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The Four Horsemen Of An Impending Apocalypse
April 24, 2012
by Roge Slater
The room was dark and musty, save for a shard of light that broke through the blackness surrounding the door jamb. The beam revealed something akin to a fog, or mist; the air circling a lone table and swirling strangely around the silent soul there seated. The only sounds inside the room were his slow, yet anxious, breathing, and the rhythmic tapping of his slender bony finger on the hardwood, beating out the pace of a death march. Tap… tap… tap…
Though the single ray barely broke the gloom, it was just possible to make out a longbow, lying forlorn and untouched, but within the tapping hand’s reach, and, at the far end, as though discarded in frustration, a small crown. Was it the dust of ages past that was being spun slowly in the mist? Would the hand ever notch an arrow and draw string again? Did the light herald the time when a new king would ride forth? Or was it the last remnant of a once brilliant reign?
The monotony was broken all of a sudden, by a proud white horse, tied outside. It neighed loudly and blew forcefully down its nose. The faint sound of hooves fast approaching filled the air. Riding up in a thunder of dust, a lone rider drew up next to the steed. When the dust cleared, the silence was restored. There had been no sound signalling a dismount and the fiery red beast now tethered alongside the stallion made no noise.
The grating of metal on metal from the rusty hinges, as they were rotated by the opening door, was a sharp crack that would set any sentry on alert, but the seated figure did not stir. Nor did he look up as his visitor approached the long table, footsteps silent. The only evidence of his advance was the draft that breached the misty atmosphere. Soundlessly, the visitor removed a longsword from the scabbard tied at his waist, and placed it alongside the bow. Then, seemingly drifting rather than striding, he moved ’round the table and took up a seat. His host remained still, except for the rhythmic tapping. Tap… tap…tap…
The silence became oppressive, as the two sat motionless in the gathering gloom. The two animals just outside could not be heard, the dank atmosphere of the room seemingly brooking no interference. Then, without warning, the tapping ceased and the purveyor stood, head cocked at an angle and two nearly fleshless hands pressed flat on the table in anticipation. A moment later, the sound of hooves drew nigh, this time two sets, apparently approaching from opposite directions. As they drew nearer, and louder, the individual clatter suddenly slowed and merged, becoming a slow, rhythmic beat.
The white and red horses kept their own council as the new mounts, one black and the other a pale ghostly hue, joined them. Their riders slipped silently through the doorway into the room, and together, approached the table. One laid on the table a small scale, that rocked gently back and forth on its fulcrum. He moved to one side and took up a chair next to the waiting pair.
The fourth soul remained standing, a scythe held firmly across his chest. He seemed to hold a part of each of the other three, yet was also subservient. There was no doubt, however, that he was the one to be most feared.
As silently as he had stood, the host resumed his seat behind the table. Slowly, he raised his head and considered each of these disparate souls in turn, the darkness of his eyes as black as the deepest, emptiest well. His head shook in disappointment, and in a deep gravelly voice, he spoke:
You have searched long and hard, yet you bring me no-one, not a one of you. We have proclaimed to all that our approaches will bear fruit ere the season ends, yet our plans wither on the vine.
The others remained impassive in the face of his admonishment; their faces still hidden in the shadows and gloom; their eyes expressionless; and their breathing staccato. It was left to their host to again fill the void:
From twelve, you three were chosen to aid me, but those you sought out reject us, desiring no part of this bright future – here his hand waved about the gloom of the silent chamber. There remains but the sole name of our first chosen, who, by his failings in the wake of our endorsement, has shown no capacity to lead our host. Yet, time is against us, and we must decide.
