Tuesday 15 December. 09:06. Rush Green. Mild, damp, grey, sullen, tier 3 bound…
The mood was happy. It was an incredibly strange experience for Moyle. Players smiling (apart from Alair), laughing, working hard, encouraging each other.
Bizarre.
The strangest of years.
Signings that worked. A formation that worked. A plan that worked (hitting the woodwork as many times as possible). Moyle knew this couldn’t continue.
The Premier League were furious. The leaked memo he’d seen, stipulating that it was “not good for the country to have a southern bias in the top 6, there needs to be a focus on engineering a path for northern team as soon as possible. If that means VAR decisions going against the Easy London upstarts, so be it”.
Moyle felt certain this would begin in earnest.
Palace at home would give another chance to the famous flying Zahar, providing his challenge to Grearlish for the Chumbawunba 2020 Champion.
Failing that Chelski away would see a definite opportunity to provide the West London side 3 points.
Plus, there was always the fall-back option of Covid. Unless his captain had now formed a support bubble with a heavyweight boxing champion, the lack of social distance in congratulating his new friend should ensure a rife outbreak of 19’s finest at the League 2 standard training ground.
Wiping the remnants of haggis away from the corner of his mouth, Moyle surveyed the players, on their morning run, dodging golf balls from the errant swings of those inhabiting the driving range next door.
SueCheck and Corfal were leading from the front. Like eager Labradors, it seemed nothing could dampen their spirits…” Give them time” Moyle muttered to himself.
Captain was in close pursuit, competitive as ever, with Nobel alongside, chatting away.
Moyle was pleased his veteran club man had taken his new role so well.
Managing the car park and who got to park nearest to the entrance was a poisoned chalice and had seen off many incumbents. However, Nobels seniority and ability to hit the right spot consistently had gone down well.
Even Arfa had managed to find the right position.
Sully’s rainbow coloured roller crawled into the forecourt.
The 3-week retreat at the “Find yourself spa” had energised Sully and given him a new outlook on life.
From the beads he wore around his neck to the beard he had grown, Sully was more relaxed and open.
Upon exiting his chauffeur driven vehicle he took the knee, raising his right fist and declaring “Solidarity brother” – a ritual he now carried out whenever he arrived at a new destination.
Mrs Sully shook her head “Bleedin’ numpty” she whispered under her breath.
Moyle heard the crunch of gravel under tyres and knew he was in for his now painstaking weekly hour ritual, hearing about Sully’s new vegan lifestyle. Sully knocked and sauntered in…
” Hey man, how’s it going dude?”, Moyle rolled his eyes
“Och aye never betta pal” retorted Moyle, playing up to his stereotype.
“Man, we are just rolling and chillin’ through these games, its so far out, bring it brother, cumon’ gimme a hug” – Sully stood there with opened arms, Moyes recoiled “Erm, hands- face-space eh Jimmy?”,
Sully sagged, “Oh man yeah, what a downer. Like, can’t we just get over this thing already – then maybe love each other and our planet more, stop eating meat, y’know?”
Moyes was ready for this one “See you, I canee take too long today pal, lots on, things to do aye”
Sully clapped his hands together “My bad dude, of course. Anyway, I just wanted to bring you these tofu seaweed wraps as a token man, to say thanks n’all, y’know” Sully placed the goods on the Moyle desk. “Peace and love man, peace and love”, Sully was making a prayer gesture as he backed out of the door.
Mrs Sully looked at Moyle and shook her head, following him out.
Moyle took the “gift” and binned it.
It was at that moment the ball smashed through the office window, narrowly missing Moyle and bouncing off the cryogenic cabinet, which housed Guld.
After passing away in the summer, the club felt there were too much bad news. Therefore, keeping him on ice allowed the club to release the news in a time they felt were more appropriate.
“La merde!” came the scream from the training pitch.
Moyle knew without looking this was a goal attempt by Alair and shook his head.
He knew he needed a striker.
With Micky’s hamstrings as fragile as a Brexit deal, and Alair’s confidence as high as a secondary school teacher, he needed fresh blood to keep the side competitive.
With the clubs scouting network (YouTube) tool at his fingertips, Moyle logged on.
Changing the filter search to “Striker” and price range to “£0 – 15,000”. Moyle scrolled.
It was as this point that the door flew open.
No knock.
Moyle knew straight away.
The customary entrance.
Brody strolled in.
The clink of high heels and eye stinging perfume.
The Dalmatian was new a new addition but seemed quite appropriate.
The cigarette holder dangled between fingers like a menacing Harry Potter wand.
“Ciao” she bellowed, making herself comfortable in the chair opposite Moyle.
“Good morning ma’am, what can I do for ye?” countered Moyle.
“Well I was here to discuss travel arrangements for the forthcoming away fixtures. As you know the budget is zero. From today, all players will need to transport themselves. However, I’ve just had an alert from our ISP – looks as though you are browsing strikers on YouTube?!” – Brody let out a cackle.
Moyle quickly closed the link “Oh, no, y’know, these pop ups!” he replied, unconvincingly.
“Well, no point wasting time there, there is no cash, we’ll be lucky to see the end of the season. I’d suggest training one of those lumbering oafs to multi task – the Deeop chap looks strong, make him earn his wages. Anyhow, here to say the canteen will be shutting today. I’ve spoken to Doris and the staff, all very sad, tears blah blah blah. Too expensive. The players are quite capable of bringing their own lunch or there is one of those, oh what do they called them? supermarket places? around the corner I hear?”
Moyle looked on incredulously “But we’ll be alaffin stock, ye cannee ask players to bring their own lunch?! They need monitored diets, these are highly trained athletes!” the Moyle face reddened.
“Unprecedented times my dear. We’re all in the same boat. The Ritz is shutting tomorrow as we enter tier 3 so where will I lunch? Do you hear me moaning? No, one adjusts. Now, in addition I’m stopping all kit cleaning. The cost of that department is astronomical. All players have a washing machines; therefore, they will be taking their kit home from today”.
“And buying their own boots. I’ve spoken to that lovely Mr Ashlee from Toonland and he is willing to give all Premier League players a 0.1% discount on all footwear. Most generous. Now, I must dash, need to supress these damned free school meals in a House of Lords vote. Vultures left right and centre. Relay the news my good man and good luck tomorrow, who is it we’re playing?”
Moyle, crestfallen, mouth open, staring at the carpet. “Parlice” he could barely muster.
“Oh, jolly good, Uncle Woy, lovely man. Oh, let’s go easy on him dear, a point should suffice. Good day”.
As she turned and swung through the door the odour hit him immediately.
The Dalmatian, evidently not house trained, had left a most unwelcome present.
This time he stood no chance.
The ball that smashed through the other window was trained like a heat seeking missile on the hound turd.
Landing plum in the centre of the brown mess, sending the contents splattering over Moyle.
Standing there, covered in dog faeces, he heard in the distance “La merde!”
A strange old year to say the least. I hope everyone is keeping well. Here’s to a far brighter, healthier and happier 2021. And possibly a European tour – The navy can take us right?!
