| Creative writing 09:44 - Aug 20 with 12804 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 08:55 - Aug 21 with 3110 views | Hitch |
Ramsbottom you are a survivor he thought to himself. He had escaped injury and whats more the Merc was intact. He thought again about his phys ed teacher, Mr Parker. He hated that bastard with a passion. Mr Parker always criticised Ramsbottom in front of all the other boys. The boy who laughed the loudest was a peculiar lad Michael Discone. Rambottom was an Mi5 plant. He was sent undercover to expose the corruption in football. It was just last year when he was approached by the director Sir Lionel Shawgore. Ramsbottom was informed he was to become the new manager of KPR. "They'll never buy it Guv" implored Ramsbottom. "Of course they will old chap, that club changes managers quicker than Mick Jagger changes girls". |  | | |
| Creative writing on 09:10 - Aug 21 with 3074 views | 1BobbyHazell |
| Creative writing on 07:52 - Aug 21 by 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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The thoughts of Mr Parker had been all part of his post accident delirium. As he came to, body aching all over, Chris slowly opened his eyes trying to adjust them to the well lit room he found himself in, because when your eyes have been shut for a time it takes time to adjust them to a well lit room. There was a constant thumping in his head, like someone playing the drums, bongos probably, on his head.
"Yooo hooo, coooeee, hello ducks", said a familiar but unwelcome voice.
It was Simon Stained-Rod, Barry Boughtcrapp nee Porkchop's 'fixer'. With him were his two burly minders Denny Shitzu and Weavie Sticks. Big lads, thought Chris to himself, even someone as well conditioned and tasty as him might have problems dealing with them.
"So big boy", continued Stained-Rod. "We need to talk, things have come to a head..", he started giggling in a girly way to himself and repeating the word 'head'. For the sake of simplicity, let's just say that there are certain parts of Nanchester, Crighton and Fran San Cisco where Stained-Rod would be more welcome than some parts of Russia, Nigeria and Nillwall, where he would not be so welcome.
Chris got up from the chair and walked to the far end of the room to give him time to gather his thoughts. He could feel Stained-Rod's eyes staring intently at his buns. Not that he was carrying a tray of French Fancies or any dough based sugary snack for that matter. No, it was his glutes, bum muscles to those without an English GCSE, that fascinated the light fingered Fixer. Well, mused Ramsbottom, he had his Power Moves XG1200 home gym step machine to thank for that, with its variable speed program and Incline Program it had played its part in his impressive leg physique. Sure, it was no Power Moves XG1300 with its in built heart monitor and patented Sound Atmosphere Provider, but it was a fantastic bit of kit none the less.
"Well sweetpea, Barry and GP want me to let you know that you have to lose the game against Botheram on Saturday or you'll never see Cinzano again..." |  | | |
| Creative writing on 10:02 - Aug 21 with 3028 views | Konk |
| Creative writing on 09:10 - Aug 21 by 1BobbyHazell |
The thoughts of Mr Parker had been all part of his post accident delirium. As he came to, body aching all over, Chris slowly opened his eyes trying to adjust them to the well lit room he found himself in, because when your eyes have been shut for a time it takes time to adjust them to a well lit room. There was a constant thumping in his head, like someone playing the drums, bongos probably, on his head.
"Yooo hooo, coooeee, hello ducks", said a familiar but unwelcome voice.
It was Simon Stained-Rod, Barry Boughtcrapp nee Porkchop's 'fixer'. With him were his two burly minders Denny Shitzu and Weavie Sticks. Big lads, thought Chris to himself, even someone as well conditioned and tasty as him might have problems dealing with them.
"So big boy", continued Stained-Rod. "We need to talk, things have come to a head..", he started giggling in a girly way to himself and repeating the word 'head'. For the sake of simplicity, let's just say that there are certain parts of Nanchester, Crighton and Fran San Cisco where Stained-Rod would be more welcome than some parts of Russia, Nigeria and Nillwall, where he would not be so welcome.
Chris got up from the chair and walked to the far end of the room to give him time to gather his thoughts. He could feel Stained-Rod's eyes staring intently at his buns. Not that he was carrying a tray of French Fancies or any dough based sugary snack for that matter. No, it was his glutes, bum muscles to those without an English GCSE, that fascinated the light fingered Fixer. Well, mused Ramsbottom, he had his Power Moves XG1200 home gym step machine to thank for that, with its variable speed program and Incline Program it had played its part in his impressive leg physique. Sure, it was no Power Moves XG1300 with its in built heart monitor and patented Sound Atmosphere Provider, but it was a fantastic bit of kit none the less.