The fourth to arrive shifted gently. In one swift, fluid movement, he struck the point of his scythe deep into the grain of the wooden table. Then, with a laconic, but excitable lilt, he spoke:
My liege, if you agree that the Londoner isn’t the man for the job, after all the recent disappointing results, why don’t we just call up Pearce? He said he’d do the job over the summer, and I can help him out on the coaching side. Then, we can get a proper manager in for the start of the World Cup Qualifiers. At least that way, the new man won’t start with a blot on his copybook, and…
Cut off mid-sentence by the acrid taste of the atmosphere, the fourth shrugged his shoulders innocently, then struggled mightily to withdraw the blade of his weapon from the hardwood. The momentary quiet was broken by the rhythmic tapping of a slender finger. His voice dripping with condemnation, the first spoke again:
Brooking, you really are an idiot…
Four Horsemen Of An Impending Apocalypse by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Then Harry Met Sali
March 6, 2012
by Roge Slater
Get away from it all, they said.
Take a break, its all been stressful. On that front they weren’t joking. All this crap ‘anging over me for five years and I’m tryin’ to run a football club, too.
It started when we got knocked up one morning by the police and a few Tax Inspectors, and that was it. They came in, scared the wife, the dogs ran under the table and these big burly blokes introduced themselves and told me they — what was it they said? — “Had information that lead them to believe I had been defrauding the Revenue”.
Well, I’m buggered if I know to this day why they came to the house. I’ve got an accountant and he looks after all that stuff. Perhaps they thought I’d stuffed the mattresses with fivers or something, but they didn’t get much joy. They left after about an ‘our with a couple of bits and pieces — paperwork, that sort of stuff — and then said they’d need me to go down for an interview. More to the bloody point, I got arrested!
City of London boys it was, and I wasn’t ‘Appy ‘Arry that day, I can tell you. I reckon it cost me the England job then — when McLaren went — no-one’s ever said it to my face but there’ve been enough hints that the FA blocked me. They didn’t want me to get the job and then get done. Perhaps they thought I’d try and run the side from Pentonville. We might have had a decent side though, Adams, Merson, even Lee Hughes… all done their bit for Her Majesty, those boys.
Anyway, it went to court and I went to Tottenham. Both wins for me! The judge threw out the case and said that the boys in blue had acted “wholly unacceptably” when they raided the ‘ouse, but the git only awarded me a grand and a part of my legal costs. Didn’t see the funny side when I gave him an overseas bank account number to pay it into, neither.
Thrown out of court, May 2008, new boss at White ‘Art Lane in October. Spurs looked as if it was gonna be ‘arder considerin’ what Wen-dy Ramos had left behind, but the money was decent. Pompey were skint and got five mil for me, so it ‘elped them out, too.
We got on a decent run, banked a few quid in the Transfer Window and spent some of that at Pompey, but I never did check to see if I were still gettin’ me bonus! We got to a Cup Final and that gave the fans a good drink up, then we nearly nicked a European place on the run in.
Bloody Portsmouth though! All that money should’ve seen them good for a while, but bugger me if they ain’t gone into administration twice now. Good job I got mine when I did, I reckon, but the tax boys came and ‘ad another go after that too — did me an’ that cagey Serb, Milan. We both got bloody charged this time, over some investment scheme Milan set up with my bonuses in Monaco, so that was me all over the front pages again.
It’s tough when you can’t get out your ‘ouse without tripping over a microphone, and then they twist it ’til it’s bollocks anyway. I reckon some of the names on bylines, they’re made up, so the bosses can print what they like. I mean, I’ve been around the game a few years and I know most of the sports boys, but this lot, Christ, like bloody Rottweilers biting on every word, then makin’ up their own! All too bloody stressful, that.
It’s not just me, neither. Sand’s had it bad too — she even got followed into the ‘airdressers by some tart. Sat under the next ‘air dryer with a bloody tape, and we only found that out when she got up quick an’ dropped it. Class act she was. Tape must’ve been thrilling, eh! Whirr, whirr, whirr — went out with ‘Arry for a meal — whirr, whirr — walked the dogs yesterday and didn’t ‘ave a shit bag with me — whirr, whirr. I mean, be fair, if there was anything dodgy she’s hardly going to talk about it to a bloody ‘airdresser, is she? Is that how they caught Ronnie Biggs? When his missus went to get her ‘air done, and mentioned that him and him mates were planning to stop the 6:15 Glasgow to Euston, for Christ’s sake!
