| Creative writing 09:44 - Aug 20 with 12816 views | Mytch_QPR |
In celebration of our comeback (my prediction of a 4-1 win wasn't quite right but was in the right spirit) and inspired by Steve Bruce's talents as a literary genius, I thought we could combine heads to start a story - written in the same style as the Bard Bruce. Everyone can contribute, say 300 words (3,000 if you're Neil) and we'll see how the plot develops:
Chris Ramsbottom, manager of struggling Kings Park Rovers, reversed neatly into his parking bay at Leftus Avenue and admired the impressive stadium from the windows of his Mercedes CLS. He pushed the button to engage the electro-retractable roof, which was fitted as standard to this model, and let the all alloy 3 litre engine rest to a halt. It was a desirable motor, no doubt about that - but it would all mean nothing if the Rs failed to beat Botherham in this Saturday's 6 pointer.
He had a fit body and sprinted up the steps into the bowels of the stadium. In his plush office, he reclined into his Simon Barker Knoll chair and asked Julie, his attractive blonde secretary to brew him a Lapsang Suchong tea. He'd fought many battles from the touchlines, but today this battle was going to be taking place in the boardroom as he prepared to try to hold on to his star striker, Charlie Boston. It was going to mean some hard talking with his Director of Football, Des Birdinhand and the tough-talking tycoon from Malaysia who owned KPR - Terry Fir-Nandos.
Julie leaned across the desk, giving Chris a revealing view as she served his tea.
"Are you alright", she asked - sensing the tension in the room.
"I'm fine", Chris lied - "just got a busy day ahead, that's all".
He could feel the beads of sweat already forming on his forehead.
"Well, let me know of there is anything I can do for you" Julie purred, seductively.
He sensed an emphasis on the word 'anything' and for a few moments his mind wandered.
Then, suddenly, his Apricot 9 mobile phone sprung into life - playing the theme of TVs Steptoe and Son. Chris was expecting this call...
To be continued... [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 9:47]
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| Creative writing on 09:47 - Aug 20 with 7695 views | Pommyhoop |
Ramsbottom Out !! |  |
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| Creative writing on 10:04 - Aug 20 with 7602 views | QPunkR |
Excellent! This should be another weekly thing on the front page! |  |
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| Creative writing on 10:09 - Aug 20 with 7589 views | Metallica_Hoop |
"Disss is Patel from sunbeam PPI thank you please"
Chris depresses the 'end call' button with the ire of a man whom was expecting Simone Simons and got Cilla.
He replaces the phone on his desk and gazes at it thoughtfully as one might it an artwork that you cannot quite make out is tat or genius.
Chris dunks a rich tea into julies delectable brew (not code) and is partaking of when the phone rings again.... [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 10:10]
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| Beer and Beef has made us what we are - The Prince Regent |
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| Creative writing on 10:09 - Aug 20 with 7580 views | Mytch_QPR |
| Creative writing on 10:04 - Aug 20 by QPunkR |
Excellent! This should be another weekly thing on the front page! |
Get writing - it's a team game! | |
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| Creative writing on 10:11 - Aug 20 with 7566 views | GetMeRangers |
You need to get Ian Taylor into this. His daily description of his life spiralling out of control on Twitter is excellent |  | | |
| Creative writing on 11:59 - Aug 20 with 7437 views | Konk |
| Creative writing on 10:41 - Aug 20 by aston_hoop |
As Ramsbottom munched on his newly moist biscuit, a McVities Digestive Biscuit it turns out, he pondered the original creation of the digestive dating back to 2 Scottish doctors in 1839, an era before any of this existed. When man was a simpler creature and football completely ceased to exist. At this point, he looked across his desk to where Julie was poring over the accounts....she had a wry smile on her face...
 [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 10:45]
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“Not now, Sugar ti ts”, said the KPR manager as he removed his beanie hat, folded it neatly and placed it in his top drawer, “I’ve got a meeting with the board at 10:00 and no, I don’t mean the blackboard”, he said, chuckling as he gestured over his shoulder to the tactics board on the wall. Julie laughed like a drain and Ramsbottom felt the tension ooze out his body like a bouncy castle deflating at the end of a full-on kids birthday party. He thought of the small boy in the wheelchair who’d given him two thumbs-up outside the training ground that morning.