"Well sweetpea, Barry and GP want me to let you know that you have to lose the game against Botheram on Saturday or you'll never see Cinzano again..." |
Ramsbottom sought clarification, “When you say I won’t see Cinzano again, do you mean, I just won’t see him again — like I never saw Dean Lawrence, my best friend at St Mark’s Primary school, after his family moved to Harlow, even though he promised he’d write and come and visit in the school holidays, or do you mean I won’t see him, like I won’t see my Nan again, because she died in 1974?”.
If it was the former, well Ramsbottom could live with that as Cinzano could be a little bit keen, if it was the latter, well, that was not cool. It wasn’t three points at stake any more, it was the wellbeing of KPR’s most dedicated fan. A man with four spare bedrooms packed full of KPR related memorabilia. He hated what it said about him, but the thought of throwing a game probably upset him a bit more. He was in a real quandary, but this time he wasn’t wearing a yellow hard hat and sat in a huge digger extracting rock for later use as industrial aggregate. |  |
| Fulham FC: It's the taking part that counts |
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| Creative writing on 10:31 - Aug 21 with 2979 views | hopphoops |
| Creative writing on 10:02 - Aug 21 by Konk |
Ramsbottom sought clarification, “When you say I won’t see Cinzano again, do you mean, I just won’t see him again — like I never saw Dean Lawrence, my best friend at St Mark’s Primary school, after his family moved to Harlow, even though he promised he’d write and come and visit in the school holidays, or do you mean I won’t see him, like I won’t see my Nan again, because she died in 1974?”.
If it was the former, well Ramsbottom could live with that as Cinzano could be a little bit keen, if it was the latter, well, that was not cool. It wasn’t three points at stake any more, it was the wellbeing of KPR’s most dedicated fan. A man with four spare bedrooms packed full of KPR related memorabilia. He hated what it said about him, but the thought of throwing a game probably upset him a bit more. He was in a real quandary, but this time he wasn’t wearing a yellow hard hat and sat in a huge digger extracting rock for later use as industrial aggregate. |
Ramsbottom played for time, his mind racing.
"So... you want me to send my boys out on Saturday against Botherem,... to lose?"
The awfulness of his situation was setting in and beads of sweat were prickling the nape of his neck and soaking the nylon collar of his mid-weight KPR-branded tracksuit top. The Rovers faithful had been on his back for months now, the players were arriving later and later for training sessions in spite of the impressive top speeds of their assorted sports SUV crossovers, and the pressure was growing to get results.
"No Chris sweetie", Shot-rod smiled. "We wouldn't ask you to do that. Mr Porkchop was playing that game years ago. 7 bed mansions in Handvanks with home cinemas and jacuzzis with built in multifunction massage made of Carrara marble don't come cheap you know. We've moved on, Ramsgate. These days our contacts in Singapore wouldn't get five dollars for a Rovers loss. We want you to win the game." |  |
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| Creative writing on 11:43 - Aug 21 with 2943 views | Dorse |
| Creative writing on 10:31 - Aug 21 by hopphoops |
Ramsbottom played for time, his mind racing.
"So... you want me to send my boys out on Saturday against Botherem,... to lose?"
The awfulness of his situation was setting in and beads of sweat were prickling the nape of his neck and soaking the nylon collar of his mid-weight KPR-branded tracksuit top. The Rovers faithful had been on his back for months now, the players were arriving later and later for training sessions in spite of the impressive top speeds of their assorted sports SUV crossovers, and the pressure was growing to get results.
"No Chris sweetie", Shot-rod smiled. "We wouldn't ask you to do that. Mr Porkchop was playing that game years ago. 7 bed mansions in Handvanks with home cinemas and jacuzzis with built in multifunction massage made of Carrara marble don't come cheap you know. We've moved on, Ramsgate. These days our contacts in Singapore wouldn't get five dollars for a Rovers loss. We want you to win the game." |
It was worse than he feared. A win? At Lofthouse Park Road? On Stan Boardman Day?
This was the tallest order since Gary Glitter went shoe shopping. 'But, how?' he stammered, as Staypressed lasciviously undressed him with his eyes. 'I've got no left back, apart from Kaplinsky, and my midfield still features Henry Karl, the world's fourth worst player. If I win against Botherham, the FA will see through it like silica combined with soda ash and limestone, melted together in a furnace at a temperature of around 1700 degrees Celsius!'
Stairrod, cackled mirthlessly, adjusting his nipple clamps, purchased from Anne Summers as part of a party set. 'Oh, you'll win or you'll find out exactly how it feels to be... Mr ... Rams ... Bottom...'
Stingray's hired goons began to snigger as he began to mime, grotesquely, what would happen if Rimshot failed to comply.