There’s no escape, neither. For gettin’ on five years the buggers ‘ave been after us, all that court stuff and the problem with me ticker, then the pressure day-to-day at the club — see how we played at Stevenage and the bloody Emirates? Couldn’t ‘ave been worse if I’d started myself in midfield.Then we got done by United and all this bloody England and Chelsea stuff blows up again. I said to the missus that I needed a break when we went out for a walk on Sunday night.
That’s all it was, a stroll on the beach, and then we thought we’d grab a bite to eat on the way back. There’s a decent little Middle Eastern Restaurant, Saliman’s Bazaar, just up the road, and I’ve known the guv’nor a few years, he used to live in South London and had a Restaurant up that way when I was a kid. Always looks after us, he does.
Anyway, we had our walk and popped in. Sali came over as he always does — a beer for me and a G&T for the missus on the table before almost we’ve sat down, then we started talking, just general stuff — you know, a bit about the game, England, all the trials and ‘assles, then he said he thought I looked tired. Reckoned he could help me out.
He’s got the gift of the gab that’s for sure, plenty of Middle Eastern charm. As we kept talking he asked if I’d had any dreams. I laughed and asked him if he’d changed his bloody name to Jimmy Saville, but he looked all serious. There was this potion, a special drink he said. It could make you relax and even see back into your mind, to help you remember things that’d got all misted up in time. He even reckoned it would help me see into the future too.
Well, you know what, I reckoned I ‘ad nothing to lose. Monday off and the relaxation would be good if nuffin’ else.
Well, he went and got the stuff. Christ, it was smokin’! Smelt of spices too but ‘e assured me it was OK so I ‘ad a sip anyway. Tasted a bit of bloody Rosewater it did. Sali said, “Try to clear your mind, ‘Arry. Relax and close your eyes, then take a good drink and see where it takes you”.
I know I’ve known him years but, well, I wasn’t sure. Still, Sand was sitting there and she reckoned give it a go. So I did.
Bugger me.
Everything went black. I felt like I’d fallen right asleep, then it got misty an’ I saw myself in the old Claret and Blue. It took a few seconds to suss what was going on but then I realised where I was. August 23rd, 1965. Me ‘ammers debut. I hadn’t thought about that for years but there it was like a big film playing out — not in front of, but all around me. I was right there back in the middle of it. Fantastic. Nigh on fifty years worth of stuff ‘ad buried the memories of one of the best days of my life. Fan-bloody-tastic.
I dunno if I was sort of unconscious, but when I came round, Sand and Sali were sitting looking at me. I told ‘em what ‘ad ‘appened, and they both smiled, then Sali said, “ Harry, try once more. If you go back to 1965 again, can you bring me cod and chips twice and a pickled egg from the chip shop in Green Lane? Best batter in SE20 — although I don’t know how time travel will affect it…” I laughed, picked up the glass and drained it.
Same thing. All went black, then misty, then cleared and I was on a plane, then I was training a squad of players — in Poland we were — the Euros and I sussed I was the bloody England Manager. Pearcey was there too and we ‘ad this squad, puttin’ ‘em through their paces.
It lasted a while this time. I seen us play a couple of games, train, talking tactics and all sorts, but I saw the plane back before I’d seen any trophy or anything. Then, there I was back in the restaurant.
“Oi Sali,” I said, “‘ow come I’ve been to the Euros as England Manager, but we didn’t win — we were on the plane ‘ome early?”
“Harry” he said, shaking his head sadly, “this drink; It will bring back your deepest memories and it will bring forward your greatest dreams, but it cannot make you tell lies or do miracles. You cannot have everything your way, old friend…”
Heh. Be bloody nice for a change, wouldn’t it?
