Theverdict1
Well-known member
Picture the scene.
Fuck all is happening, as fuck all ever does, but today even less than Fuck all, is the order of the day.
Tea cups lie strewn across a table weighed down heavily, with zero expectation. Jimmy, head phoner upper to clubs who have players that haven’t kicked a baw since playing for the School, is deep in thought.
Haggis or black pudding from Toby’s chippy?
So far today he has compiled a list of players we will never buy, it passes the time.
Out of nowhere, Lawell appears and immediately starts switching off lights and counting the teabags left in the caddy.
“I only bought these in July, 2008, and it was a two for one deal, calm the fuck doon with the tea lads. Any news back from clubs willing to sell players for shrapnel?”
Of course there wasn’t, the rooms occupants, all on minimum wage recruited from Poundland, look nervously at their shoes.
Just the news in that yon guy we were never going to buy, has went elsewhere. Jimmy mumbles.
That’s the number up to 57, but, we haven’t heard back from at least 30 others who I read on a rumours page and gave them a bell.
What did they say, Peter enquiried.
Mostly, that don’t phone unless you are willing to spend money.
Bastards. Peter moves to the table and starts counting how many jammy dodgers are still in the packet. He casts an eye on worried faces for the tell tale give away of crumbs stuck to beards.
In the hallway the sound of a commotion builds and the door bursts open. Standing there is a man who looks as if he’s just seen a ghost.
That mob have accepted our offer to take Burke on loan. But we have to pay £20k a week toward his wages.
A loud shriek erupts in the room and Peter is helped into a chair.
I never thought they would agree. I never thought they would agree. He steadied himself, wiped a hanky over his sweaty top lip and moved shakily to the door. As he leaves, jimmy noticed he put the Jammy dodger packet in his pocket, on top of the loose tea bags he lifted from the caddy.
It was going to be a long day.
More later.
Fuck all is happening, as fuck all ever does, but today even less than Fuck all, is the order of the day.
Tea cups lie strewn across a table weighed down heavily, with zero expectation. Jimmy, head phoner upper to clubs who have players that haven’t kicked a baw since playing for the School, is deep in thought.
Haggis or black pudding from Toby’s chippy?
So far today he has compiled a list of players we will never buy, it passes the time.
Out of nowhere, Lawell appears and immediately starts switching off lights and counting the teabags left in the caddy.
“I only bought these in July, 2008, and it was a two for one deal, calm the fuck doon with the tea lads. Any news back from clubs willing to sell players for shrapnel?”
Of course there wasn’t, the rooms occupants, all on minimum wage recruited from Poundland, look nervously at their shoes.
Just the news in that yon guy we were never going to buy, has went elsewhere. Jimmy mumbles.
That’s the number up to 57, but, we haven’t heard back from at least 30 others who I read on a rumours page and gave them a bell.
What did they say, Peter enquiried.
Mostly, that don’t phone unless you are willing to spend money.
Bastards. Peter moves to the table and starts counting how many jammy dodgers are still in the packet. He casts an eye on worried faces for the tell tale give away of crumbs stuck to beards.
In the hallway the sound of a commotion builds and the door bursts open. Standing there is a man who looks as if he’s just seen a ghost.
That mob have accepted our offer to take Burke on loan. But we have to pay £20k a week toward his wages.
A loud shriek erupts in the room and Peter is helped into a chair.
I never thought they would agree. I never thought they would agree. He steadied himself, wiped a hanky over his sweaty top lip and moved shakily to the door. As he leaves, jimmy noticed he put the Jammy dodger packet in his pocket, on top of the loose tea bags he lifted from the caddy.
It was going to be a long day.
More later.