After several minutes of politely watching, Chris asked whether he should get on with it. Stimpy waved him away and continued his mime... |  |
| 'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!' |
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| Creative writing on 12:04 - Aug 21 with 2922 views | QPunkR |
| Creative writing on 11:43 - Aug 21 by Dorse |
It was worse than he feared. A win? At Lofthouse Park Road? On Stan Boardman Day?
This was the tallest order since Gary Glitter went shoe shopping. 'But, how?' he stammered, as Staypressed lasciviously undressed him with his eyes. 'I've got no left back, apart from Kaplinsky, and my midfield still features Henry Karl, the world's fourth worst player. If I win against Botherham, the FA will see through it like silica combined with soda ash and limestone, melted together in a furnace at a temperature of around 1700 degrees Celsius!'
Stairrod, cackled mirthlessly, adjusting his nipple clamps, purchased from Anne Summers as part of a party set. 'Oh, you'll win or you'll find out exactly how it feels to be... Mr ... Rams ... Bottom...'
Stingray's hired goons began to snigger as he began to mime, grotesquely, what would happen if Rimshot failed to comply.
After several minutes of politely watching, Chris asked whether he should get on with it. Stimpy waved him away and continued his mime... |
Realising he had to figure out a way to mastermind victory against the odds if only to save his supple and age-defying skin, Ramsbottom hailed a black cab in order to high-tail it out of there. He didn't know exactly where he was, but thought it must be somewhere in the Dicklands area. The Dicklands form part of the London boroughs of Southw@nk, Tower Hamstead, Lewiswestham and Redwich. As anyone with a well-deserved 'C' in GCSE Geography can tell you, they first underwent redevelopment in 1982 and have come a long way from their original purpose, which saw the area home to the most-used Dicks on the globe at some points.
His hunch proved correct as a cabbie picked him up and began chattering away with cocked knees, eating a jellied eel. As they traversed across London - England's capital and most populous city, originally set up by the Romans as Londinium - Ramsbottom looked out at the sights and listened to the sounds. Not the other way round, as that would've been impossible. He considered that although the black cab was spacious, it wasn't a touch on his own magnificent car, which was now Shirley no more than a smoking pile of undeniably good-looking wreckage. If it hadn't been destroyed in that 'accident' then Ramsbottom knew there was no way he'd be able to follow himself in this cab in his magnificent vehicle a) because he'd spot himself a mile off - it's not every day you see such a damn fine figure of a man wearing a skull-tight beanie driving a gorgeous Rob Green motor and b) because he wouldn't be in this cab if he was following the cab in his own car.
As these thoughts criss-crossed his mind, Ramsbottom considered that he may've sustained a bit more of a knock to the head than he'd previously anticipated... |  |
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| Creative writing on 12:11 - Aug 21 with 2912 views | Mytch_QPR |
Back at HQ, Julie was still pouring over the accounts. They were soaked through.
Chris asked "Can I smell paraffin?"
"Yes", Julie replied - "Mr Fir-Nandos asked me to burn them before the FA got a chance to look at them".
It made sense, the club was losing money faster than Steve Claridge in a Casino (allegedly). In order to beat Botherham, Chris was going to have to hang on to Charlie Boston and - ideally - Phil Mattys - both of whom were targets for Premier League Clubs.
Chris was used to thinking quickly - as a tactical mastermind he often had to make quick calls on substitutions. He turned to Julie and asked "Is that fax machine still broken?"
Julie confirmed - it has been broken since the Italian poured a bottle of fake tan into it.
"We're going to disappear, Julie - until match day", Chris said, wiping his brow.
Of course he did not literally mean disappear - that was something that various scientists had worked on over the years - often in secret and with catastrophic results as had been witnessed in The Philadelphia Experiment in the 1950s. What he meant was 'lying low' - which did not mean staying in a horizontal position on the lowest floor level possible. What it meant was staying out of sight - or going 'under cover'... [Post edited 24 Aug 2015 9:36]
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| Creative writing on 12:24 - Aug 21 with 2897 views | Konk |
“Okay”, said Julie, “Do you want to lie low on me or shall I lie low on you? And shall I close the door first?”. Ramsbottom rolled his eyes; he was used to women behaving like this around him, and he’d long ago accepted that this was part of his life; there was no “Off” button where his appeal to ladies was concerned. “Julie, you’re an attractive woman, you’re smart and you’re great with numbers, but now is not the time. Get your mind out of the dirty se x gutter and start thinking about how we can save Terry Cinzano”. | |
| Fulham FC: It's the taking part that counts |
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| Creative writing on 13:17 - Aug 21 with 2857 views | QPunkR |
| Creative writing on 12:24 - Aug 21 by Konk |
“Okay”, said Julie, “Do you want to lie low on me or shall I lie low on you? And shall I close the door first?”. Ramsbottom rolled his eyes; he was used to women behaving like this around him, and he’d long ago accepted that this was part of his life; there was no “Off” button where his appeal to ladies was concerned. “Julie, you’re an attractive woman, you’re smart and you’re great with numbers, but now is not the time. Get your mind out of the dirty se x gutter and start thinking about how we can save Terry Cinzano”. |
"Sorry Mr. Ramsbottom," Julie intoned, returning to her rightful place - as a female - busying herself about the place dusting the framed photos of Chris posing with various trophies he'd accumulated in his highly successful Championship Manager career to date. A short time later she returned with a passable mug of tea and he smacked her on the derriere to let her know that would be all for the moment.