Then Harry Met Sali by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Last King Of England?
February 14, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
24th March, 2012
Reuters — The potential appointment of Harry Redknapp as Fabio Capello’s successor was thrown into fresh doubt today, in the wake of Spurs’ 2-0 Premier League defeat to Chelsea at Stamford Bridge.
Redknapp, who turned 65 earlier this month, was already under intense pressure going into the highly charged London derby, as a result of the events surrounding his side’s unceremonious exit from the FA Cup last weekend at Milwall. The on-field action was overshadowed by an angry confrontation between Redknapp and a Lions supporter in the stands, after the fan had thrown a pair of handcuffs at Redknapp. The FA, recently thought by many to have the West Londoner at the top of their wish list for England Manager, issued a strongly worded warning to the Spurs boss to “mind his future conduct”.
The shenanigans at The New Den, however, were a tempest in a teacup compared to today’s fraught encounter in West London. The main flash point involved Chelsea’s embattled captain and scorer of the home side’s second goal, John Terry, celebrating his trademark bullet header by sprinting to the touchline and pointedly grabbing his armband in front of Redknapp in ebullient fashion. This vehement gesture was widely seen as a response to an article by Redknapp, published in The Sun earlier this month. In that interview, the West Londoner was quoted to the effect that if he were to become the next England boss, Terry would definitely not be his captain, regardless of the outcome of the defender’s court case in July for alleged racial abuse of QPR’s Anton Ferdinand.
As the game wore on, Redknapp seemed affected by Terry’s act of defiance . With fellow England team-mates Gary Cahill, Ashley Cole, Daniel Sturridge, and even Redknapp’s nephew Frank Lampard, exuberantly celebrating Terry’s fronting-up winner alongside their leader, it seems that Redknapp may have accomplished the undesired feat of having split the Three Lions’ dressing room before assuming command.
Wembley Conferencing Suite 202 — May 20th, 2012
“Exhaustive? Are you sure?!”
“As exhaustive as can be, Sir. We’ve gone through the shortlist, the long list, the medium list, more lists than Harlesden Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon–”
“Ahem.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“That’s quite alright, Adrian. It’s been a long day for us all. Now, let’s go through the names one more time. Redknapp?”
“A no, Sir. Classic case of the public turning on their idol at the first sign of trouble.”
“Right. Mourinho?”
“Didn’t give a definitive no, but I’m guessing from all that cackling on the phone and the Russian voice in the background telling him to jump on the yacht that he’s leaving for somewhere more… blue.”
“Hmm, indeed. Pardew?”
“Too statsy.”
“Hodgson?”
“Eight out of ten football fans said ‘no’.”
“Robson?”
“Erm, Bryan, Sir?”
“No, Adrian, Bobby.”
“Dead, Sir”
“… Oh, yes, sorry…”
“And you’re adamant that we’re not going for Pearce?”
“Oh definitely not, Adrian. Not after that Holland business. Dear me…”
29th February, 2012
UP — Stuart Pearce effectively wrote himself out of the running to be England’s manager after a disastrous 5-1 defeat to the Dutch at a Wembley in front of a sparse crowd tonight.
Pearce had, in the build-up to the much-publicised friendly, promised to field a “fresh, dynamic” line-up with a view to several young players vying for squad places in this summer’s finals. That bold outlook was contradicted from as early as the following training session. The withdrawal of Ashley Cole from the squad due to a wallet injury, Leighton Baines’ sudden onset of homesickness, acquired from being outside the North-West for more than three days, and Kieran Gibbs finally completing his transfer from reality to mythology, resulted in Pearce naming himself on the bench for the ill-fated showdown with l’Oranje.
