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Twenty-Three
May 25, 2012
by Roge Slater
Morning, Sir.
Morning.
Look, I’ll get straight to the point, Q: we have a problem with Twenty-Three.
Twenty-Three?
Yes. You know, “B (OBE)”.
But surely he’s almost at the end of his time with us isn’t he? What problem can he be at this late stage?
Well…
Come on, spit it out. What’s the problem?
Well… he wants to play, Sir.
What do you mean he wants to play?
Erm… Actually, it’s that he’s demanding to play. Otherwise he says he’s going to tell the whole story…
Tell the bloody story? We only got him on board in the first place because he wouldn’t realize what the story actually was. When did he find out and what bloody use does he think it would be telling everyone? No-one would believe him because no-one would think that he was capable of doing something like this. And anyway, he’s nearly bloody 40 isn’t he? Isn’t there an age limit — what does he expect now — does he want us to inject him with sheep hormones or something and then just ‘disappear’ every other year of his life? Christ, he’d only just be young enough if we did that!
I know what you mean, Sir, but there’s a rule — apparently each squad can pick three overage players and he’d demanding to fill one of those spots. And he wants to play each game. Oh, and he wants to be captain, too.
Amazing. Are you sure he didn’t ask for his wife to be Official Team Knickers Designer as well? Surely we can get his children involved somehow as well — no wait, aren’t some of them American now?
No I don’t think so, Sir… Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how we can stop him, I mean, if he told the whole story and people did believe it, there would be all kinds of ramifications. Worldwide even.
Now just hold on. Look at this logically. A spy he may be. But it’s not as if he ever brought us a secret, is it? He’s much too stupid to be relied on for that and he’s only a bloody footballer after all. All we’ve done is tell him things at this end then send him on trips to meet people — our Ambassador if you like — knowing full well that he couldn’t keep a secret. Misinformation really, just keeping the other buggers on their toes.
I know, Sir, but he still insists.
Amazing. He nearly got rumbled all those years ago, that Scotsman, what’s his name? Oh it doesn’t matter, but we got him out of that, changed his number and everything and got him four years — four bloody years no less — in Spain. He nearly cocked that up too. Got a bloody good tan and all the while we were still flying him ‘round the world ‘representing his country’, then when he’d failed miserably to learn the language over there we moved him again; another new number another new location, another new identity, this time in America. Well, that went down like a lead balloon for a couple of years didn’t it? We even had to ship him off to Italy for a while.
It did settle down though, Sir.
Yes, I suppose it did after the first couple of years, but he’d upset so many people that we’ve had to limit his travel — particularly when we had that Italian in charge over here — and there’s no way this new bloke, Hodges or whatever his name is, will even consider him.
That’s his point I think, Sir. I think he’s realized that would be a step too far, so he sees this other tournament as his swansong, a sort of last chance.
I’ll give him last chance! Bloody hell, I mean, I know he’s ingratiated himself with that President fellow — Obama isn’t it? — and that could be useful, but all they seem to talk about now is his underpants. Not sure that’s going to deflect any serious interest they may have in what’s going on here, but… Christ. How do we end up in these bloody situations?
He’s very insistent, Sir.
But we’ll be a laughing stock. Good god, what next? We’ll have to give him a zimmer frame and a place in the Octogenarian Olympics. Bring him up here. Go and get him, bring him up here and let me have a word with him.
Sir. Number Twenty-Three, Sir.
Right. Yes. Sit down Twenty-Three. Or would you prefer it if I called you “B (OBE)”?
Twenty-Three is fine, Sir.
OK. Yes. Right. Well, what is all this? What’s it all about, you spilling the beans and all that? Come on man, speak up.
Well, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want…
Twenty-Three by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
It’s In The Game
April 29, 2012
Gary Neville rubbed his bony hands together in anticipation and let his mouth fall into its customary rodent smile. Big game tonight. Massive. He couldn’t wait to get started.
Now dinner, a pair of microwave Chicken Kievs (Iceland’s finest, no less), was out of the way, everything was in place. The phone was off the hook, his new rat, the extravagantly named ‘Nev’, had been fed, and his bright red t-shirt was draped caringly across the ironing board, crisper than the day he’d bought it.
He pulled on the top, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing his mind to momentarily scan over various past glories. Snapping back to the present, he picked up the shirt and bow tie that lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of his laundry room floor. Reluctantly, he buttoned the shirt and tried his best to get the tie to look straight. He looked in the mirror: that bit of hair was standing up at the back again. He spat on the palm of his hand and tried to slick it down. It sprung straight back up. That would have to do.
Glancing at his wristwatch, Gary scurried downstairs and into the living room. It was a richly furnished affair, littered with low sofas and ebony trestles. A blank canvas hung on the wall; avant-garde, the art dealer had said. Gary thought it made him look ever so tasteful.
