Up Pompeyus! Part Two., a short story by T.N.Roman. Times viewed: 212
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- Intro: In Hyperus-Bowlus, Booty-ball is the game on everyone's lips and The Bumper Pay-Day League is the premier national competition. Up Pompeyus! follows the trials and tribulations of a beleaguered manager as he strives to save his traumatised club from the very real threat of relegation. (Football Parody)
Up Pompeyus! Part Two.
Football parody / fiction. Please leave feedback (even if it's bad. I can't improve without you :))
The following story is a piece of complete fiction. Any resemblance to people (dead or living), organisations or places is completely coincidental and un-intended.
Pompeyus BC was a smaller club than The Bumper Pay-Day League normally boasted and it was often whispered in the mighty halls of The Blatantly Obvious Show of Favouritism & Memory Lapses (the governing body of the league) that this quaint and polite sea-side club was not wholly welcome amongst the elite. Despite this adversity, Pompeyus BC had enjoyed relative success in the immediate years before our story began and, under the stewardship of Old ‘Arry Wheeler, they had performed heroics and brought domestic cup success to the club. It was unusual for a team of their stature to even dare challenge the higher order of the game - but they had and, against all odds, ‘Old Arry Wheeler had led his less than fancied charges to a momentous and famous victory against the Devilish Bend-O-Rules (with the help of a warehouse full of energy drinks to help his players through the mammoth two and a half days of injury time, ahem!) David had slain Goliath, and Old' Arry would take his place in national folklore alongside the wizards, midgets, warriors, grumpy old dwarf, strange folk with pointy ears and other such luminaries who had once saved the world from entering into ‘holy matrimony' with a great and ever-so-evil madman. The mother-star had told everyone of his plans for world domination but, suckered in by his dark hair and charming smile, we didn't listen to her. Luckily for us, the aforementioned band of merry heroes took it upon themselves to steal the one wedding ring and sell it a pawn shop - thank god they did, I dread to think what mess this world might be in if an evil overlord had rule over us! Manner-less youths, granny-bashers, cop-killers, perhaps even raging world wars over trivial things dressed up as inhumane activities? Yes, praise be to those brave heroes for saving us from such a terrible fate.
Now, Old ‘Arry was a likeable character and joked with media and spectators whenever he could. ‘If I hadn't been a Booty-ball manager I would been a court-jester.' he once admitted in an interview. It was easy to assume that he would have been a success at that too! Yet, he did have a darker side. ‘My way, or the highway.' was his motto - often muttered under breath and off-camera, so as not to distract from the jolly persona that had endeared him to almost everyone who was interested in the sport. On top of this, he also had a strange habit (an insistence, perhaps) on buying expensive high profile players to warm the benches of the dugout - surely it would have made more financial sense to just install under-bum heating? Or work on a Plan B that might, just maybe, include the odd expensively acquired substitute? But, despite these oddities, he got results and, in a business that depended wholly on results, he was a rare commodity.Skulduggery of Highest Orderous.
Skulduggery of Highest Orderous is the current owner of Pompeyus Booty-ball Club. Strangely, he believes he owns everything to do with Pompeyus - including the town and its everyday folk. He thinks his players are slaves and often calls for them to miss training in order to work at his palace. The team is his play-thing, not his passion and he is viewed as nothing more than a deluded rich-boy by those outside his circle of ‘yes' men.
‘I want to hold it and hug it and kiss it before bedtime.' was his rather strange reply to a question posed by a reporter from The Stirrers of Pig Muck, the national rag that covered all things to do with Booty-ball, during his first-ever press conference.
‘Booty-ball? What is that? I thought I bought a shopping mall.' was his answer to the reporter's second question. ‘You must be very proud to own a top-flight Booty-ball club?'
Needless to say, he did not enamour himself to the club's spectators during this well publicised introduction.Grantius Ramva.
The hapless manager of the Pompeyus team who has to run the club amidst a whirlpool of contradictions, deceit and skulduggery.
Fed-up and angry at another terrible decision by the owner of the club, Grantius once confided in an undercover reporter (posing as his best friend and closest ally, Tellus Astoryus), ‘When all you want to do is the job you were employed to do, it is exceedingly frustrating that the man who employs you to look after his best interests does everything in his power to ‘tie-your-hands-behind-your-back.''
Tellus would have agreed with such sentiments had he actually been present during their conversation (after all, Tellus was the club's long standing chief-executive and wanted nothing but good for the club and always tried his hardest to help Grantius achieve success in the face of adversity - ironically, most of the adversity they would face would come from their own boss) but he wasn't present when Grantius made his comments and had to make do with reading his friends admission in The Stirrers of Pig Muck, the following day. As usual, and wholly expected, the national rag announced this rather private admission to the world using the hyper-bowl and propaganda that they had become well known for and the beleaguered manager's quite innocent opinion was now scandalised in a manner more worthy of a serial-killer at large. Tellus immediately rang Grantius and offered his support for the rocky-road-ahead, should the club's owner take offence at the remarks. They needn't have worried as Skulduggery of Highest Orderous was busy planning his own lavish up-coming birthday party and had no time to read the morning's paper, leaving Grantius free to plan the tactics and team selection for the club's upcoming fixture.
