He considered what to write. Over the years he had said just about everything there was to say about Frogley Town and finding something new to say wasn't getting any easier. There were only so many ways you could say crap. And they would be crap again this season, as sure as God made little green apples. They had already convincingly lost their opening three pre-season friendlies, and the most recent of them to a team that had finished only mid-table in the Unibond League the previous season.
Recalling this a headline immediately suggested itself to Sneed. 'Unibond Team Paste Frogley'. He filed it in his mind under 'Sarcastic Puns' for possible future use.
He began to type. 'As the start of another football season fast approaches, what fate awaits our local team, Frogley Town? Sadly this column has seen no evidence to suggest there will be anything ahead of them other than the usual uphill struggle for survival. When I last spoke to manager Donny Donnelly he remarked that all his players were treated the same, that there were no 'stars' in his team. This column will not argue with that summation, because, and staying with the analogy of comparing footballers to celestial bodies, the nearest thing to a star the Town have would be an extremely modest-sized burnt out asteroid.' He paused for a moment, smiling to himself. ‘Extremely modest-sized burnt out asteroid’. Good, that; worthy of Fleet Street itself.
At the thought of Fleet Street Sneed’s mind began to wander. It was really the place where he belonged. With the big boys. And he would have been there too if there had been any justice in the world. He was as good as any of them. Better than most. But they'd rejected him. All of them. The Mail, the Mirror, the Sun, the Star, even the Sport for Christ’s sake. Not out of hand of course, well except for the Telegraph. They'd all interviewed him, listened to his views, read the portfolio of articles he'd written over the years for the Advertiser and other provincial newspapers on which he’d worked, and all of them had been complimentary about his work. The Sport had been particularly enthusiastic. Especially about his article on the gymnast who had been abducted by aliens from Mars and nine months later had given birth to a slightly green baby midway through an exercise on the beam. (In fact this had been a fictional rent money article he’d written for 'Strange Tales' magazine but the people at the Sport had thought it was a hard news story and Sneed hadn’t been about to advise them otherwise.)
The Sport had also enthused about his end of column filler about the Championship goalkeeper who kept having wet dreams every night and couldn't keep clean sheets. But when it came to the crunch they wouldn’t give him the break he deserved and nor would any of the others. ‘Very good, excellent in fact, but not quite our style.' was one of the things they'd said to sweeten the pill. 'I feel sure that your undoubted talents will quickly be taken on board by another newspaper.' was another. And other lame excuses in similar vein. But they didn't make the pill any less bitter. Well bollocks to them, it was their loss.
He turned his attention to his article. However his reflections on how he had been shunned by Fleet Street had soured his mood, all thoughts of going easy on the Town had disappeared, and as he started to type the usual invective he employed when writing about Frogley Town had returned.
*
When Clarence Shufflebottom decided what he wanted to do with his life he changed his name to Dave Rave by deed poll, reasoning that people might make fun of a television presenter with the name of Clarence Shufflebottom. The fact that a large proportion of the viewing public make fun of television presenters anyway, regardless of their name, and that the sorry attempts in the art of television presenting by the likes of Jamie Theakston, Steve Penk, Keith Chegwin and others too numerous and trite to mention, have probably been responsible for more laughs than the combined efforts of the Goon Show and Monty Python's Flying Circus, had never crossed Dave's mind.
Dave was doing very well for himself, thank you very much. At the age of only twenty two he was Frogley Radio's number one presenter, and had a business card that said so - 'Dave Rave - Frogley Radio's Number One Presenter', the card proudly proclaimed in italic gold lettering. That he was Frogley Radio's only presenter, in addition to being Frogley Radio's newsreader, football commentator, disc jockey, advertising space seller, switchboard operator, host of 'Friday Feng Shui Phone-in with Mr Wong', odd job man and lavatory cleaner, was something Dave chose to ignore when it came to the matter of promoting himself.
