11-30-2020, 11:24 AM
(This post was last modified: 11-30-2020, 11:32 AM by HawkingsHalfpint.)
As Slaven stood on the neatly (matte black) varnished, elegantly-furnished ‘chill-terrace’ of his bungaplex, overlooking several, motocross churned-up acreage of B74 land, and an even more neatly constructed poultry enclosure; he panicked as to what to do. HAM FACE was calling, and the eye of the bone on the ascribed logo glared at him as the iPhone SE 16Gb blared its death-metal tones menacingly upwards (this was the third call Luke Dowling had placed within 2 minutes). Through nearby bi-fold glazed doors, an un-worshipped Davor was glaring at him; this seldom boded-well for a hassle-free day. “Fucking shit cunts… but not you Mr. Davor” Slav muttered, knowing already that this was likely to be a stressful morning.
The hungry chickens were glaring at him too; in particular Mattywing, who always needed a good feed (before his usual cameo sprint up and down of the right side of the floodlit enclosure, flailing his wings out with cute but ineffectual delicate little flicks and swipes; rarely threatening any competing chickens as it had done in the less-hungry seasons of yesteryear). To make matters worse, flagship chicken Gradywing – one both he and Jeramina (and indeed all of their circle if friends, rocker-dudes and even nearby neighbours) – were impressed that relatively new poultry keepers such as they were able to snare – was sulking though lack of nourishment, and Liverbelly was still sitting grumpily alone in the coup; although the ostensible reason (Bird Flu) despite being utter bollocks, nobody – neither man nor chicken – really seemed to care about. “Aaaaaaaaah, fuck it Jeremina, I’m sorry, I just don’t have the time today.”
This really pissed Slaven off, not only for letting his beautiful girlfriend down, but since so many of his brood were showing real signs of progress and growth of late. Halbeak had recovered from a broken wing (and was once again his usual impact, clumsy self). Connorgut was strutting about the yard in the most effusive manner, and all of the other chickens were delighted to have a fowl of such fine pedigree in their midst; even Romaineplume seemed a more positive bird as a result. Kyletail and Darnelldown had forged a formidable cock-union after the addition of Branbird; a Latin specimen, well-raised on a diet of jellied eels, and one Slav knew would bring a wealth of good clucking to his sturdier, more defensive cockerels.
“And as for you, Sammytail… oh Sammytail… I had no hopes for you at all, but you could be the fairest fowl of them all. But duty calls, my little friends… I will return to feed you as soon as I can break from all of this shit.”
Sigh.
And with that, Slav accepted the call, and after a horrible, one-way, over-decibilised conversation and a 90mph hog-ride down the Queslett Road, Slaven once again found himself standing outside the the opulently uncomfortable surroundings of another Monday morning directors’ breakfast, in which he forlornly hoped he would be congratulated for finally earning 3 points, but knew that this was, in all probability, very unlikely.
…
“Heeeeeeeeeey, Slarven old bean! I haven’t seen you since, erm… yesterday, that’s it! We will be ready for you in 5… just wait there while I go to, erm… powder my nose.”
It was not unfair, nor an exaggeration, to state that Slav hated Luke Dowling. Being a self-confessed socialist and philanthropist – and an educated one to boot – Slaven found it hard at the best of times not to look down upon Tory-boy toffs of lesser intellect than he, and they were no more brazen in their intransigent ignorance than the man he now found himself working for. Things had been strained between them at the best of times, and this had hit melting point ever since the head coach’s decision to go public over the sale of Hegazi to Al-Ittihad; which despite reports that Slaven was initially happy about (and even sanctioned), were well ‘wide of the mark’ (another very common club-phrase he hated; almost as much as he hated being called ‘Slarven’, which made him feel like a festering turd).
In fact, the whole issue was merely a misunderstanding over a previous directors’ breakfast, during which Luke – perhaps a little too giggly on champagne and raw salmon on toast, during a typical hoo-har also involving the regular consumption of cocaine and the pinching Chinese hostess’ bottoms – had mislead Slaven. At first, our coach had suspected that this was deliberate, however – as Jeremina had pointed out to him over cocktails in bed – this was simply too clever a plan for even the spam-cheeked rugger bugger to comprehensibly conceive and execute. It went a little like this:
…. West Bromwich Albion Training Departent Executive Lounge… Summer 2020… 9:05am….
Luke: “So, Slarven… Slarven Slarven Slarven.” <pops crab tartlet into mouth, and then pops in another into an already crammed-full gob, just for good measure>. We have too many centre-half wits. We need you to lose one, pronto, as my travel budget is getting seriously hammered since I switched from Cathay Business to EVA Air First. Who’s for the chop then?”
Slav: “You’re telling me I have to let an asset from the back go?”
L: “Oh, Slarven, I can tell you’re a foreigner, that’s disgusting! I dispatched my asset from the back first thing this morning! Harrr harrr haaarr har!”