“Listen, Julie, there are disabled kids that live for football. I’m going to the club shop to spend my own money on some official club merchandise — none of the tat they sell out on South Africa Road — and then I’m gonna find the kid in the wheelchair. The Board can wait - it's the fans that matter!”. Ramsbottom instinctively moved towards the door with the graceful elegance of an ex-footballer who was still in excellent physical shape. He hated junk food and sugary, carbonated fizzy drinks more than Darren Crooks who’d broken his leg in the cup final. He’d seen what it could do to people — ex-pros who were now bloated balloons, whoring themselves on football shows for a few litres of pop.
Ramsbottom was now in the club shop, he’d picked-up a distinctive, outsized, blue and white foam hand, last season’s 3rd kit shorts, and whilst browsing through the remnants of the bargain bin, he saw a thing that chilled him to his very core… |  |
| Fulham FC: It's the taking part that counts |
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| Creative writing on 12:14 - Aug 20 with 7406 views | Mytch_QPR |
| Creative writing on 11:59 - Aug 20 by Konk |
“Not now, Sugar ti ts”, said the KPR manager as he removed his beanie hat, folded it neatly and placed it in his top drawer, “I’ve got a meeting with the board at 10:00 and no, I don’t mean the blackboard”, he said, chuckling as he gestured over his shoulder to the tactics board on the wall. Julie laughed like a drain and Ramsbottom felt the tension ooze out his body like a bouncy castle deflating at the end of a full-on kids birthday party. He thought of the small boy in the wheelchair who’d given him two thumbs-up outside the training ground that morning.
“Listen, Julie, there are disabled kids that live for football. I’m going to the club shop to spend my own money on some official club merchandise — none of the tat they sell out on South Africa Road — and then I’m gonna find the kid in the wheelchair. The Board can wait - it's the fans that matter!”. Ramsbottom instinctively moved towards the door with the graceful elegance of an ex-footballer who was still in excellent physical shape. He hated junk food and sugary, carbonated fizzy drinks more than Darren Crooks who’d broken his leg in the cup final. He’d seen what it could do to people — ex-pros who were now bloated balloons, whoring themselves on football shows for a few litres of pop.
Ramsbottom was now in the club shop, he’d picked-up a distinctive, outsized, blue and white foam hand, last season’s 3rd kit shorts, and whilst browsing through the remnants of the bargain bin, he saw a thing that chilled him to his very core… |
Brilliant as usual, maestro. The plot thickens... | |
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| Creative writing on 12:40 - Aug 20 with 7379 views | zicoshoops |
He took a step back in shock, then recovering his composure he peered into the bargain bin.
A face stared out at him, a face he knew he'd seen before but couldn't quite place.
The face smiled, winked, then began speaking........
'I f**king knew we beat those f**ers last night, I f**king knew.'
'Alf' Ramsey (in his mind he always referred to himself as 'Alf,' after his World Cup winning hero) said, 'Er'
The face spoke again....
'F**king shut up, or they f**king find me hiding here.
All my time here 'an doze f**kers show me no respect.........f**k dem, f**k dem all.
My name?....just call me GP, I used to be Chairman in dis sh*thole.'
'Er, how can I help you GP? said 'Alf' Ramsey.
'You f**king shut up 'an listen for one.
You no help me.....I f**king help you.
We want to come back.....me And Flavio....we 'ave owe you say....unfinished business.
You believe dis TF f**ker? Ee make 200 million vanish......'an dey treat 'im like Jesus Christ.
Me and Flavio?.......we wet our beaks, 'an da f**kers here treat us like murderers.
We want revenge.....we wanna come back.
Flavio will call you on Friday night with the teamsheet for Saturday.
You stay with us.......we make you rich.
Don't trust anyone in dis sh*thole......including der fans.
I be in touch, and remember............you haven't seen me right.'
'Alf' wandered out of the shop in a daze.
He stopped a passing Postman and signed an autograph, it was obvious the Postman didn't have the slightest clue who he was, because as 'Alf approached him, he dropped his postbag, threw up his hands and said......'please don't mug me mate.'
