as Nosey collapsed to his knees and then fell flat on his bucketed face.

Watching from the safety of the dressing rooms, all of the Denham Wanderers cheered as Nosey lay face down on the pitch with the bucket of shit wedged firmly on his head.

Hard-on, still frothing at the mouth, stormed toward the dressing rooms.

‘What the fuck was that Boothroyd!’ frothed Hard-on.

‘What was what?’ smiled Boots.

‘That . . . . that . . . . that wasn’t football!’ stuttered Hard-on ‘You just pulled everyone behind the ball. All you wanted to do was stop us winning. That wasn’t football, I’m gonna report you to the league, its bloody cheating, that’s what it is, bloody cheating!’

‘Report us for what, playing Italian tactics?’ laughed Boots ‘And while you’re at it, don’t forget to include AC Milan, Juventus, Internatzionale, Lazio and Roma! If you don’t score, you don’t win. You weren’t good enough. Now fuck off!’

Hard-on was now rabid and had clearly forgotten his surroundings.

‘You’re bloody right there, the shower of shit I’ve got this season couldn’t score in brothel. They’re fucking hopeless, that’s what they are, fucking hopeless!’

Just as Hard-on concluded the assassination of his team, his centre-half walked behind him. After a season of consistent abuse, flying coffee cups and crappy tactics, his strapping centre-half, a former ABA boxer, had had enough.

‘Oi, Hard-on’ said the ex-pugilist.

‘What-’

Just as Hard-on turned around, a crashing right cross connected with his chin. Hard-on was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Once again, Denham Wanderers cheered with delight.

In the dressing room Boots was ecstatic. He shook the hand of each of his players, congratulated them on a great season and thanked them for their efforts.

‘Did yer see the way I knocked that Bastard oot, an’ then ‘is trainer wiped me shite in ‘is face-fokkin’ champion!’ gleamed Pancake.

‘You’re a fucking animal’ laughed Boots.

Whilst the players were in the shower, Boots walked around the dressing picking up the socks, shorts and shirts, and putting them in the kit bag. He picked up Pancake’s green shirt and held it up. There were two red dots on the chest.

‘Oi Pancake, is this blood on your shirt?’

Pancake popped his foam covered head around the corner of the shower.

‘Aye, poxy little shirt makes me nipples bleed.’

‘Little shirt! It’s the biggest one I could get you fat Bastard’ sniggered Boots.

Not wishing to be out done Pancake offered yet another typical retort.

‘Yooz might want to be careful with me shorts, yez might find a couple of little rosebuds in the bottom of them.’

‘You dirty fucker’ replied Boots as he flipped Pancakes shorts with his foot before daring to pick them up.

A short while later, the players had almost finished changing.

‘Ok lads, let’s have your subs. Cough-up!’ said Boots as he collected three pounds from each of his players.

Boots arrived at Pancake’s corner of the dressing room.

‘Come on Pancake, cough-up. I’ve got to pay the ref and for pitch and the kit doesn’t wash itself.’

‘I’ll have to give it yer next week.’

‘We’re not playing next week, it’s the last game of the season, remember!’

‘I’ll have to owe it yer.’

‘You haven’t paid all year, you owe . . . . let me see’ Boots scrutinised his notebook ‘Ah yes, sixty-three quid.’

‘There’s a recession on yer knaa’ protested Pancake.

‘I’ll put it on your tab, but you have to pay it before next season’ sighed Boots safe in the knowledge he would never get the big Geordie to part with such a quantity of beer tokens.

‘Nae problem’ grinned Pancake.

The players were just finishing getting dressed when Boots asked his team a rhetorical question.

‘Where are we going for a beer?’

‘The Dog and Duck!’ yelled entire team.

‘The Dog and Duck it is!’ replied Boots.

Boots made sure everyone had transport back to the pub.

On the way out Boots stopped at the referee’s dressing room and paid the match fee. Boots, as usual, thanked the referee.

‘Cheers Clarence, see you next season.’

‘Cheers Boots’ replied the ref.

Boots started to walk away. He abruptly stopped in his tracks and went back to the referee’s changing room.

‘Was it a penalty?’ asked Boots, doubting if he would get an honest answer.

‘A penalty?’ replied Clarence, ‘It was a fucking assault! But if I gave a penalty I would have had to sent your keeper off. Then I’d have to write a poxy report for the knob ‘eds at Denham Football Association. I can’t be arsed with that crap. Besides, I was fucked if I was gonna let those smug little twats Hard-on and Parker win the league with the last kick of the game of the last game of the season.’

‘Nice one Clarence, see you in August’ beamed Boots.

Boots and Pancake picked up the kit, the buckets and the ball and put them into the boot. Boots assumed that Pancake’s infamous colon was empty and therefore it would be safe to give him a lift to the Dog and Duck. Both got in Boots’ car and left their home ground, Membury Park, for the last time that season.

As they eagerly made the short trip to the Dog and Duck, Boots congratulated Pancake.