Slav sighed, as a mouthful of pulped crab and pastry flew all over the Lazy Susan, before a gaggle of shamefully underaged slim, young interns, associate directors of fuck all, lackeys, hangers-on and shady looking Chinese management representatives paused to get the joke, and then laughed with painful volume; almost obediently.
L: “Now look, Slav. You can’t have six defenders vying for two places. And making two places into three places to keep them is fooling nobody. No offence, but Flash Gordon you are not, and it is not the earth we are defending, it is Sam Johnstone’s overworked vertebrae. One of them has to go. A defender I mean, and not a disc. That’s not a joke, so don’t laugh you bitches.”
Slaven paused, before answering calmly.
S: “Well, Luke, I can’t decide. I have small enough influence over the transfers as it is, not to mention the incomings…”
L: “Oooooh, speaking of incomings, here’s that gorgeous waitress now with the manky, shrivelled up nipples. Too bad about those, otherwise she’s a ‘keeper! Better than SJ too, I’ll warrant. Ha harrrrrr!”
The same sycophantic sequence that mirrors a Twitter uprating of a popular Albion social media whore followed, before the embarrassed and a little-ashamed looking waitress asked the diners very politely what they would like to eat for breakfast.
L: “Look, Slarv, let me spell this out for you. <Puts out undersmoked cigar on a nearby silver tray being held by a lackey>. If you cannot decide who has to go, and I’ll give you a choice to make this simple… look it has to be Ajayi or Hegazi, because they are the only two useless cretins we’re likely to actually raise any immediate liquidity for, then I will decide for you.”
S: “Well that’s simple. Then it has to be…
Just as Slaven was about to suggest a completely different, but more than suitable alternative; an idea he and Jeramina had had about raising a one-time fee for young academy loanees to provide an immediate lump sum cash-boost (rather than payment in the form of a subsidy in wages from the loanee club), the waitress asked Slaven how he would like his eggs.
S: “Oh me, miss? Hegg’s over, easy.”
L: “Well that’s done then! Well done Slarven, and to think I thought you were an indecisive buffoon. At least your midfield selections often suggest so. But hey, deal done. Thanks for joining us! You can fuck off now. Take your breakfast from the buffet and go, and don’t forget to bring the fucking plate back!”
Slaven left the room, confused, not really sure what had just happened; and in more ways than one definitely Hegg-less. All he could think of right now was his chickens, and how their innocent meanderings somehow mirrored the direction of his once, bright, hopeful managerial career, at this point in time.
….
This still burned like a fuse of dynamite in the mind of Slaven. A strong man, a national captain, a leader and a feared pro of no less than 44 international caps (a statement to which Luke had told him upon hearing that he wasn’t really interested in his teeth), had been made to look silly, at the hands of this ra-ra, AirMiles obsessed, 4x4-on-slicks driving tosser. “I should not have to take this. I am a man, not a ham-bitch. I will not take this.
What should Slaven do?
The hungry chickens were glaring at him too; in particular Mattywing, who always needed a good feed (before his usual cameo sprint up and down of the right side of the floodlit enclosure, flailing his wings out with cute but ineffectual delicate little flicks and swipes; rarely threatening any competing chickens as it had done in the less-hungry seasons of yesteryear). To make matters worse, flagship chicken Gradywing – one both he and Jeramina (and indeed all of their circle if friends, rocker-dudes and even nearby neighbours) – were impressed that relatively new poultry keepers such as they were able to snare – was sulking though lack of nourishment, and Liverbelly was still sitting grumpily alone in the coup; although the ostensible reason (Bird Flu) despite being utter bollocks, nobody – neither man nor chicken – really seemed to care about. “Aaaaaaaaah, fuck it Jeremina, I’m sorry, I just don’t have the time today.”
This really pissed Slaven off, not only for letting his beautiful girlfriend down, but since so many of his brood were showing real signs of progress and growth of late. Halbeak had recovered from a broken wing (and was once again his usual impact, clumsy self). Connorgut was strutting about the yard in the most effusive manner, and all of the other chickens were delighted to have a fowl of such fine pedigree in their midst; even Romaineplume seemed a more positive bird as a result. Kyletail and Darnelldown had forged a formidable cock-union after the addition of Branbird; a Latin specimen, well-raised on a diet of jellied eels, and one Slav knew would bring a wealth of good clucking to his sturdier, more defensive cockerels.
“And as for you, Sammytail… oh Sammytail… I had no hopes for you at all, but you could be the fairest fowl of them all. But duty calls, my little friends… I will return to feed you as soon as I can break from all of this shit.”
Sigh.
And with that, Slav accepted the call, and after a horrible, one-way, over-decibilised conversation and a 90mph hog-ride down the Queslett Road, Slaven once again found himself standing outside the the opulently uncomfortable surroundings of another Monday morning directors’ breakfast, in which he forlornly hoped he would be congratulated for finally earning 3 points, but knew that this was, in all probability, very unlikely.