Back inside the Stadium he walked towards his office thinking...........what sort of a Club is this.................... |  | | |
| Creative writing on 13:00 - Aug 20 with 7345 views | hopphoops |
(as an alternative to ZIco's)
BUZZARDSKI
7
he read. The accusing letters leapt off the fully breathable fibres of the by-now-aged shirt. Paxos Buzzardski, the Apollo of the number 9 hole, predatory conquistador of the ticket office, thief of the lovely Julie's heart, no less. Even former owner Panathanaikos Boutiklub had lost his child model-bride to the terrible Paxos.
As Ramsbottom's predecessor Garry Porkchop had left the training ground that last time, he'd wound down the window of the freshly-waxed high end cream Range Rover. "Sorry Ramsbottom, the squad's a fackin shambles. And whatever you do, don't dig up that relaid patch in front of the loft end goal. That bastard Buzzardsky..."
And then, for the first time ever, he fell silent for a long moment. "Ow this fackin knee" he added, theatrically, and sped off. [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 13:01]
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| Creative writing on 13:45 - Aug 20 with 7295 views | Dorse |
He was still pondering these events as he returned to his office. As he opened the door, Julie leapt up in surprise. There were partially chopped onions all over her desk: it was clear she'd been crying.
"Whatever's the matter?" he inquired.
"Oh, Mr Ramses," cried Julie, through a haze of tears and mucus. God, she was gorgeous. "It was awful". She fell into his muscular arms.
"What? The Charlton game? Yes, I know..." began Chris, adjusting his invisible Afro. "But that was days ago. Why are you still upset?" Julie, lifted her gaze to meet his eyes.
"No, wasn't the Charlton game", she said, "although it was pretty bad." She visibly pulled herself together, her mouth set in a grim line.
"HE was here", said Julie. It suddenly felt as if the room had become smaller. The pair stood, locked in time and space, immobile. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled dolorously.
"Not HIM", Ramsey gasped. "Why HIM? Why now?"
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| 'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!' |
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| Creative writing on 13:53 - Aug 20 with 7273 views | Mytch_QPR |
| Creative writing on 13:45 - Aug 20 by Dorse |
He was still pondering these events as he returned to his office. As he opened the door, Julie leapt up in surprise. There were partially chopped onions all over her desk: it was clear she'd been crying.
"Whatever's the matter?" he inquired.
"Oh, Mr Ramses," cried Julie, through a haze of tears and mucus. God, she was gorgeous. "It was awful". She fell into his muscular arms.
"What? The Charlton game? Yes, I know..." began Chris, adjusting his invisible Afro. "But that was days ago. Why are you still upset?" Julie, lifted her gaze to meet his eyes.
"No, wasn't the Charlton game", she said, "although it was pretty bad." She visibly pulled herself together, her mouth set in a grim line.
"HE was here", said Julie. It suddenly felt as if the room had become smaller. The pair stood, locked in time and space, immobile. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled dolorously.
"Not HIM", Ramsey gasped. "Why HIM? Why now?"
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Excellent use of the word 'dolorous' - I had to look that up. You're not Stephen Fry are you?
The story is developing nicely. I can see us all having a long lunch at The Ivy soon with a publisher. | |
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| Creative writing on 14:07 - Aug 20 with 7250 views | headhoops |
and more importantly Ramses continued, how do you know it was him?
Julie took a deep breathe, raised her eyebrows and pointed a long delicate fingertip towards a playing card pinned to the blackboard, yes the one with the team tactics on it. Its definitely him she continued, the huskiness in her voice increasing by the second. Its the King of Clubs his signature card, and more than that look over there on the filing cabinet.
The beanie hatted icon swiveled slowly, some would say as lithe as a panther and stared at the bottle of Cinzano. "What his plan blurted out the tactical genuis."
Julie began to sob, her tears starting slowly and then increasing in tempo, just like that first, well you know what in the morning. As the distance between disappeared quicker than a Mars bar in the Rooney household together they reached the same horrifying conclusion.