With his lukewarm brew making a ring on his desk, Ramsbottom exhaled as he reclined into his Executive High Back PU Leather Black Office Chair, sinking into its comfort and feeling very much akin to being enveloped as a foetus in his mother's well-appointed womb. The sheer luxury of the double-padded back base and cushioned and contoured arm rests helped dispel some of the great thinker's unease at the whole situation.
On the wheels of his five-wheeled chair, he wheeled himself over to his window overlooking the parking lot outside and cast his gaze over the vehicles of his players down below.
There was Chaz Boston's grey Audi A7 hatchback, reposing like a lioness in a safari park saving her energies until just the right gazelle loped past. Ramsbottom could well appreciate the supercharged engine and four-wheel drive that came as spec on higher-end models.
And over there was North Korean right back Ol' Blow-old's snazzy Mercedes Benz S-Class. From sneaking into the motor's spacious glove compartment under cover of dusk one evening, Ramsbottom had read in its manual that the impressive S500L plug-in hybrid emits just 65g/km of CO2 while the rapid S600 hits 62mph in 4.6 seconds, although economy and emissions suffer.
And over here was Legbrace Tranore's purple Porsche Panamera, weighing nearly 4,000 pounds (1,800 kg), with four doors, and its engine mounted in the front.
Ramsbottom looked out at these trappings of luxury and missed his own car. Determined to push on through, he sat down at his laptop - a smaller personal computer and not a stripper - and started researching what car to replace his old one with.
He *had* to mastermind a victory over Botherham, but even a genius must have a settled mind in order to make bold decisions... | |
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| Creative writing on 14:21 - Aug 21 with 2825 views | Mytch_QPR |
Time waited for no man and soon Chris was turning his finely-honed mind to his idea of going 'under cover'. It would buy him some time to track down Cinzano's kidnappers and - hopefully - stall a move for his star players.
As his mind moved through its gears he stared down at the top of his oak desk. An oak, Chris mused to himself, is a tree or shrub in the genus Quercus (/ˈkwɜrkəs/;[1] Latin "oak tree") of the beech family, Fagaceae. There are approximately 600 extant species of oaks. The common name "oak" may also appear in the names of species in related genera, notably Lithocarpus. The genus is native to the Northern Hemisphere, and includes deciduous and evergreen species extending from cool temperate to tropical latitudes in the Americas, Asia, Europe, and North Africa. North America contains the largest number of oak species, with approximately 90 occurring in the United States. Mexico has 160 species, of which 109 are endemic. The second greatest centre of oak diversity is China, which contains approximately 100 species.
Suddenly, like a light going on his head (although not literally, as that would represent a health and safety hazard), Chris had an idea.
"Julie", he ejaculated (verbally) - "I know how we can get out of here in disguise and stay under cover".
Julie stood at the door to the office, with the keys to her Nissan Micra in her hand. Chris was looking at a photo of the 2 KPR mascots - one a black cat (which had at some stage been sprayed a strange silver colour) and the other a sort of lion creature reminiscent of a character from a Kelloggs cereal packet.
"Surely, you're not thinking of".... Julie's voice trailed off as she met Ramsbottom's steely glare.
"The hell I am", replied Chris.
Now read on and remain confused... [Post edited 21 Aug 2015 14:32]
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| Creative writing on 03:16 - Aug 22 with 2763 views | Pommyhoop |
| Creative writing on 14:21 - Aug 21 by Mytch_QPR |
Time waited for no man and soon Chris was turning his finely-honed mind to his idea of going 'under cover'. It would buy him some time to track down Cinzano's kidnappers and - hopefully - stall a move for his star players.
