‘4-0.’
Green’s voice faltered slightly as he delivered the words, but he hoped that
his diffidence wouldn’t be detected on the other end of the phone.
‘4-0?’ O’Loughlin replied. His voice was calm, but that didn’t yet assuage Green’s fears.
‘Yes, four.’
‘4-0?’ replied O’Loughlin again, this time his voice higher. ‘Tell me it was a good defeat; a defeat in the manner of the one we suffered against the Hurricanes.’
Green’s voice broke; he searched for words but found none forthcoming. His voice was starchy, dry.
‘I see,’ said O’Loughlin. Green cursed himself silently; no words were necessary. The Üm Louts had been routed at the Elms last night, properly routed, and now O’Loughlin knew. The s**tstorm was brewing.
‘Bruv, I can…’ Green started, in some desperate attempt to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.
‘No, no, no words from you sunshine, I can see what’s happened here,’ came the interjection. Green’s pulse quickened ever so slightly and his sense of danger was pricked. ‘I leave you alone… I leave you for one week, one f***ing week, to do the business, and this happens? Come on then, what happened? I want to know, all the details, everything.’
Green wracked his brain for answers that might result in a becalmed O'Loughlin. Think, Green, think! But the more he tried to force a thought out, the less obvious it became.
‘They were just better than us. We were s**t,’ eventually came the blurted response, Green’s voice a little reedy now.
Silence on the other end of the line.
‘Bruv?’ Green asked.
‘Put the phone down, you little rat. I’ve heard enough.’
‘Bruv, I swear, please, let me explain…’ Green began his miserable recant but the line went dead.
‘You’re a f***ing inanimate object!’ O’Loughlin roared back at her, breathing heavily.
The PA looked at him, bemused, and decided not to say anything.
‘The Louts lost last night,’ he eventually said, and her face sunk. The gravity of the situation had become clear.
‘Oh, I-I’m sorry, I hadn’t checked the results, I…’
‘Get out,’ he said, calmly the first time. ‘Get out!’ the second time less so.
She removed herself at the second time, making a mental note to get the cleaners to come and clean up the sorry mess at a later time, once things had calmed down.
Once he was once again alone, O’Loughlin locked the door, and then returned to his Jäger. He downed the drink, and slammed the glass down on the table. That felt better. He then turned to the west wall of his office. On it hung Jackson Pollock’s No.5. The original, of course, worth around $140million; O’Loughlin had procured it on the black market for around $20million. A bargain at either price. Now he gently lifted the painting from its hinges, and placed it on the floor. Behind its space upon the wall was an inset safe, secured by a 4 digit number. He typed in the numbers – 1988, the year of his beloved Wimbledon’s FA Cup win – and with a whirr the door swung open, and a tray presented itself. No money or jewels were to be found within; no gun, neither identification nor even important documents were to be found. Instead, a single white garment was laid, folded meticulously in the tray. O’Loughlin picked it up with a gentility that belied his club fingers, and held it out in front of him, allowing the creases to fall away in the air. On the front of the shirt was a single imprinted letter U, with an umlaut proudly sitting atop it.
‘Well then, you f***ing lightweights,’ he whispered to himself, ‘looks like I’ll be seeing you next week.’
‘4-0?’ O’Loughlin replied. His voice was calm, but that didn’t yet assuage Green’s fears.
‘Yes, four.’
‘4-0?’ replied O’Loughlin again, this time his voice higher. ‘Tell me it was a good defeat; a defeat in the manner of the one we suffered against the Hurricanes.’
Green’s voice broke; he searched for words but found none forthcoming. His voice was starchy, dry.
‘I see,’ said O’Loughlin. Green cursed himself silently; no words were necessary. The Üm Louts had been routed at the Elms last night, properly routed, and now O’Loughlin knew. The s**tstorm was brewing.
‘Bruv, I can…’ Green started, in some desperate attempt to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.
‘No, no, no words from you sunshine, I can see what’s happened here,’ came the interjection. Green’s pulse quickened ever so slightly and his sense of danger was pricked. ‘I leave you alone… I leave you for one week, one f***ing week, to do the business, and this happens? Come on then, what happened? I want to know, all the details, everything.’
Green wracked his brain for answers that might result in a becalmed O'Loughlin. Think, Green, think! But the more he tried to force a thought out, the less obvious it became.
‘They were just better than us. We were s**t,’ eventually came the blurted response, Green’s voice a little reedy now.
Silence on the other end of the line.
‘Bruv?’ Green asked.
‘Put the phone down, you little rat. I’ve heard enough.’
‘Bruv, I swear, please, let me explain…’ Green began his miserable recant but the line went dead.
~
O’Loughlin held his mobile in his hand, and then walked over to the window. His
office, on the 55th floor of Don towers, provided a bravura vista
over the sights of Milton Keynes. Each day when he arrived to the office he
would suck in the pristine air and puff it out of his cheeks, rosy red like the
colour of his trousers’ braces. Now he looked out upon Keynes not in delight,
but in frustration. He went to his drinks cabinet, and poured himself a large
Jägermeister. His hands trembled as he did so, which only increased his sense
of rage and shame.