In any case it was only a matter of time before he’d make Frogley Radio so popular that the station’s owners would be able to afford to employ other people to perform the tasks that currently came within his domain; although he thought he might hang onto the lavatory cleaning as he always had his best ideas when he was on the lavatory, and he would still be able to commandeer it for thinking purposes whenever he needed it on the grounds that he was cleaning it.
But by then he would probably be off anyway. Snapped up by Greater Manchester Radio or Radio Leeds, or even, dare he say it, Radio One. Then, after conquering that, television!
He would probably have to do Children's TV first like they all did, even Noel Edmonds had to start on that, but very soon after would come fronting quiz shows and compilations and after that the ultimate....hosting the Brit Awards! He scarcely dared think about it. But why shouldn't he think about it? He was certainly good enough, talented enough. It was bound to happen one day. Bound to. It was written. He’d written it, on a piece of lavatory paper one day when he was between ideas.
For the time being though he was on his way to the Frogley Mental Hospital. Some of his biggest fans were incarcerated there and he was short of a few interviews he needed for the piece on Rock and Roll Legends he was doing on his daily 'The Dave Rave Show'
*
As Joe Price's form of dress had remained unchanged for over fifty years so had the decor and accoutrements of his office. Not a single concession had been made to the twenty-first century, or the second half of the twentieth century for that matter. Even the large black Bakelite telephone on Price's desk was the same telephone that had been there when he took over the office from his father over four decades earlier.
Price liked his office the way it was, so why alter it? He could only replace the walnut wall panelling with some other walnut panelling, because you couldn't get anything better than walnut panelling to line your office walls with, so why bother? And why change his desk? Would another desk be any more impressive than the six feet by four feet solid mahogany, Moroccan leather-topped desk at which he was now sitting, awaiting the arrival of Stanley Sutton? Price doubted it very much.
The Wilton carpet had been changed in 1989, but only for another Wilton carpet in exactly the same design. The man from Batt's, Frogley's leading purveyor of carpets and soft furnishings, had tried to talk Price into a different, harder wearing carpet, a 'more suitable for office use' carpet, as he had put it, but Price would have none of it. The Wilton about to be replaced had lasted for over thirty years and that was hard enough wearing for Joe Price. Besides, when he had people on the carpet he wanted them to be aware they were on a proper carpet, a gradely carpet, a Wilton carpet, not some over-priced rubbishy synthetic job.
There was a tap on the door and Price's secretary Miss Pimlott, spinster of this parish, stepped inside. “Stanley Sutton to see you, Mr Price”, she announced.
Price looked up from the proposed plans of a new factory he was thinking of building in Scotland, a country he had convinced himself was starved of decent meat and potato pies - or why the hell else would they eat haggis?
“Well show him in woman, show him in,” Price growled, “Let t' dog see t' rabbit.”
On the other side of the door, Stanley, hearing Price's words, had no doubt who was the dog and who was the rabbit. Miss Pimlott turned to him and snapped. “Take your cap off then!”
Stanley snatched his cap off as though it were on fire, made to tuck it under his arm, then changed his mind and decided to keep hold of it for wringing purposes. Miss Pimlott gestured impatiently to him to enter. He
waited for a moment, took a deep breath, then shuffled slowly past her and into Price's office. A man leaving the comparative comfort of the condemned cell for the hanging chamber could hardly have entered with less trepidation. Barely across the threshold he stopped, licking his dry lips.
Price beckoned him and said, “Well get over here, mon. Jump to it.”
Stanley almost ran to Price's desk, stumbling and almost falling in his rush to get there. Price looked him up and down. “So tha'rt Stanley Sutton?”
“Aye. Sorry, Mr Price. Don't give me t' sack, please. T' Town would never be able to manage if I lost me job.”
“Oh? And why might that be?”
The words rushed out in a torrent. “Well it takes most of me wages to have t' Development Fund Prize Draw tickets printed and if there were no Development Fund Prize Draw tickets I wouldn't be able to go out selling 'em and then there wouldn't be enough money to pay t' players Mr Price, sir.”
Price considered Stanley’s outpourings for a moment then got to his feet: then, adopting his policy of always making visitors to his office sweat a bit, he hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, went to the window and looked out. When he had considered that Stanley had sweated for long enough, Price turned to him. “Tha'rt Chairman of t' football club supporters club, they tell me?”