As his mind moved through its gears he stared down at the top of his oak desk. An oak, Chris mused to himself, is a tree or shrub in the genus Quercus (/ˈkwɜrkəs/;[1] Latin "oak tree") of the beech family, Fagaceae. There are approximately 600 extant species of oaks. The common name "oak" may also appear in the names of species in related genera, notably Lithocarpus. The genus is native to the Northern Hemisphere, and includes deciduous and evergreen species extending from cool temperate to tropical latitudes in the Americas, Asia, Europe, and North Africa. North America contains the largest number of oak species, with approximately 90 occurring in the United States. Mexico has 160 species, of which 109 are endemic. The second greatest centre of oak diversity is China, which contains approximately 100 species.
Suddenly, like a light going on his head (although not literally, as that would represent a health and safety hazard), Chris had an idea.
"Julie", he ejaculated (verbally) - "I know how we can get out of here in disguise and stay under cover".
Julie stood at the door to the office, with the keys to her Nissan Micra in her hand. Chris was looking at a photo of the 2 KPR mascots - one a black cat (which had at some stage been sprayed a strange silver colour) and the other a sort of lion creature reminiscent of a character from a Kelloggs cereal packet.
"Surely, you're not thinking of".... Julie's voice trailed off as she met Ramsbottom's steely glare.
"The hell I am", replied Chris.
Now read on and remain confused... [Post edited 21 Aug 2015 14:32]
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Meanwhile,Gary Porkchop nee Boughtcrap winced as his Nokia 6 vibrated in tandem with a quite tinny rendition of The Sweeny,a 1970s British television police drama focusing on two members of the Flying Squad, a branch of the Metropolitan Police specialising in tackling armed robbery and violent crime in London. The programme's title derives from Sweeney Todd, which is Cockney rhyming slang for "Flying Squad".Rhyming slang is a form of phrase construction in the English language that is especially prevalent in dialectal English from the East End of London; hence the alternative name, Cockney rhyming slang. The construction involves replacing a common word with a rhyming phrase of two or three words and then, in almost all cases, omitting the secondary rhyming word (which is thereafter implied), in a process called hemiteleia, making the origin and meaning of the phrase elusive to listeners not in the know. The Flying Squad becomes Sweeny [ Todd] ..( 2nd word omitted) ..The Sweeny
'' I facking love that show '' he thought to himself as he deftly answered the mobile device whilst simultaneously flicking it to speaker thus avoiding cutting off the incoming call by inadvertidly pressing the red button icon with his earlobe.
'Ello Stained Rod' he said into the phone confidently , knowing it was indeed Stained Rod because he had entered his name and number into his contacts list previously and now it was boldly displayed.
'' Hyer Boss '' shrilled the effeminate sidekick, flamboyantly, '' there is a slight hitch, you know you lumped all the syndicate's money on a KPR win and Charlie boy Mustwin to score a hatrick?''
Before he answered, Gary let his mind wander to the remarkable story nay saga that was Charlie Mustwin.Charlie was a late starter to the game of Association Football.He had'nt kicked a ball in anger until the age of 25. He spent most of the daylight hours working down a tin mine in the Sunny county of Devon.It wasnt a 'working mine' in that the deposits of Tin , a chemical element with the symbol Sn (for Latin: stannum) and atomic number 50, a main group metal in group 14 of the periodic table, had long been exhausted. The mine was now a tourist attraction and Charlie was the tour guide/handy man of the National Trust listed attraction. He was only doing this to pay for his studies to get his Building Studies certificate 102.Yes , his dream was to become a hod carrier. One day he was walking in the park when he passed an ongoing football match between local lads and asylum seekers,people who have entered the country fleeing from persecution, imprisonment or even death in their native land. The wretched souls were a man short of a full team and asked Charlie to play with them , in their team , as a striker.
Gary shook himself out of the pleasant historical daydream with a shake of his head.
'What about him?'' he gruffly enquired.
''He is on his way to West Hamstead Heath for a medical right now'' .If he passes it he won't be able to play for KPR on Saturday''.
Porkchop let out a primeval,animalistic roar from the depths of his very core and hurled his mobile phone across the room ............... [Post edited 22 Aug 2015 4:22]
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| Creative writing on 07:19 - Aug 22 with 2725 views | Dorse |
Meanwhile, in another part of the world, which refers to the planet 'Earth' (or Terra), a mid-sized planet in the Sol system that inhabits the so-called 'Goldilocks Zone' which allows for liquid water and, therefore, the development of carbon-based life, two overly large and extremely unconvincing cats made their way across London.
It is testament to the multi-cultural nature of the cosmopolis that they mingled unnoticed with the crowds.
'Mr Ramsbottom', whispered Julie / Spark, 'where are we going?' Ramsbottom had chosen the more traditional Jude costume. It was more moth-eaten and smelled vaguely of farts and shame but he knew his club history, damn it.