All this, he thought as he took a sip of the spiced drink, all this
have I built; the land, the empire, the business, and still it’s not enough to
secure that blessed maiden win. And at that point the rage overcame him and
he violently threw his mobile phone against the wall. But the anger within him
did not quell. He walked over to the phone, and began to stamp on it, his face
pink with fury, his teeth grinding and his fists clenched into white hot balls
of hate. His feet crashed down again and again until the phone was little more
than smithereens; the racket was audible to all those on his floor, and the
floor below. Hearing the racket, his PA walked in unannounced to see O’Loughlin
towering over the wrecked phone, a wild look in his eyes, and sweat soaking his
shirt and suit trousers.
‘What are doing to your phone Mr O’Loughlin? It’s just an inanimate object!’
she exclaimed.‘You’re a f***ing inanimate object!’ O’Loughlin roared back at her, breathing heavily.
The PA looked at him, bemused, and decided not to say anything.
‘The Louts lost last night,’ he eventually said, and her face sunk. The gravity of the situation had become clear.
‘Oh, I-I’m sorry, I hadn’t checked the results, I…’
‘Get out,’ he said, calmly the first time. ‘Get out!’ the second time less so.
She removed herself at the second time, making a mental note to get the cleaners to come and clean up the sorry mess at a later time, once things had calmed down.
Once he was once again alone, O’Loughlin locked the door, and then returned to his Jäger. He downed the drink, and slammed the glass down on the table. That felt better. He then turned to the west wall of his office. On it hung Jackson Pollock’s No.5. The original, of course, worth around $140million; O’Loughlin had procured it on the black market for around $20million. A bargain at either price. Now he gently lifted the painting from its hinges, and placed it on the floor. Behind its space upon the wall was an inset safe, secured by a 4 digit number. He typed in the numbers – 1988, the year of his beloved Wimbledon’s FA Cup win – and with a whirr the door swung open, and a tray presented itself. No money or jewels were to be found within; no gun, neither identification nor even important documents were to be found. Instead, a single white garment was laid, folded meticulously in the tray. O’Loughlin picked it up with a gentility that belied his club fingers, and held it out in front of him, allowing the creases to fall away in the air. On the front of the shirt was a single imprinted letter U, with an umlaut proudly sitting atop it.
‘Well then, you f***ing lightweights,’ he whispered to himself, ‘looks like I’ll be seeing you next week.’
~
Now. Here’s what happened, and when.
Pre Match
- The smell in the new changing rooms. Pungent filth.
- Alex arriving early with banana in hand, and waiting patiently for someone, anyone to arrive
- Daniel taking the pre-match warm up a tad seriously, and deciding to dive across hard concrete to bury a diving header past a six year old. Then leaping up and pretending it hadn’t happened, despite the blood pouring from the wound
- Alex paying £20 deposit for the ball and giving it back the second Ben arrived
- Darryl losing the ball, much to everyone’s surprise that it wasn’t Ben
- Awful, awful warm up routines, with Ben ballooning 9/10 shots out of the court, and burying the 10th one with aplomb. Confusing.
- Alex getting too excited in the warm up and having to run off to the bathroom
- Freekick routines, Darryl and Alex have them down to a tee now
- Darryl questioning Alex’s starting line-up, with the best passive aggressive chat of all time
- Every single person squeezing Alex’s rib to say hello
- Daniel’s constant spins and Ben’s constant back-heels. We’re the Brazil of The Elms
- Darryl drinking milk
- 5 comfortable minutes where not much happened
- Two v one at the back, and it’s 1-0
- Pete arrives in usual strange t-shirt. Pushing the boundaries of our kit to the absolute limit
- Pete’s beard is thicker than usual, it looks good
- 2-0
- Lee comes on to make his debut, a Czech amongst Germans, he played the Nedvěd role with aplomb
- Ben and Alex on the pitch at the same time! First time in months
- 3-0
- 4-0
- Dan has an awesome shot, Alex has a couple of snap shots, Darryl has a good shot
- Russell playing further up the field than previous matches, and becoming our creative spark
- Alex sulking at the referee for everything
- Sitting around mute on the bench. Alex still considering what to do with his banana.
- Looking for positives
- Searching for positives
- Alex ‘Jesus Christ’ing when he walks past the cheerleading lessons. Very loudly
- Spirits rising in the pub, where our old friend ‘Pete’ (I think that’s his name) recognizes us and greets us with his usual warmth – telling us to ‘get to f***’
- The drunk getting more and more drunk
- The terrible, unnecessarily loud, music
- Darryl drinking milk
- Pete getting us back to happier moods whilst discussing what we need to do to improve
- Russell’s constant positive outlook
- The barmaid not serving the drunk, and the drunk shouting at her
- Dan telling the drunk to shut the hell up
- Lee leaving because he couldn’t work out the train schedule.
- People slowly leaving before just Alex Dan and Ben remain
- Alex kissing the Germany badge to our friend the drunk
- Alex limbering up and the drunk thinking we were going to fight, and limbering up himself
- Alex eating a bit of the banana
- The drunk considering having a fight with Ben before deciding that it was the worst idea he’d had since trying to give up Guinness in 1972
- Alex and Dan walking to the tube and smelling nothing but weed the entire way. The whole of Shadwell must’ve been stoned
Alexander and Daniel
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