“They're my whole life, t' Town, Mr Price.”
Price raised an eyebrow. “Are they now?”
Stanley panicked. The last thing he wanted was for Price to think that he put the Town before his job at Price's Pies. “But I'll stop supporting them if tha says so, Mr Price. Just say t' word, Mr Price. I'll....”
Price cut him off short. “Stop grovelling, Sutton.”
Stanley clammed up immediately and held his breath. Price went to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a postcard-size sepia-coloured photograph. He looked at it for a moment then turned to Stanley and regarded him as a Master of Hounds might look at an unruly hound.
Stanley shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unsure of what was expected of him. He said, “Shall I carry on grovelling now, Mr Price?”
Price ignored his words. “This afternoon, Sutton, I am going to buy Frogley Town Football Club,” he proclaimed.
Stanley was utterly gobsmacked. “Buy t' Town, Mr Price?”
“I've only ever had two ambitions in my life, Sutton,” Price went on. “One was to be t' biggest and t' best pie manufacturer in t' country; and I achieved that long since. T' other is to own my hometown football club. Well now I'm going to. Now as I've time to run a football club t' way as a football club should be run. Let me tell thee summat, Sutton, and for nothing. It’s this. I don't intend to rest until I've taken Frogley Town right to top of t' Premiership.”
Stanley hugged himself in pure joy. “Oooh, Mr Price!”
Price offered the photograph to Stanley. “Look at this see.”
Stanley took the photograph off Price and glanced at it. If hearts really do skip beats Stanley's heart now skipped one, maybe two, for it was a photograph of the Frogley Town football team of 1935, the year they won the FA Cup. To a man, the players on the photograph had close-shaven heads, save for a fringe at the front, and droopy moustaches. Their baggy shorts were way past their knees, their shirts were the round necked lace-up style that were in vogue at that time.
“It's a photo of t' Town in 1935 Mr Price; when Billy Fentonbottom were centre forrard,” said Stanley, in awe.
“Aye, 1935,” said Price. “A very significant year that, Sutton. Frogley won t' FA Cup and my father opened t' very first Price's Pie factory. A pie factory as is still going strong to this day, using t' same ingredients and meat pie making methods as it did in 1935.” He looked keenly at Stanley. “Any idea what I'm getting at, Sutton?”
Stanley thought for a moment. “No, sorry Mr Price.”
“Old fashioned values, Sutton. What were good enough in 1935 is good enough in 2006. Nay, better. Because since 1935 I could name thee a dozen pie makers as has gone bust, what with their new-fangled methods, while Price's Pies is a strong as what it ever were. And I reckon as what holds for pie making holds for football team making. Now does tha see what I'm getting at?”
A terrible thought struck Stanley. “Tha'rt not going to make t' players into meat pies, are tha Mr Price?”
“I am going to turn 'em into t' finest team in t' land, Sutton! And as President of t' Supporters Club I'll be looking to thee to get me some new supporters.”
Stanley hadn't felt so happy since the last time one of the Town's players had scored a hat trick back in 1978. “Thee just try and stop me, Mr Price.”
“And when tha gets these new supporters tha can tell them from Joe Price that when they come to see t' Town play they'll be in for a bit of an eye-oppener!”
*
Six department store mannequins were lined up in the Frogley Police HQ yard. They had been dressed up as Frogley Town football supporters, and wore scarves, hats in club colours, and Frogley Town football shirts with players' names on the back. Watched by Superintendent Screwer, Sergeant Hawks at his side, six police constables armed with truncheons were laying into the 'supporters' with some gusto. Already two of the supporters had lost arms and a third had only half a head left. Screwer, however, was far from happy with the performance of his underlings and after watching for a moment or two more impatience got the better off him and he stepped forward and snatched the truncheon off the nearest constable.
“Don't namby pamby them, Balfour,” he barked. “Get stuck in! Like this see!”