Terry Cinzano had finally got his hands on the Polaroid picture of Ramses and.......... |  |
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| Creative writing on 14:23 - Aug 20 with 7218 views | Pommyhoop |
This story is screaming out for a captains wheel and a pre pubescent cabin boy.Where's that Disco fella when you need him? | |
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| Creative writing on 14:53 - Aug 20 with 7186 views | Jigsore |
| Creative writing on 14:07 - Aug 20 by headhoops |
and more importantly Ramses continued, how do you know it was him?
Julie took a deep breathe, raised her eyebrows and pointed a long delicate fingertip towards a playing card pinned to the blackboard, yes the one with the team tactics on it. Its definitely him she continued, the huskiness in her voice increasing by the second. Its the King of Clubs his signature card, and more than that look over there on the filing cabinet.
The beanie hatted icon swiveled slowly, some would say as lithe as a panther and stared at the bottle of Cinzano. "What his plan blurted out the tactical genuis."
Julie began to sob, her tears starting slowly and then increasing in tempo, just like that first, well you know what in the morning. As the distance between disappeared quicker than a Mars bar in the Rooney household together they reached the same horrifying conclusion.
Terry Cinzano had finally got his hands on the Polaroid picture of Ramses and.......... |
"Harewood" whispered Ramsbottom, "Tim Harewood. "
Yes, that was the other man in the picture. Ramsbottom's left eye twitched slightly. He'd thought he'd left those days behind. He and Harewood had served in the Europa wars before Harewood's loose cannon mentality resulted in the Fiorentina Massacre and early retirement for 'Lieutenant Rambo'. But President Levy had covered that up hadn't he? How could Cinzano know?...
"Unless that blasted Togolese private squealed". Ramsbottom paused and reached down the neck of his trusty club tracksuit and retrieved a pendant in the shape of a little blue bird. He'd sworn by the Church of St. Barton never again to harm another living being (cigar-stubbing and bell-tapping Hull players aside). Had. He crushed it smartly underneath his club-issue size 10 trainer and stood up reinvigorated.
Julie looked at Ramsbottom. He'd apeared to have grown several inches taller, although that wasn't saying much. More saliently his usual teary-eyed red panda gaze had gone, replaced by a determined steely glare that could wilt a metal effigy of Duncan Ferguson. Her knees sagged.
He needed to find Cinzano. He picked up his mobile and twiddled with the annoying pattern lock several times before succeeding. Who else better to help him than his oldest friend... |  |
| “The thing about football - the important thing about football - is that it is not just about football.†|
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| Creative writing on 15:57 - Aug 20 with 7129 views | FDC |
Just then the silence was broken by a piercing sound, making them both jump. It was his Mercedes trade marked anti-theft system.
He lept to the window just in time to see two men hurriedly leaving the car park. The sun reflected off his twin spoke alloys.
His head was spinning. Who were these men, and were they connected with the morning's revelations? He tried to take stock.The London sewerage system is part of the water infrastructure serving London, England. The modern system was developed during the late 19th century, and as London has grown the system has been expanded. It is currently owned and operated by Thames Water and serves almost all of Greater London. [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 16:41]
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| Creative writing on 16:00 - Aug 20 with 7128 views | FDC |
Dp [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 16:02]
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| Creative writing on 16:22 - Aug 20 with 7089 views | Mytch_QPR |
All good so far, FDC got the spirit of Bruce's 'off at a tangent' ramblings when he delivered his sermon on the sewerage system - HOWEVER: you missed an opportunity to describe (in boring detail) the type of car alarm and alloys on the Mercedes. Suggest (with utmost respect) you edit that and add a load of nonsensical guff so that it keeps in the style of 'Striker'.
Great mention of St Barton by Jigsore - all names of ex / current players appreciated. Hopefully one of the posters on this board is working on a title and cover artwork. | |
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| Creative writing on 17:18 - Aug 20 with 7036 views | headhoops |
| Creative writing on 16:22 - Aug 20 by Mytch_QPR |
All good so far, FDC got the spirit of Bruce's 'off at a tangent' ramblings when he delivered his sermon on the sewerage system - HOWEVER: you missed an opportunity to describe (in boring detail) the type of car alarm and alloys on the Mercedes. Suggest (with utmost respect) you edit that and add a load of nonsensical guff so that it keeps in the style of 'Striker'.
