Back Contents Next
Chapter 4 - We Are The World

Dave Tosser was on a roll. Last week he'd broken the story that LTFC was to be sold, this week he smelled blood. His employer, the Luton on Saturday, loved Dave. No story was too smutty nor too seedy for Dave to poke his little rat-like features into. Actually he was damn good at his job, and could smell a good story from miles away. He was wasted at the LoS, but his days on the Nationals had long gone.
"I'll never leave Fleet Street", he'd declared to his Editor at the Daily Slag, circa 1992. So the Daily Slag upped and left to their shiny new offices at Canary Wharf. Dave was notified at home by fax that he could, in fact, stay in Fleet Street, and by the way, here's your P45. He'd gone back to his old haunts a couple of years later, but the place was unrecongnisable. The Punch, The Printers, The Tipperary. All full of lawyers and investment bankers. Wankers the lot of 'em. If I was dead, thought Dave, I'd be spinning in me grave. So he got a job on a Local, biding time till he could retire. He was 54 years old.

The fax finished and the machine bleeped. Newbury-Bypass picked the paper from the tray. The fax was from a company called Pro Football Jamaica Ltd. It read:

"Dear Sir/Madam

I would like to formally apply for the position of first team manager at Luton Town FC.

I think my recored speaks for itself, and I feel confident that I could take the club to new heights.

Yours sincerely,

Terry Fenchurch."

Newbury-Bypass shook her head. Another nutter, chancing his arm. John and Mitch were safe as manager and coach. Everyone knew that. The club was on the up for the first time in years, and no one would be stupid enough to rock the boat at this stage.
The phone rang.
"Hello, Sherry Newbury-Bypass"
"Err, hello. My name is, err, John Smith, and err, I have recently bought the club."
"I see", said Newbury-Bypass. Another nutter.
"Err, yes, I will be at the club soon, but in my absence I have appointed Peter Tiller to run the non-football side. He will be in tomorrow"
The fax had begun to whirr again
"OK, thank you, see you soon. Bye". Newbury-Bypass cut the off the nutter politely but abruptly.
The fax machine beeped. It was from the Wilson-Dallas' lawyers.
The club had been sold. That much she knew.
To a man called John Smith.
Newbury-Bypass held her head in her hands. She had just been abrupt to the new owner. Bad start. Bad, bad start, she thought.
How little she knew. It was to get much, much worse.

Dave Tosser lingered in the lobby of the Kettering Welcome Inn. He'd heard a whisper that his old sparring partner was back in town, and on the hunt for new blood. He ducked behind his newspaper, as he watched two men he vaguely knew walk through the entrance and take a seat on the sofa behind him. The tall guy. Looked very familiar. The smaller guy, less so. Another man walked in and joined them. This guy he did know. It was Peter Tiller, a so-called consultant, who had helped get Northampton Town relegated last season. Had approved the appointment of Terry Fenchurch as manager. The whole football world had gasped. Everyone knew Fenchurch was bad news. He heard the men introducing themselves.
Peter Tiller
Richard Tyrone
Lee Tower.
He'd heard of the latter two, of course. Tyrone was a lawyer involved with Peterborough United. Tower a players agent. All football men then, thought Tosser, but strictly small time.
The entrance doors swung open. Tosser looked around, and almost dived under the sofa. It was his old friend Jim Grundy. He was with a Chinese looking woman he didn't know. The whisper had been right!
The meeting was brief. Grundy introduced Emma Chan to the others. He instructed Tiller to run the club. The other two to run the football side. He was to remain anonymous until he had the 'consortium' in place. Anyone asks, my name is John Smith. He gave two letters to Tiller. Sign these and send them to the addressees he instructed.
"Are you sure?", asked Tiller, "it's not going to be popular"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Grundy.
The meeting broke up. Tosser went to the bar for a Scotch. He made some calls. It confirmed his best fears. The new owner of Luton Town was none other than Jim Grundy. Serial sports club wrecker. Drug trafficking grass. In cahoots with the London Triads, to boot. Tosser thanked the Lord. Manna from heaven. The freelance work alone could make him a rich man. He downed the Scotch and ran to his battered Chevette. This was his way back to the Nationals. Canary Wharf here I come!

Big John Kildare was on a sunbed in Kinky Amal's Sauna and Kebab House. He'd just finished four doners, a double shish and a kilo of chips. For breakfast. He was thinking about lunch. His mobile phone trilled.
"Yeah", he belched.
"John, it's Mitch" he heard Halford say, "something's happened"
"Mitch, I've fackin' told you not to call me before 11am"
"Guv, it's serious - I've been sacked", sobbed Halford, his beautiful Geordie accent barely audible.
"Whaat? I was pissed last night Mitch, you know that. I never mean it" Kildare wobbled.
"No, Guv, it's official. Headed paper, signature, the lot", Halford gulped, "signed by a bloke called Tiller."
"Right", bellowed Kildare, heaving his not insubstantial backside from the sunbed, "I'll get this sorted"
He hung up. Called Newbury-Bypass.
"Sherry, what the fack is going on?", he demanded.
Newbury-Bypass was sobbing.
"Have you got your letter, John?", she asked through her veil of tears.
"What letter? Mitch has just called me. He's distraught"
"Oh. Go home, John. Just go home". She hung up, too upset to talk further.
Kildare wrapped a tarpaulin sized towel around his midriff and sprinted for the Merc. Ten minutes later he pulled up at his luxury villa in Mill Hill. Marvin was grazing on the front lawn.
A note in the letter box - recorded delivery letter, addressee absent, collect from post office. He drove to the post office, stormed in clutching his towel, demanded his letter.
He ripped the envelope open. Scanned the terse lines. It was true. He had been sacked.
Kildare sat silently in the Merc, trembling, sweat pooling on the plasti-leather seat.
He vowed revenge, vengeance, justice. His anger rose.
"I'LL KILL THE FACKIN' LOT OF THEM", be screamed.
But first things first, he thought. Lunch!
Back Contents Next