Despite missing deposed captain John Terry, predecessor Rio Ferdinand, and England’s latest Great White Hope, Jack Wilshere, all through injury, and Wayne Rooney omitted with a view to this summer’s matches against France and Sweden, the Three Lions made a bright start. They were rewarded with the opener five minutes in, after captain Joe Hart’s long punt up field was headed on by Sturridge for Danny Welbeck to run through and register his first international goal.
But problems arose for England at the twenty-minute mark. Micah Richards, standing in at left-back, was stretchered off the field after being decapitated in a fifty-fifty with Manchester City colleague Nigel de Jong. Pearce immediately stripped off — which, in his case, only required the removal of his bib — and despite protestations from the home fans, his bench, and Arjen Robben, the caretaker manager replaced Richards.
Despite some meaty early challenges, Pearce’s age, lack of pace and match fitness. not to mention an ill-advised rashness one would normally acquaint with a teenager taking his senior squad bow, soon caught up with him. Robben and fellow wing whippet Eljero Elia took turns roasting Psycho down Holland’s right flank. The visitors were 3-1 up by half-time, with Assistant Manager Steve Wigley looking as helpless, in the coach’s box, as he had done during his entire tenure in charge of Southampton.
Robin van Persie increased Holland’s lead in the 55th minute with an exquisite free-kick, but the punishment was far from over, as the technically inferior hosts were dispossessed cheaply time and again by their more illustrious opponents. A back four of Pearce, Cahill, Phil Jones and Kyle Walker lacked experience as a unit, and Holland continued to pick off the sorry home side with consummate ease.
The Dutch were rewarded with a fifth late on as another scintillating counter-attack was rounded off with a sumptuous Van Persie finish. Pearce capped a miserable personal night by earning a red card for an ill-timed challenge on Elia. The tackle had been unmistakably late, arriving twenty seconds after the final whistle.
The beleaguered England team traipsed off to jeers from the Wembley crowd, with one disillusioned fan brandishing a hastily scrawled placard touting ‘Usain Bolt for Olympic Team Manager’. A distraught Pearce declined to speak to the post-match press, leaving media fulfilment to his second. When quizzed as to why Arsenal wunderkind Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain remained on the bench for the duration, Wigley looked perplexed, then muttered, “Bloody hell, I forgot about him.”
Wembley Conferencing Suite 202 — 20th May, 2012
“The key, Adrian, is to understand that the public rate their gaffers in the same manner they do their Prime Ministers. The electorate inevitably hanker for the polar opposite of the incumbent, as evidenced by the succession of Thatcher, Major, Blair, Brown and Cameron, each one the perfect foil to their predecessor. So, too, it is with England managers.
“Venables was too slippery so we bring in Hoddle. Hoddle turns out to be too uppity with the players so Keegan steps in. Keegan’s tactical naivety begets Eriksson and the Swede’s liberal mores grate with proper British values, so we get McClaren. McClaren proves to be spineless, so we turn to the taciturn Capello.
“Ah, I understand, Sir. And Capello turns out to have the worst qualities of the rest, save McLaren, so–”
“Enough, Adrian! Back to the list. O’Neill?”
“Not after last time.”
“Scolari?”
“Same, and too much Chelsea baggage.”
“Ah, right. We definitely don’t want baggage. Hiddink?”
“Ditto with the baggage, Sir.”
“Yes, yes. Wenger?”
“Taking the Real Madrid job, Sir.”
“Ah, indeed he is. Funny how that Real malarkey panned out…”
19th May, 2012
Newscorp — Fabio Capello completed an incredible reversal of fortune after resigning as England Manager, capping his fourth term at the helm of AC Milan by following up a successful defence of the Scudetto with the acquisition of the club’s eighth European Cup, defeating former club Real Madrid in extra time in a captivating affair at the Allianz Arena in Munich tonight.