Great mention of St Barton by Jigsore - all names of ex / current players appreciated. Hopefully one of the posters on this board is working on a title and cover artwork. |
Hookers, lines and stinkers.
Our part in the 4 year plan
by
Flavorless Brisketore & Bernard Cakepebble | |
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| Creative writing on 17:26 - Aug 20 with 7021 views | Dorse |
Ramjet made his way down to the car-park. He looked down at the twin, vulcanised rubber skid marks on the Tarmac. He paused, reflecting on the oft-repeated mistaken reference to modern asphalt concrete surfaces as 'Tarmac', when it should more properly pertain to tar-penetration macadam, patented by Edgar Purnell.
He wasn't going to make a mistake like that. Not again.
He remembered the sneers, the laughter, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, the hot flush of shame and humiliation. That was the worst birthday party he'd ever had. And now he was banned from every KFC in London.
Suddenly, nothing happened. Strange, he thought. That's not what he was expecting.... [Post edited 20 Aug 2015 17:40]
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| 'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!' |
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| Creative writing on 17:45 - Aug 20 with 7000 views | Mytch_QPR |
Okay, can I have another go?
The board meeting could wait, Ramsbottom decided, as the all alloy German engine jumped into life and he engaged the Drivematic gearbox system. The system allowed for 4 settings: Eco, Comfort, Sport or Kcrawl - Chris snuck the lever into 'Sport' and set off down South Africa Road, clipping a small boy on a wheelchair as he sped towards the Westway.
The Mercedes was certainly not inconspicuous - finished as it was in a special 'Rob Green' limited paint job - and Ramsbottom knew he was likely to be spotted if he caught up with these characters - whoever they were. The car was fitted with a special hands-free 'Dogtooth' system - whereby his calls could be heard over the 12 speaker sound system. He dialled Des Birdinhand to tell him he would be late for the meeting...
Des answered and sounded flustered:
"Don't worry, Chris - to be honest I'm a bit pushed anyway - I'm having a breakfast meeting in town".
Chris hoped he was meeting with some agents to bolster his squad - he had to work with meagre funds compared to his predecessors Barry Porkchopp and Mick Hughes - how he wished he had the sort of spending power they had been given to bring in International superstars - some of whom weren't even injured.
He wanted to speak with Des further but it was clear the meeting was about to start. Chris heard someone in the background mutter something about a 'Fat Sam' arriving and felt - not for the first time - a faint feeling of discomfort - and it was nothing to do with the Mercedes patented 'recline-omatic' leather seats.
Before he could ponder further he was on the Westway - or the A40 as it was generally known. The A40 is a major trunk road connecting London to Goodwick (Fishguard), Wales, and officially called The London to Fishguard Trunk Road (A40) in all legal documents and Acts. It is 262 miles (422 km) long.
Now read on... | |
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| Creative writing on 18:11 - Aug 20 with 6982 views | FredManRave |
Meanwhile down at his playboy mansion in Handvvanks, Barry Boughtcrap was stroking his wifes pussy, Cosie, whilst plotting his next move. He chortled to himself, as he did every day, whilst reflecting on the utter pile of shite that he had left the toned and surprisingly young looking for his age Ramsbottom. "Why that's just terrific", he mused, "Really quite fantastic" he whispered to himself as he realised it was time to put his plan into action. "Bondage" he screamed "Untie yerself and use that small electronic, vibrating thing so I can speak to Ramsbottom. I've got a cunning plan.". His loyal right hand man Heaven Bondage picked up the mobile, scrawled through the speed dial. 1.Essex Taxi Boy 2.DaveB and there it was 3.Ramsbottom. He dialled the number and Rasmbottom smiled as the Benny Hill theme tune rung out from the top of the range Apricot, befitting a man of Ramseys standing within the under 5s youth team at Spurs. "WHHAAASSSSUUUUUP" he shrilled whilst cruising the mean streets of West London in his aforementioned luxury car... |  |
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| Creative writing on 03:14 - Aug 21 with 6905 views | FDC |
"Alright Chris me ol son?"
"Barry, listen it's not a good time, and really you need to stop calling me after every game...."
