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| Chapter 5 - We Are
The Children Jim Grundy was hard at work. The draft 'proposal' for the club, that he, Derek Good and the barmaid Mandy had concocted one drunken night in Harpenden, needed to be tidied up before releasing to the great unwashed. "Bloody whoolygans, the lot of them", he muttered to himself. The Wilson-Dallas' had been glad to find a buyer, and had willingly gone along with the 'plans'. It meant that they kept control of the land, and the club would sink or swim. And sink was the preferred option. Then the land was up for anything, not tied in with the club. Ikea, luxury flats, hotels - whatever. He would be rich. The Chans would get their cut of course, but it would still leave him with enough to buy lots of nice things. Yachts, fine foods, women. Oh yes, the women. This son-of-a-Walsall-dockworker would be a veritable giant among pygmies. That would show them all. Grundy harboured long time grudges against the world in general, but against certain people in particular. His school teachers, his first boss at the post office in Wolverhampton. That journalist from the Sunday in Bedford. Oh yes, when the money comes in, they'll pay, he thought. So all I need to do is keep the club in a holding pattern, apparently moving forward but actually in a spiral of descent. The grand plan he was finishing was part of this holding pattern. Keep the peasants at bay, jolly them along with foolish dreams of stadiums, developments and consortiums. Then bang. No club, nothing stopping him from building what he liked on the land. The phone rang. "Hello?" he croaked. "Grundy, it's Tiller", came the reply. "It's done." "Good work Peter", said Grundy, "now tomorrow is a big day. Make sure it runs like clockwork, and we're almost home and dry." "No problem. See you tomorrow." Tiller said. They hung up. The TV in the corner was on, showing repeats of last years Pop Idol. Grundy glanced over, then looked again. "That gives me an idea", he chuckled to himself, "yes, this will go down in history" His chuckle turned into full-on hysterical laughter, tears rolled down his hamster-like cheeks. "HISTORY!!", he gurgled. Mr y was worried. First the rumours, then the confirmation - John and Mitch had been sacked. The sense of outrage was both palpable and understandable. Then the board meeting fiasco happened, and the associated protests that verged on turning nasty. Mr y fretted about the bad publicity if things turned violent. "Ooh no," he said, careful not to spill his Dogbolter on his best Gentle Giant t-shirt,"this will never do." He scanned the messageboard, thinking what to do. "Something must be done", he mused, "but what?" All for one. A big protest. But positive, positive... He tossed a few ideas about, corresponded with some of lags on the internet and a beautiful idea was born. The fans would get together and form a group. They would protest forcefully, pressurise the new owners to be up front and perhaps, just perhaps, we could gain some influence on the situation. Mr y sat back, satisfied. This could work, he thought to himself. It might just work. Grundy was apoplectic. His three card trick had failed at the first hurdle, and it seemed that now his cover was about to be blown. Those clowns Tyrone and Tower, whom he had entrusted to set the wheels in motion were bottling out, Kinnear was blabbing to all and sundry and those rotton little whoolygans had nearly started a riot. It was clear that he was going to have to take control in public, and not just skulk in the background like a malevalent puppeteer, pulling the strings of the little people. He was going to have to release some positive information to the great unwashed, so he had no choice. He would have to wait up till 2am and publish something on the club website. Just then he heard a noise behind him. It was Sherry Newbury-Bypass, the club secretary. "Working late John?" she asked. "Mmmgh, yeah, something like that", he muttered. He didn't like to give too much away to Newbury-Bypass, as her days were numbered. "Anything I can help you with?", she said, moving behind Grundy and laying her fingers on his shoulder, "anything I can DO for you?". Grundy felt the lightest touch of her breasts against his back. "Uuurgh, well, perhaps you could help me with this report I'm about to release on the website" "Do you need me to take some DICTATION for you. I would love to see your DICTATION in action", she breathed, knowingly. Grundy almost fell out of his chair. Sweat began pooling under the arms of his handmade Feuer shirt. Was this really happening? He had heard that Newbury-Bypass was a cold-hearted, miserable old trout, and married to boot. Was she really making a pass at him? It had been a long time since any female he hadn't paid had shown him any attention. Apart from Esther Chan, of course, but she was still anyone's for a fiver - old habits die hard. No, this was something new. Exiting! "Tell you what", Newbury-Bypass said huskily, "I'll go get something to drink - you think of what we can, err, DO this evening" Grundy's eyes followed her rear view as she left the room. He could hardly believe his luck. He was going to actually DO IT with a real woman. Newbury-Bypass returned with a bottle of Tesco Value Whisky, the kind she decanted into the Bells bottles behind the bar of the club's function rooms. She poured them both a generous helping. She held up her glass. "To us", she said. Grundy clinked his glass against hers. "To us", he agreed. Dave Tosser wiped the blood from his nose with his shirtsleeve. He glanced balefully up at Harvey Nicholls, who was stood over Tosser. "You fackin' come round here again", roared Nicholls, "and I'll fackin' kill you". Tosser nodded, meekly. But inside, his cunning little brain was going to work. He had confronted Nicholls about the fact that the LTFC staff were not going to get paid this month. Nicholls had gone beserk. The old adage about not shooting the messenger obviously hadn't been part of young Harvey's education. Such as his education was. But Tosser knew that a beating was a small price to pay for a good story - in fact he was well used to it. During his days on the Daily Slagg, he had often suffered for his vocation. His gambling vocation, that is. When you're not allowed to enter the bookies on the High Street, you have to bet with someone, usually a backstreet bookie. These guys give you plenty of credit, but not much time to pay up. So a beating from LTFC's young Club Captain was nothing much in the scheme of things. Nicholls removed the thick end of the pool cue from Tosser's bollocks. "Get out", he screamed at Tosser. Tosser fled, as best he could. Peter Holmes had almost escaped. "Where to fack do you think you're going, cant", hissed Nicholls. "Nowhere, Harv", replied Holmes meekly. "Fackin right Homo. You're coming with me", he shouted. "Ohh, where we going Harv?", asked Holmes. "We", he roared, "are going to pay a little visit to this Grundy character". "Ohh, great", said Holmes, not meaning it. He knew what was going to happen. If Nicholls got hold of Grundy, there was going to be bloodshed and mindless violence. That was the good news. Because if he couldn't get hold of Grundy...well, he would take it out on someone. Holmes began to cry. |
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