In a final which will be remembered as a battle of attrition, with two committed defences cancelling out a pair of star-studded attacks, former Barcelona striker Zlatan Ibrahimovic netted from a tight angle in the 100th minute to deny Jose Mourinho a record third Champions League victory with a third club. Ibra, who had previously flourished under Capello at Juventus and the Special One at Inter, led the Milan forward line admirably alongside the twin Brazilian threats, Robinho and Pato. However, the accolade of man-of-the-match was reserved for centre-back Phillipe Mexes. The French colossus thwarted several Cristiano Ronaldo-inspired sieges on the Milan goal.
The Rossoneri’s unlikely double emphatically vindicates shy and retired club owner Silvio Berlusconi’s decision to sack previous coach Massimilliano Allegri on the eve of Milan’s last-16 encounter with Arsenal, in February. At the time, the San Siro outfit were four points adrift of Juventus in the Serie A, and had just suffered a Coppa Italia defeat at the hands of the Turin club. On receiving the famous European Cup trophy for a second time in his decorated career, Capello paid special thanks to the former Italian Prime Minister, praising him as a man of “high integrity and solid judgement.”
A defeated, but not humbled, Mourinho was adamant that the best team had lost and all but confirmed that he would be leaving Madrid for Chelsea the next day, suggesting that André Villas-Boas “clear his desk in the morning.”
Capello, who also called time on his time as AC Milan manager, tonight, announcing his intention to retire on top, refused to be drawn on the refusal of every one of his Champions League managerial opponents to consider the England job.
Last-16 adversary Arsene Wenger has already completed a move to the Santiago Bernabeu, Mourinho appears set for a return to Chelsea, unseating Capello’s quarter-final victim, Villas-Boas, who was briefly considered by the FA when Chelsea overtook the beleaguered Harry Redknapp’s Tottenham in the Premier League, and remained in the trophy hunt on three fronts going well into March. However, like Caesar, AVB’s senate of veteran players turned on their leader, each taking a turn to twist the knife. Without their confidence, the young Portuguese is headed for Anzhi Machakhkala, rather than Wembley. Finally, Pep Guardiola, the guru of slain semi-finalists Barcelona, has found a fresh, if familiar, challenge, in exchanging positions with Wenger, and taking up the reins at the Emirates.
When asked about his possible role in dissuading the four front-runners from taking the poisoned chalice, Capello simply smiled at the reporter and replied, “Wait till my book comes out.”
Wembley Conferencing Suite 202 — May 20th, 2012
“So what exactly was wrong with Fabio then, Sir?”
“That’s the problem, Adrian, no-one can exactly put their finger on it. Great CV, competent across the continent with many big clubs, and still is as yesterday proved. Came here, did the business in qualifying. South Africa was a mess, granted, but the players did not exactly cover themselves in glory. Stuck with him and again, sailed through qualifying, whereupon another player indiscretion disrupts his careful planning. That said, he was belligerent, a hard task-master, and at times used the language barrier as a smokescreen.
“The new man should move away from that. Be firm but understanding, be able to mislead rather than avoid press and players alike, and be a likeable and personable character free from controv –wait a second… By George, I’ve got it! I should do it!”
“Erm, sorry. Do what, Sir?”
“I should be the next manager! I tick all the boxes, I’m English, well-spoken, morally irreproachable, authoritative but engaging, well-respected by everyone in the game… It’ a perfect fit!”
“But Sir I–”
“Oh come on Adrian! The Norway game is just over a week away and we need a confirmed name for the media by tomorrow morning or they’ll crucify us! We’ve gone through the blasted list Lord knows how many times, everyone on it won’t come near us with a gas mask and a ten-foot pole. Those not on the list would never pass muster, ergo it falls upon me to step into the void and be Saviour of England.”
“You Sir? Are you sure? Sir Trevor?”
“Yes, Adrian, me. Sir Trevor Brooking. Next England manager.”
The Last King Of England by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
UEFA Lonely Hearts Club
January 19, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
Have you seen the new personal ads UEFA is debuting on their website to attract the casual fan?