Despite the presence of such awe-inspiring artwork, the room’s dominating feature was without doubt its monstrous television. An entire wall it took up, filling the room with brooding HD, and there, underneath, nestled in a tangle of wires and blinking lights, was Gary’s pride and joy: his
PlayStation 3.
It was a glorious creature, he thought, switching it with a delicate prod. Yes, a real mechanical Adonis of smooth, shiny plastic and limitless entertainment. Eyes fixed unwaveringly on his beloved console, Gary shuffled backwards until he met with his specially designed gaming chair, into which he fell with a blissful sigh. He glanced at the time again. Perfect.
An eager paw reached for the controller, another for the remote. The goliath TV set hummed into life. The FIFA logo blazed across the screen, bathing the dark room in its garish red glow. Jaunty europop blared from the surround sound. Gary blinked back tears of joy.
Manipulating the controller with familiar ease, game menus flashed before his eyes as various settings were tweaked. In a matter of moments he would be ready to begin. Just one last change to make, though.
With barely suppressed glee, Gary opened up the formations menu for his the team in blue. He selected a young defender and, with an evil leer, fiddled with a few advanced settings; mentality, positioning and the like. His sweaty fingers almost slipped as he navigated into the formation settings, and he even let out a small yelp of delight as he made a few careful adjustments to their back line. With one hand continuing to make tactical changes, the other brushed his crooked fringe out of his eyes and then smoothed his shadowy moustache. Another glance at his watch. That would have to do. It was time.
Right on cue, the customised doorbell chimed out. “Glory, glory Man United.. Glory, glory…”
Cutting off the tune before it reached the second line, Gary opened the door as wide as his grin, and was greeted by the friendly faces of David and Victoria Beckham. David’s hair was smoothed back and to the side, his moustache and sideburns neatly trimmed, and he was sporting a glistening silver suit. Victoria was showcasing one of her own designs no doubt: a black figure-hugging number that, along with her new, short haircut, made her look even thinner than usual. Together they looked every part the Hollywood stars.
Gary shuffled nervously in the doorway, murmured a couple of pleasantries, and looked down to smooth his creased shirt. A sliver of red was showing through between two button holes. His guests pretended not to notice. Victoria enquired about the blank canvas hanging in the hallway. Gary was chuffed to discover neither of his cultured guests had heard of the artist.
Polite as ever but starting to freeze, David asked whether they might come inside.
“Have you brought him?” Gary fired back.
In answer, David stepped aside to reveal his second son, a sheepish looking Romeo.
“He’s only eight, not ten. Is that OK? What did you need him for, anyway? He’s had to miss training for this.”
Gary was deaf to the question, he’d already lead the youngster through to the living room and plopped him into the gaming chair.
“Now listen our kid, I’ve set up a game for you, special realistic settings. You don’t mind playing as Chelsea, do you?”
The youngster shook his head.
“And you know who David Luiz is, right? Big mop haircut, common sense of a lemon?”
Romeo nodded.
“Excellent. Well, it’s all yours then. Just play your natural game!”
Bill Blakeston bears his soul at East Face/Brain Dead? and can be insulted on twitter @Blexxxston
Seconds
December 27, 2011
by Roge Slater
Tick
Seconds.
Long, labouring, slow seconds.
Hot.
And cold.
Sweat.
Dry mouth.
An ever increasing heartbeat. Faster, louder, deafening.
Tock
Pressure.
One on one.
Me and him.
Gladiators waiting for the signal to start.
Thousands looking on, thousands looking away.
I hear words – encouragement perhaps, from close around me,
cat-calls from those more distant.
Tick
Focus.
Pick my spot; don’t give it away.
Staring down my opponent as he stares at me. I’m still, he moves.
Back and forth, side to side, rocking, swaying. Beyond him, success.
Too wide, too high, too obvious, failure.
Seconds left. No words now, at least not distinct.
Just a cauldron, a cacophony of sound to the heartbeat of an over-tight drum.
Tock
To the left, an arm raised in slow motion as I rock back on my heels.
Tense, taut, ready to spring forward with one aim in mind and one target in sight.
A shrill, high pitched scream pierces the dense atmosphere, followed by a millisecond or two of total silence
All the air drawn away, quiet creating a sudden vacuum before the cacophony returns
Rising to an intense volume, I’m into my stride.
Each step slow and staged, like running through treacle wearing diving boots;
Time slows down and the long yards seem like miles.
Tick
Focused.
One thought. Not a concern for the opponent.
Coiled, haunched, ready to spring forward,
Sideways, upwards to follow the slightest of signs.
Three steps and a feint.
A slow deliberate stumble to unsettle – to induce a move, but is there a chance to check?
Two steps more
Tock
Precise
Balanced
Preparing to shoot.
Each muscle honed to perfection, ready to strike through the ball.
The leg swinging, cutting through the air like a pendulum;
The thwack of the impact as the soft surface gives on contact, then the movement recovers the shape.