Screwer laid into Constable Balfour's supporter, raining terrible blows on its head with the truncheon. Then he stopped for a moment, glared at it malevolently, and fetched it one in the groin with the business end of the truncheon. Then he kicked it in the same place. It fell over. He kicked it round the yard for a minute. Finally he jumped on its head a couple of times with his size twelves.
Watching his superior officer, Hawks cringed. He looked at the six constables, all of who had been watching Screwer, transfixed, mouths hanging open. Hawks had seen awe on the faces of people lots of times. And fear. But he had never seen it as plainly and of such a magnitude as he now saw it on the faces of his compatriots.
CHAPTER THREE
“Pass the mogadon would you, I’m on the air in two minutes” - Gary Lineker.
The buying of Frogley Town by Joe Price meant different things to different people.
To Stanley Sutton it meant everything. His football team were rarely far from Stanley’s thoughts but since Joe Price had informed him of his intentions to buy his beloved club he had thought of nothing else. And what thoughts! They could win the league this year and gain promotion to the Coca-Cola League One. Then once they were in League One it was only one step away from the Championship. Then after the Championship the Premiership itself! And that was where they were headed, he was quite certain, no doubt about it, Mr Price had said so, and if Mr Price said something was going to happen it happened.
Stanley had seen evidence of the will power of Joe Price too many times to doubt the resolve of his employer. Perhaps the most memorable example was in 1973 when two weeks of torrential rain had caused the River Frog to break its banks and flood Price's Pies factory to a depth of six feet. Most independent observers had held the opinion that it would be the end of Joe Price; and not without good reason, as the damage to the buildings, the pie-making machines, and especially the ovens, had been of monumental proportions. Not a bit of it! When the last of the flood water had been pumped out of the cellars Price mortgaged his home, Pie Towers, mortgaged his cottage in the Derbyshire Dales, mortgaged the three rows of terraced houses that he owned and rented out to his workers, sold his Rolls-Royce, then rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to coax, beg, cajole, bully, threaten with violence, and do whatever else was necessary to encourage engineers into mending the machinery, builders into repairing the fabric of the buildings, and his staff into performing mopping-up operations and drying out the ovens. T
he factory was back in full production three weeks later and two years on Price had repaid the mortgages on his properties in full and was riding around in the latest Rolls Royce Silver Shadow.
No, Stanley didn't doubt where the Town was headed for one moment. And he had his part to play in this wonderful, wonderful thing that was about to happen! To encourage the townsfolk of Frogley to come along and support the Town. What more could a man ask for? And he would see to it they did, by heck would he!
*
To Stanley's dog Fentonbottom, although that unfortunate cur wasn't yet aware of it, it meant a new dye job in the Town’s colours. Originally Stanley was going to leave it for this year on the grounds that it wasn't too bad, and anyway last year Fentonbottom had nipped him painfully when he’d lifted its red and yellow tail and tried to dye its testicles green, and he didn't want to risk a similar occurrence. However now that the Town was on its way to the Premiership there was no way that Stanley was going to allow Fentonbottom's livery to be in anything less than pristine condition in readiness for the coming season.
*
To the previous directors of the club it meant they would never see the Town play again, leastwise not at home. For the simple reason that one of Price’s first moves on adopting ownership of the club was to ban them from the Offal Road Stadium for life.
When he had first made the offer to buy the club Price had made it very clear that he was interested in buying it in its entirety, or not at all, which meant that the incumbent directors had been forced to sell him every last share they owned. The deal done, and with them now having no financial ties to the club, Price viewed them as deadwood, and as he had always been a firm believer in the doctrine of a new broom sweeping clean had proceeded to sweep them right out of the club. Consequently Grant Fielding now had more time to run his three butchers shops, Henry Heyworth could concentrate his mind fully on his printing business, and James Liversedge could take more interest in the firm of Liversedge and Sons, Funeral Directors (much to the disappointment of Sons, who in their father's frequent absences on club business had been running a nice little sideline hiring out one of the hearses to a prostitute who specialized in catering for clients with unconventional sexual preferences).
Football Crazy Page 4