‘You had a fuckin’ blinder today big man.’

‘Aye, the team played well, not just me’ replied Pancake magnanimously.

‘Can I presume you are going to sign-on again next year?’

‘Dunno,’ replied Pancake, ‘I’ll ‘ave to talk to me agent.’

Boots chuckled.

‘Your agent?’

‘Aye, I want a new deal, a hundred and fifty grand a week—after tax o’ course, a Baby Bentley and a big fok-off gaff for me and me mam.’

‘Are you willing to negotiate a little?’ chuckled Boots.

‘Aye’ mused Pancake ‘I consider myself a reasonable man.’

‘Ok, how about we write off the sixty-six quid you owe in subs’ suggested Boots.

‘Done!’ said Pancake. They shook hands and laughed.

‘Just one more contractual request’ said Pancake.

‘What?’ enquired Boots.

‘Can you lend us thirty quid?’

‘You cheeky wanker’ laughed Boots.

Boots pulled into the Dog and Duck’s car park and begrudgingly handed Pancake £30 from his wallet.

‘Cheers boss, tek it oot of me signing-on fee.’

‘Yeah, right’ said Boots safe in the knowledge that the odds of repayment were the same as Pancake paying his weekly subs.

Boots and Pancake walked into the packed bar.

‘What’s the mix!’ shouted Boots.

‘Same as it’s been all season-seven straight lagers, four lager tops and a pint of Rhino Snot for Pancake’ replied Fenny.

Boots waved two £20 notes at the Landlord.

‘Hello Pete, usual mix please’ said Boots.

‘Good end to the season Boots. I hear Pancake played a blinder’ replied the Landlord as he went to work pouring the first of many rounds for the players of Denham Wanderers.

‘About bloody time! laughed Boots.

It was part of the very fabric of Denham Wanderers that each player would stay and watch both of Sky Sport’s televised games. However, such was the team spirit and inordinate capacity for alcoholic potions, most, if not all, would stay until closing time, despite the weekly protests of the Denham Wanderers WAGS.

At eight o’clock on Sunday evening, the lights in the Dog and Duck would lower and a local DJ would provide the entertainment for rest of the evening.

Towards the end of the Evening Boots, Fitzie and Pancake sat in a drunken stupor at the bar.

‘Boots, wha’s the time?’ slurred Pancake.

Boots looked down at his watch, it took the manager three attempts to focus.

‘I think its half eleven’ garbled Boots.

As Fitzie got off his bar stool and stumbled toward the toilet, Pancake suddenly remembered his pre-match shower. He reached out his bear-like paw and grabbed the slight midfielder by the collar.

‘As for yooz, yer Bastard, I wanna word with yer. Wha’ did yer fokkin’ piss on us for?’

After eleven hours of drinking, Fitzie had an abundance of Dutch courage.

‘Paying you back, you big fat fuck!’

‘Paying us back! Wha’ yooz talkin’ aboot?’

‘You know what for, you dirty Bastard’ insisted Fitzie.

‘What?’ Pancake was far too drunk to remember.

‘When we played away at Meldon, unbeknownst to me, you shat in me kit bag. I didn’t open it until the following weekend. I had to throw the bag, and everything inside it away, you fucking animal’.

‘I was fokkin’ desperate!’ protested Pancake.

‘Oh well, that makes it all right then. You can have a dump in me bag anytime you want’ said Fitzie sarcastically.

Boots decided it was time to intervene.

‘Yer fuckin’ evens now you pair of fetish pervs, forget it.’

Fitzie, Boots and Pancake finished their pints.

‘One for the road?’ slurred Boots.

‘Aye!’ and ‘Fuck-it, why not!’ were the simultaneous responses from Pancake and Fitzie respectively.

‘Anyways, what the fuck were you doin’ in the bushes last night?’ asked Fitzie.

There was a delay whilst the question penetrated into Pancake’s pickled brain.

‘Er . . . . nothin’ er . . . . I passed oot’ replied Pancake very dubiously.

‘Fuck-off, you was up to something’ weren’t yer,’ insisted Fitzie.

‘No . . . . er . . . . like I said, I just passed oot!’

Fitzie was far from convinced and began to speculate.

‘I’m not ‘aving that. You was buggering some twink wasn’t yer’ said Fitzie.

‘I’m tellin’ yer, I just passed oot!’

‘Bollocks, you were doing some arse banditary. You Faggots like to do it in public places, don’t yer’ slurred Fitzie.

Even though he was considerably inebriated, Pancake’s body language clearly suggested he was hiding something. Fitzie sensed a cover-up waiting to be exposed.

Fitzie grabbed Smiffy’s arm as he walked past the trio on his way to the toilet.

‘Oi Smiffy, guess what Pancake was doin’ in the bushes all night? Buggering some Dick Smoker’ said Fitzie to the totally wasted full-back.

As with the rest of the Dog and Duck’s clientele at this time on a Sunday night, comprehension of verbal communication was subject to a time lag.