Nothing now but to watch and wait
Tick
Arrowing to its destination.
His choice is made.
Spinning and circling through the air.
His coiled body springing out to its full height and more.
Power and rotation in harmony, drifting an upward arc.
Arms extending, fingertips stretching and grasping at air.
Close, so close. There’s nothing more I can do.
Tock
Tick
Settle.
No anger, no pressure.
Breathe.
Deep and slow.
In and out,
calm,
controlled, prepared, ready to take my place.
Tock
Confidence
One on one.
Me and him.
Soon to be the victor and the vanquished
Thousands behind me but one in front
Angst and vitriol mixed with encouragement and anticipation from their voices
Respective eyes focused on their champion
Tick
Watching.
Watch his eyes, his body.
Searching for a clue as he stands, passive but as taut as piano wire.
I stand, I move, to catch his eye, to break his focus.
Seconds left.
The theatre of dreams, no sound distinct from another.
A crescendo, an ever increasing volume, but at the same time distant.
Tock
Crouching, Prepared,
ready to spring.
The whistle.
The run up.
Watching the eyes and the shape for the last clue.
Warriors.
One ready to strike, one ready to pounce
Tick
Tense,
ready to spring like a panther.
No concern for the opponent, running, preparing to shoot.
Just his eyes, a tell tale sign of an intended target -
half conscious of the feint,
don’t buy it, follow the eyes.
Up on my toes and ready.
Tock
A step forward, a sway to one side.
Just to unsettle – a last second concern.
Watching the angle of foot to ball
The arc of the leg to determine the aim.
A thousand thoughts in a thousandth of a second.
Anticipation.
Springing out as the ball is struck.
Tick
Momentarily fling through thickening air.
He won’t reach it,
Trying to claw and stretch and grasp an extra inch…
The ball arcs upwards – surely away from the outstretched arm?
Trying to read the flight and guide an arm to block the trajectory.
Watching, tenths of seconds like minutes in slow motion. There’s nothing more I can do…
Close, so close, Hope. There’s nothing more I can do…
Tock.
Seconds by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)?
December 24, 2011
‘Twas the night before Christmas; all tickets were sold
For Elland and Loftus and old Vicarage Road.
The press rooms were wired and ready to air
In hopes that King Kenny might break down and swear.
The Reds were nestled so snug in their suites,
All happy and eager, except for Luis.
His reputation sullied, mood turned to black;
Eight games he must sit for racial attack.
And over in Paris, there arose such a ruckus,
Cried PSG coaches, “They’re going to f— us!”
Qataris forsaking wisdom for cash,
In Kombouaré, not seeing a name with panache
To Castile, whose white knights again were run through,
As Pep and his mob rocked the Bernabeu.
And thus did the Special One’s ire provoke,
Though there was no eye to hand, so lovely to poke.
Looking to FIFA, excuses were tired, retread and lame,
But spouting them freely, Old Sepp stayed the same.
Louder than wolves, how his critics they howl,
While he lies, and dissembles, and at the British does scowl!
“Poor losers! Abusers! Disillusioned and vain!
From Triesman to Coe, Not a one has a brain!”
Thus, to the edge of the desert and the land of the Steppes
The hosting’s been given, and the rest have all wept.
Like piss in the wind and pie in the sky,
The bitching and moaning, and crying, “Oh Why?”,
Has left the Brits and the Yanks all feeling blue,
Predicting heat stroke, no-shows, and race riots, too.
And then, in a sound bite, it all comes to a head
and no-one believes what the Swiss boss has said.
Should f-word or n-word, or more dire be heard,
Just proffer a hand and it never occurred.
Now then at Christmas, while the remainder do sit,
The Prem and Championship increase their remit
Suarez and Terry likely both will appeal,
And wounds slashed wide open may never quite heal.
But Rio will Tweet! and Anton won’t matter,
Fergie will grumble; and Keane-o will chatter.
His droll little mouth runs on and how,
Happy as ever to cause a big row.
Yet, not far away, just a hop, skip and jump,
The disagreement at City is the one which holds trump.
Tevez’ work rate, his untiring hustle,
Give no carte blanche for a manager’s tussle
Though Anzhi, Milan and Paris beckon and call,
His pride has left him no ground to give all.
Therefore, Manchester Town a hero now needs,
Be it City or United whose colours he bleeds.
Over land and cross sea, in a Lear Jet will he ride,
Posh wife and fair children close by his side?
Title now won as was the design;
A new challenge, not money, for that he will sign
The time draws near when the window yawns wide,
and Sir Fergie might choose to add to his side.
Becks is old and he’s slow, lacking all pace,
But his touch is still there, and evergreen grace.
So, he smiles on camera and gives us his plea,
It’s been a long time, but United needs me.
Carrington’s halls echo empty, with no-one to deck them
A leader is needed… so why not sign Beckham?
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