'We're headed for the one place that no-one would think to look for us', replied Ramsbottom. Julie hoped that she was wrong.
'You don't mean...?'
'Yes, Julie. We have no choice. We have to see... The Portguese'... | |
| 'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!' |
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| Creative writing on 07:49 - Aug 22 with 2711 views | FDC |
[Can i just say this thread brings me great joy. Top, top work everyone] |  | | |
| Creative writing on 08:57 - Aug 22 with 2683 views | 1BobbyHazell |
| Creative writing on 07:49 - Aug 22 by FDC |
[Can i just say this thread brings me great joy. Top, top work everyone] |
Agreed, every post has made me chuckle. Some excellent writing (some a little too good for true homage!) | | | |
| Creative writing on 09:43 - Aug 22 with 2661 views | PunteR |
Thread of the year so far.
Its funniest thing I've read for a while. I keep laughing out loud. |  |
| Occasional providers of half decent House music. |
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| Creative writing on 03:38 - Aug 25 with 2454 views | FDC |
Julie looked aghast. "The... the Portugese?!... You don't mean... Moaning Mario?"
"What? No - of course not!" exclaimed Ramsbottom, "why would we go see him?"
Joseph "moaning" Mario was manager of local, newly moneyed rivals The Battersea Bandits, and was a bit of a tit.
"No, I meant let's go for a Nandos, I'm starving."
So now Ramsbottom sat across from Julie, he having devoured two of his four extra-spicy chicken thighs, she having halfheartedly picked at her lemon and herb chicken wings.
"Chris, this is so difficult"
"I know, but lost causes is what I do".
"No, I mean, trying to eat chicken wings dressed as a tiger."
He chuckled to himself. Ramsbottom had got a B+ in Religious Education at O Level. His current disguise was as KPR's mascot prior to Spunk the Tiger, a black cat called Judd. According to the New Testament, Judd was one of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus, and in the Roman Catholic Church, he is the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes. Unfortunately KPR's previous owners, Tango and Cash, were devoted followers of the Unification Church of Sun Myung Moon, in which black cats are believed to be a bad omen and harbingers of a plague of inept managers and drunk Irishmen. Judd had therefore been retired in favour of the Unification Church's emblem, Spunk the Tiger.
"What? Oh yeah. I know, I know, but we have to remain inconspicuous"
"But, I don't think we are inconspicuous...."
"What we need now is some reflective exposition. Ok, so it looks like Cinzano was trying to warn me of something, by sending me that photo of me with Harewood," Ramsbottom's left-eye twitched, "but now Barry has him held hostage."
Julie tried to lift a chicken wing to her mouth but dropped it back on to her plate. A small child sat nearby laughed.
"Barry's trying to use Cinzano to force a win against Botheram this weekend," he continued, "but Charlie Mustwin is having a medical at West Hampstead Heath this afternoon." He paused. "And I need a new motor".
They sat in silence, digesting this information and spicy chicken.
"Why does Barry want a win so badly?" Ramsbottom said, more to himself than Julie. She was a nice girl, but not as educated as he was. "Barry's bent as a nine bob note, but he's no tactical mastermind. He must be working for someone."
What had Cinzano been trying to tell him with that photo? Of course there was his history with Harewood - Ramsbottom crunched into some thigh bone - but there must be more to it than that.
"Julie, do you have the photo?"
She pushed it across the table with her giant tiger paw.
There he was, side by side with his ex-comrade. They'd seen more action together in the Europa wars than anyone would ever know. At one time they had been like brothers. Until the betrayal. He would never forgive him. Never.
But why this photo? What was the significance? It was taken the day after the Fiorentina Massacre. They were both kneeling, each laying a reef of roses at the trenches of Artemio Franchi. That afternoon they had flown to Monaco, to take time to recuperate. They had needed it, they had seen things that week that no men should ever see.
Monaco. Rose.
"Chris, what is it?"
Ramsbottom was on his feet now. Of course, Cinzano had sent him a coded message with this photo, knowing that he had the intellect to decipher it. And he had.
"I know who's pulling the strings, I know who the puppet master of this whole damned show is." Ramsbottom was now using metaphors, his English O Level training coming to the fore.
"Who?" she whispered. Looking up at him towering over her with a fearsome look in his eyes, she suddenly felt both afraid and aroused.
"Rose" he growled.
She blinked, inside her tiger head.
"Rose? The... the dog?"
Ramsbottom was already half-way towards the exit.
"She's no dog" [Post edited 25 Aug 2015 5:51]
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| Creative writing on 08:56 - Aug 25 with 2403 views | Mytch_QPR |
Where's this going???