…
“Heeeeeeeeeey, Slarven old bean! I haven’t seen you since, erm… yesterday, that’s it! We will be ready for you in 5… just wait there while I go to, erm… powder my nose.”
It was not unfair, nor an exaggeration, to state that Slav hated Luke Dowling. Being a self-confessed socialist and philanthropist – and an educated one to boot – Slaven found it hard at the best of times not to look down upon Tory-boy toffs of lesser intellect than he, and they were no more brazen in their intransigent ignorance than the man he now found himself working for. Things had been strained between them at the best of times, and this had hit melting point ever since the head coach’s decision to go public over the sale of Hegazi to Al-Ittihad; which despite reports that Slaven was initially happy about (and even sanctioned), were well ‘wide of the mark’ (another very common club-phrase he hated; almost as much as he hated being called ‘Slarven’, which made him feel like a festering turd).
In fact, the whole issue was merely a misunderstanding over a previous directors’ breakfast, during which Luke – perhaps a little too giggly on champagne and raw salmon on toast, during a typical hoo-har also involving the regular consumption of cocaine and the pinching Chinese hostess’ bottoms – had mislead Slaven. At first, our coach had suspected that this was deliberate, however – as Jeremina had pointed out to him over cocktails in bed – this was simply too clever a plan for even the spam-cheeked rugger bugger to comprehensibly conceive and execute. It went a little like this:
…. West Bromwich Albion Training Departent Executive Lounge… Summer 2020… 9:05am….
Luke: “So, Slarven… Slarven Slarven Slarven.” <pops crab tartlet into mouth, and then pops in another into an already crammed-full gob, just for good measure>. We have too many centre-half wits. We need you to lose one, pronto, as my travel budget is getting seriously hammered since I switched from Cathay Business to EVA Air First. Who’s for the chop then?”
Slav: “You’re telling me I have to let an asset from the back go?”
L: “Oh, Slarven, I can tell you’re a foreigner, that’s disgusting! I dispatched my asset from the back first thing this morning! Harrr harrr haaarr har!”
Slav sighed, as a mouthful of pulped crab and pastry flew all over the Lazy Susan, before a gaggle of shamefully underaged slim, young interns, associate directors of fuck all, lackeys, hangers-on and shady looking Chinese management representatives paused to get the joke, and then laughed with painful volume; almost obediently.
L: “Now look, Slav. You can’t have six defenders vying for two places. And making two places into three places to keep them is fooling nobody. No offence, but Flash Gordon you are not, and it is not the earth we are defending, it is Sam Johnstone’s overworked vertebrae. One of them has to go. A defender I mean, and not a disc. That’s not a joke, so don’t laugh you bitches.”
Slaven paused, before answering calmly.
S: “Well, Luke, I can’t decide. I have small enough influence over the transfers as it is, not to mention the incomings…”
L: “Oooooh, speaking of incomings, here’s that gorgeous waitress now with the manky, shrivelled up nipples. Too bad about those, otherwise she’s a ‘keeper! Better than SJ too, I’ll warrant. Ha harrrrrr!”
The same sycophantic sequence that mirrors a Twitter uprating of a popular Albion social media whore followed, before the embarrassed and a little-ashamed looking waitress asked the diners very politely what they would like to eat for breakfast.
L: “Look, Slarv, let me spell this out for you. <Puts out undersmoked cigar on a nearby silver tray being held by a lackey>. If you cannot decide who has to go, and I’ll give you a choice to make this simple… look it has to be Ajayi or Hegazi, because they are the only two useless cretins we’re likely to actually raise any immediate liquidity for, then I will decide for you.”
S: “Well that’s simple. Then it has to be…
Just as Slaven was about to suggest a completely different, but more than suitable alternative; an idea he and Jeramina had had about raising a one-time fee for young academy loanees to provide an immediate lump sum cash-boost (rather than payment in the form of a subsidy in wages from the loanee club), the waitress asked Slaven how he would like his eggs.
S: “Oh me, miss? Hegg’s over, easy.”
L: “Well that’s done then! Well done Slarven, and to think I thought you were an indecisive buffoon. At least your midfield selections often suggest so. But hey, deal done. Thanks for joining us! You can fuck off now. Take your breakfast from the buffet and go, and don’t forget to bring the fucking plate back!”
Slaven left the room, confused, not really sure what had just happened; and in more ways than one definitely Hegg-less. All he could think of right now was his chickens, and how their innocent meanderings somehow mirrored the direction of his once, bright, hopeful managerial career, at this point in time.
….
This still burned like a fuse of dynamite in the mind of Slaven. A strong man, a national captain, a leader and a feared pro of no less than 44 international caps (a statement to which Luke had told him upon hearing that he wasn’t really interested in his teeth), had been made to look silly, at the hands of this ra-ra, AirMiles obsessed, 4x4-on-slicks driving tosser. “I should not have to take this. I am a man, not a ham-bitch. I will not take this.
What should Slaven do?