Hoops Hopester
Wealthy West Londoner of Polynesian descent seeks experienced, well-travelled man, preferably with international experience and knowledge of the local area. Must be good with finances and share high ambitions. Understated with a nice line in suits a definite turn-on, as well as a welcome change.
This Black Cat Brings Good Luck!
Wearsider seeking a change in identity WLTM confident, inspirational Irishman, preferably with deep-rooted links to the area from childhood. Must enjoy regular trips to the continent, and be motivated, energetic and sufficiently patient to deal with youngsters. Preferably no strings attached or links to rival areas.
Twente Questions
Quiet yet self-made Dutch success story seeks to get back together with hard-working Northerner to reignite past romance. Failed trysts elsewhere are not an impediment. Please come home and we promise not to take the pish with the accent.
Champs Of The Elysees?
Parisian scenester with designs on global success seeks urbane Italian with a mutual desire for fun and the finer things in life. Linguistic and cultural knowledge a definite advantage. Expect to enjoy vibrant weekend evenings in the Parc and exclusive shopping trips to all the best markets: London, Munich, Manchester, and especially Milan. All interested be warned, however: keep your Viagra prescription current, letdowns are a dealbreaker.
Looking For Tax Help?
Board of nationwide firm looking to converse with outspoken Londoner with a view to a possible long-term relationship. Turned off by experiments with dour Europeans and looking to rediscover our youth. Heavy local travel required but performance will be rewarded with the occasional international junket. Heart set on an eventful summer trip to Brazil in 2014. Currently in the process of an amicable divorce from an Italian, but ready to talk now, if you are. Please.
UEFA Lonely Hearts Club by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at strangebounce.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://strangebounce.com/2012/01/19/uefa-lonely-hearts-club/.
Alfie’s Big Ban
January 4, 2012
by Jude Ellery
Mr Sanchez returned home from work, kicked off his shoes and slouched into his armchair. His peace was short-lived, however. The soft sound of sobbing interrupted his browse through the day’s news, and he went upstairs to investigate.
“What’s wrong, son?”
Alfie was in bed, the covers pulled tightly over his little convulsing body. He gasped for breath as he tried to explain to his father.
“It’s no fair, Papa! We won the game today but I got a red. Now they’re saying I won’t be allowed to play in any more cup games because ‘violence simply isn’t tolerated in the County Cup’. It’s no fair!”
He burst into tears again and his father hugged him tight, feeling his son’s pain.
“What happened?”
“It’s ridiculous, Papa. Our P.E. teacher, Mr Watt, he was referee. He blew for a foul as I cleared the ball, then as they were making a substitution, one of their players went over to him with a bleeding nose. He said I’d done it, that I’d kicked the ball at his face on purpose, and Mr Watt believed him and sent me off. Now I’m banned.”
He broke down again. Mr Sanchez’s compassion evolved into anger.
“They can’t do that! They’re obviously making an example of you, son. Who better to use to preach their hypocritical morals than the boy with the Spanish name, no? I’m writing a letter. If they don’t let you play all the way to the final they can forget about the disco lights for the end of term do!”
Alfie stopped crying. He wiped his face and grinned at his hero.
An hour later Mr Sanchez was finished. He’d painstakingly written out the letter on his computer, slowly typing it with his right index finger, and even using the dictionary to ensure he got the spelling of every word correct. Alfie came downstairs.
“It’s all sorted, son. I’ve explained that you’re not a violent boy. You never argue with your brother, you take great care of your guinea pigs, you’ve never been in a fight, and anyway, he can’t ban you on the word of some boy from another school. Oh and I also mentioned how you’re a good Christian boy, and your grandfather was a vicar, for Christ’s sake!”
Alfie beamed at his father.
“Thanks, Papa. You always stick up for me.”
“It’s what I’m here for, son.”
“There’s just one thing, Papa, something that happened after the game that might make your letter sound… silly.”
Mr Sanchez frowned. “What?”
“Well… I admitted to Mr Watt that I done it.”