I'll have to have another go this afternoon! | |
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| Creative writing on 09:48 - Aug 25 with 2373 views | hopphoops |
| Creative writing on 03:38 - Aug 25 by FDC |
Julie looked aghast. "The... the Portugese?!... You don't mean... Moaning Mario?"
"What? No - of course not!" exclaimed Ramsbottom, "why would we go see him?"
Joseph "moaning" Mario was manager of local, newly moneyed rivals The Battersea Bandits, and was a bit of a tit.
"No, I meant let's go for a Nandos, I'm starving."
So now Ramsbottom sat across from Julie, he having devoured two of his four extra-spicy chicken thighs, she having halfheartedly picked at her lemon and herb chicken wings.
"Chris, this is so difficult"
"I know, but lost causes is what I do".
"No, I mean, trying to eat chicken wings dressed as a tiger."
He chuckled to himself. Ramsbottom had got a B+ in Religious Education at O Level. His current disguise was as KPR's mascot prior to Spunk the Tiger, a black cat called Judd. According to the New Testament, Judd was one of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus, and in the Roman Catholic Church, he is the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes. Unfortunately KPR's previous owners, Tango and Cash, were devoted followers of the Unification Church of Sun Myung Moon, in which black cats are believed to be a bad omen and harbingers of a plague of inept managers and drunk Irishmen. Judd had therefore been retired in favour of the Unification Church's emblem, Spunk the Tiger.
"What? Oh yeah. I know, I know, but we have to remain inconspicuous"
"But, I don't think we are inconspicuous...."
"What we need now is some reflective exposition. Ok, so it looks like Cinzano was trying to warn me of something, by sending me that photo of me with Harewood," Ramsbottom's left-eye twitched, "but now Barry has him held hostage."
Julie tried to lift a chicken wing to her mouth but dropped it back on to her plate. A small child sat nearby laughed.
"Barry's trying to use Cinzano to force a win against Botheram this weekend," he continued, "but Charlie Mustwin is having a medical at West Hampstead Heath this afternoon." He paused. "And I need a new motor".
They sat in silence, digesting this information and spicy chicken.
"Why does Barry want a win so badly?" Ramsbottom said, more to himself than Julie. She was a nice girl, but not as educated as he was. "Barry's bent as a nine bob note, but he's no tactical mastermind. He must be working for someone."
What had Cinzano been trying to tell him with that photo? Of course there was his history with Harewood - Ramsbottom crunched into some thigh bone - but there must be more to it than that.
"Julie, do you have the photo?"
She pushed it across the table with her giant tiger paw.
There he was, side by side with his ex-comrade. They'd seen more action together in the Europa wars than anyone would ever know. At one time they had been like brothers. Until the betrayal. He would never forgive him. Never.
But why this photo? What was the significance? It was taken the day after the Fiorentina Massacre. They were both kneeling, each laying a reef of roses at the trenches of Artemio Franchi. That afternoon they had flown to Monaco, to take time to recuperate. They had needed it, they had seen things that week that no men should ever see.
Monaco. Rose.
"Chris, what is it?"
Ramsbottom was on his feet now. Of course, Cinzano had sent him a coded message with this photo, knowing that he had the intellect to decipher it. And he had.
"I know who's pulling the strings, I know who the puppet master of this whole damned show is." Ramsbottom was now using metaphors, his English O Level training coming to the fore.
"Who?" she whispered. Looking up at him towering over her with a fearsome look in his eyes, she suddenly felt both afraid and aroused.
"Rose" he growled.
She blinked, inside her tiger head.
"Rose? The... the dog?"
Ramsbottom was already half-way towards the exit.
"She's no dog" [Post edited 25 Aug 2015 5:51]
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The two big cats with people inside emerged on to the Oxbridge Road, which was throbbing - metaphorically of course - with shoppers and asylum seekers, whose various misfortuunes Ramsbottom had already pondered earlier in this hectic day. Those from countries in which feline predators are an everyday threat might have noted that the tiger seemed to be in thrall to its domesticated partner - it was in fact hanging on to the tail of the black cat which strode forcefully ahead.
Lingering there, for they are not allowed to take up gainful employment under well established international protection norms, the assorted denizens of the Horn of Africa by way of Acton had little time to ponder, as a large sports car with an open roof came careering up the thoroughfare. They would not have recognized Denny Shitzu or Simone Spentrod but they would have noticed the lady driver's profuse stubble and muscular forearms. Spentrod's gender reassignment was still very much a work in progress. Gender reassignment is usually preceded by a period of feminization or masculinization. This is accomplished through hormone replacement therapy, where, for those transitioning to female, estrogens and antiandrogens and sometimes progestogens are prescribed.