It was hard work at this club but Grantius hadn't always had it so bad. Not so long ago, he had been employed as the manager of the up-market and mega-rich Chelskians, and had enjoyed some success in his time there - finishing runner-up in The Bumper Pay-Day League and leading the team to within a whisker of victory against the Devilish Bend-O-Rules in the final battle of the European Nations. It was a harsh defeat, their heads rolling at the final hurdle but Grantius remained gracious in defeat (as he always was) and promoted it as a ‘success of sorts' in his post-match interview. This ‘success' shoved him into the limelight and he was rightly lauded by his fellow professionals and media-alike. After all, it wasn't every day one guided a team to a major final and he took comfort in the knowledge that most teams fell on their sword when confronted by Old Man Whiskey Nose and the Devilish Bend-O-Rules - it was rule-of-thumb that one would have to stay awake all night (as opposed to waking at the crack of dawn) if they wanted to get one over this wily-old-fox and even then failure was the most likely outcome. However, such is the cut-throat and fickle nature of professional Booty-ball that Grantius still, somehow, faced the axe. Romantius Much Moneyus, the very wealthy owner of the Chelskians, did not take kindly to his expensively assembled and pampered squad finishing a mere second place, and quite childishly threw his dummy out of his pram. The morning after Chelskians defeat in the European Nations, Romantius summoned Grantius to his private county and handed him his p45.
Despite this setback, Grantius was seen as ‘hot property' and his friendly, comforting managerial style had won him many admirers. Indeed, his handling of the Drogma - the star striker at Chelskians, proved his expertise in man-management. Drogma was one of the last remaining believers of the old and mostly forgotten religions that were once rampant throughout the cultures of the world - in the times before home-computers, wireless music players and hover-boards. And, when almost everyone around him had converted to the faith of the micro-chip, he kept well away and continued to go about his business in the traditional ways of the ancestors. It seemed to work well for him too - his skills and timely interventions in matches often seemed to be of the ‘divine' nature he often spouted on about and refused to forget. In fact, he championed his beliefs and swore that his brilliance was derived from upon high. But even those of his ilk could lose their way and suffer from depression that resulted in loss of form, and it was only last season that he succumbed to such depths himself. In his time of need - when spectators, media and opposition players goaded him for his dramatic and sudden loss of ability, it was Grantius who placed a comforting arm around his bulky shoulders and helped him recover his mind and midis touch in front of goal. But Grantius wasn't always so kind to his players and, though not recognized for his disciplinary approach, he had been known to lay down the law on a few, very rare occasions - none more famous than when he told Terrius Misdemeanourous to, ‘Put that thing back where it came from or so help me...' when introducing his former captain to his wife, Very-Fit If-A-Little-Eccentric Ravma. Again, it was a move that proved to be a masterstroke as Terrius knuckled down and threatened to fulfil the amazing potential that was often stifled by his own fancy-free attitude to life. By the end of the season, he had performed so well that the manager of the Hyberus-Bowlus national team had handed him the captain's armband and he thrived in this new capacity.
Now, back at Pompeyus BC, Old ‘Arry Wheeler was proving a hard man to follow (and rightly so) and Grantius would have his work cut out to return the glory days of his predecessor. Especially, as Old ‘Arry had left very big boots to fill (a whopping size 14, in fact) and had taken half the Pompeyus BC team with him when he took over the reigns at his new club. Gone were the mercurial talents of Croaticus and the prolific teeny-weenie/super-sized attacking combination of Jergnome Defoeus And Peter ‘I was born in a bag of miracle grow, would you believe?' Beanstalkus, whose combined skills and flare once set the Pompeyus Arena ablaze.
Grantius sat in his office and reminisced about the day he finally won the battle to take his place in the Pompeyus hot-seat...
‘I am decidedly richer than any of you.' Skulduggery of Highest Orderous declared in his usual bullish manner. ‘That is why I own this place and you are sat before me asking for a job.'
‘That is true, Skulduggery.' Grantius answered politely. He couldn't really deny the truth behind Skulduggery's scoffing - he was very, very rich and Grantius had been out-of-work for six months and had been living off his wife's income over the last couple of weeks.
‘You have a fine C.V. Grantius. I think you could do a wonderful job with my men.' Skulduggery acknowledged. ‘I will offer you the route back into high-profile Booty-ball management that you crave. Do you accept the challenge?'
‘Of course. Thank you. I will not let you down.' Grantius replied as he held out his honest hand to seal the agreement.
They shook hands and dreamt of the good times that lay ahead.
‘Time to meet the players then.' he thought. ‘Introduce myself and gee them up.'
‘Relegation is not an option.' Grantius he told his new charges when he met them for the first time. But it was a distinct possibility and, if truth be told, even he found it difficult to foresee a successful ending to the season in light of the intense media predictions that suggested they would indeed suffer such a dreaded fate. But, if he couldn't turn up to work in bullish manner, then who would? It was well documented that the public face of The Bumper Pay-Day League organisation had once replied, ‘Parachute payment? Get off that cliff before I push you off!' to a smaller club in need of help, when relegated from the division, and Grantius did not want to be knelt in front of this public face begging for mercy at the end of the season.
But 14 defeats and numerous kicks to his gonads later, relegation stared the club directly in the face and had already poked them in the eyes on three occasions. Grantius began to think he had taken over a poisoned chalice, but his saving grace was surely just around the corner? It was almost January - the time of the transfer merry-go-round and he looked forward to jumping aboard, buckling his seatbelt and splashing the cash on an array of world-beaters who could inject new vigour into his heavily depleted squad.To be continued...
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