"Fentastic result for you last night Chris, that Massive Umbongo is fentastic, just fentastic. Of course he'd still be in the reserves if I'd not coached him at Spuds..."
He was stuck in traffic, nothing had moved on the modern asphalt concrete surface for five minutes now. The Mercedes CLS is a top of the range model, so naturally it had hands free phone calling. Ramsbottom took advantage of this now as he rubbed his face with both hands. When he opened his eyes again he saw on the display that Julie was trying to call him. Of course, she would be wondering why he had left in such a hurry.
"Listen, Barry...."
"And Tyrone Raspberry, fentastic little player...."
"Barry!"
The display now showed that Des was calling him back.
"I'll cut to the chase then Chris..."
"Sorry Barry, this will have to wait. I've had a rather exacting morning you see..."
The silence on the other end was telling.
"It means stressful," Ramsbottom said kindly, remembering that not everyone had a GCSE in English.
"Alright Chris, alright" - there was a strange sound in the background, like the muffled protest of a man with his mouth covered in gaffer tape - "only, I've got Cinzano here with his mouth covered in gaffer tape, and he'd like to talk to you."
The world seemed to stand still for a moment. It didn't, it just felt like that.
"Cin... Cinzano? But..."
"I suppose I'll see you shortly then Chris", Barry chuckled, "Rose! ROSE! Leave his leg alone...." The line went dead.
Ramsbottom was in good shape, but despite his fine physical condition - and the Mercedes' more than adequate air conditioning - he found that he was sweating. He closed his eyes again. What a morning. When he opened them there was a steely resolve there. His attention turned to the Mercedes Comand Navigation system. It had cost him extra to have this fitted, but Ramsbottom wasn't a man that liked to get lost.
He was a well built man, and people were often surprised at the dexterity of his fingers. They danced now across the navigation system. When he was done he sat staring at the entry for some time. How long had it been? After the Europa wars he swore he would never go back. Yet this morning some dark force had intervened, and everything had changed.
The navigation system beeped once.
"Destination confirmed. Mudbanks, Dorset"
[Post edited 21 Aug 2015 4:00]
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| Creative writing on 03:52 - Aug 21 with 6882 views | Hitch |
In an instant it all changed. The Lorry in front of Ramsbottom jacknifed he had to react. As time stood still he thought about that young man who wasn't much good at anything.But one thing he had learned was how to handle a Merc. |  | | |
| Creative writing on 07:52 - Aug 21 with 6819 views | Konk |
As he waited for the inevitable, Paul McCartney’s criminally underrated Pipes of peace came onto the radio and his whole life flashed before his eyes: the cramped house he’d grown-up in with both sets of grandparents, his father’s funeral, the year in hospital with polio, his PE teacher telling him he’d never make it as a footballer as he literally kicked his crutches away before throwing a medicine ball at his teenage head, the celebrations when he got his English ‘O’ level, the first-half hat-trick on his debut, his leg being broken by Darren Crooks in the cup final, the breakdown on his comeback after six years of physio, 3 years in the US Marines spent fighting the Vietcong, the birth of his daughters and finally, that young boy in his full KPR kit, waiting patiently in his wheelchair every morning outside the training ground; no matter the weather, no matter the previous weekend’s result, no matter whether or not he agreed with all of Ramsbottom’s decisions; always with the twin thumbs-up. Ramsbottom realised he had unfinished business. Now was not his time. Not now, not before he’d had the chance to give the young lad in the wheelchair his outsized foam hand and last year’s 3rd kit away shorts. Ramsbottom threw the Ginsters beef slice he was eating out of the open window, took his other hand out of his pocket and grabbed hold of the luxurious, genuine leather circular steering wheel that comes as standard with all Mercedes CSKs and swerved with all his strength. Closing his eyes, he recited a Rosary, looked at pictures of his twin daughters, smiled at the irony of it all — he was a coach about to be killed by a lorry, which is a lot like the other type of coach, but without the seats and the windows - and held on tight. He wasn't sure he believed in God, but he sure as Hell believed in the peerless quality of German automotive engineering. [Post edited 21 Aug 2015 8:09]
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| Fulham FC: It's the taking part that counts |
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