They would however have seen with their eyes a man bound in the back seat, with a tesco carrier bag tied over his head, in a track suit emblazoned with the KPR logo and the initials CD. Who knows if they recognized him as the KPR frontman Charlie Dustbin?
The ever-alert Ramsgate sized up the situation in a second. The Sudoku book in the manager's toilet at Lofthouse Road had not been wasted, his mind was as taut as a coiled spring that has been stretched until it is taut.
He swivelled to face the oncoming convertible Volvo - not a drive he would have chosen given the wide array of German alternatives, but not to be sniffed at in a head-on collision. As he did so he felt a great pull on his tail as he inadvertently flicked Julie onto the Volvo's bonnet. The plush tiger suit offered no resistance and his assistant slid unstoppably over the windscreen and into Shitzu's lap.
... [Post edited 25 Aug 2015 9:50]
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| Creative writing on 10:36 - Aug 25 with 2345 views | FDC |
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| Creative writing on 11:02 - Aug 25 with 2315 views | Dorse |
It's true, thought Julie, your life really does flash before your eyes at times like this. Considering that research conducted in 2009 by Canadian universities showed that, statistically, over the course of a lifetime, the average person spends 26 years asleep, 20 weeks on hold and 136 hours getting dressed, this flashback was surprisingly tedious.
She looked in Shitzu's impassive visage. 'I can see why they call you 'Big Dan'', she said.
'That's the gear stick', he replied. 'This model uses a five speed box with sport mode available on the top spec.' Disappointed for several reasons, Julie decided it was time for back-up... | |
| 'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!' |
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| Creative writing on 11:18 - Aug 25 with 2300 views | gorky |
chris realised he had to make a decision quickly.normally his speed of thought was so quick he could make a game changing decision in 0.2 seconds (chris had worked this out and thought it could be improved)but this time it took him 2.3 seconds to work out all the variables,although chris was dissapointed with his thought processing time he realised this was even more of a crucial decision than when to take off andy forlorn.this was a decision that could save julie's life.chris had realised many years ago that because all women were defenceless in front of him at some stage he would have to lay down his own life in sake of all the julies in the world.he knew that in the 1980's after watching the popular film war games sirles and dennis thick had written a computer programme outlining all the possible escape routes from what city.he had to get in touch with one of these two or grasper noks who was the only person to encrypt the code and get out safe [Post edited 25 Aug 2015 11:29]
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| Creative writing on 11:18 - Aug 25 with 2300 views | FDC |
"Ooh you dirty cow!" squealed Stained-rod in delight. | | | |
| Creative writing on 11:28 - Aug 25 with 2288 views | Pommyhoop |
| Creative writing on 11:18 - Aug 25 by FDC |
"Ooh you dirty cow!" squealed Stained-rod in delight. |
''Where DID you get those fishnets '' he gleefully added. Fishnet is hosiery with an open, diamond-shaped knit; it is most often used as a material for stockings, tights or bodystockings. Fishnet is available in a multitude of colors, although it is most often sported in traditional matte black. [Post edited 25 Aug 2015 11:34]
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| Creative writing on 12:12 - Aug 25 with 2255 views | gorky |
although stained-rod and the the ripped fishnets would be the centre of most mens gaze chris was not most men.he looked into the eyes of the three machine gun shooting masked men behind stained-rod and with his retinal scan idea which he had patented in 1996 after the europa wars(he did'nt want to see such things again)he realised the henchmen were mickey droy junior,michael duberry junior and john terry junior.although to most people this would thicken the plot,to chris it now simplified it and he now knew what to do next.... | | | |
| Creative writing on 15:23 - Aug 25 with 2215 views | Pommyhoop |
| Creative writing on 12:12 - Aug 25 by gorky |
although stained-rod and the the ripped fishnets would be the centre of most mens gaze chris was not most men.he looked into the eyes of the three machine gun shooting masked men behind stained-rod and with his retinal scan idea which he had patented in 1996 after the europa wars(he did'nt want to see such things again)he realised the henchmen were mickey droy junior,michael duberry junior and john terry junior.although to most people this would thicken the plot,to chris it now simplified it and he now knew what to do next.... |
Meanwhile back at Mudbanks,sunny Dorset, Gary Porkchop morosely eyed the wreckage that was once his Nokia 6 .
''Bollox''he sighed '' I wonder if that's still on contract or is it Jamies old one he gave me last summer''.
He had to scupper the Charlie Mustwin transfer to West Hampstead Heath or the Iron Hoofs as their theatrical fans liked to be known.
Think Gary think.
His sad hooded eyes flickered with realisation like the candle in the wind on top of Elton John's piano when he delivered that haunting re.vamped version of candle in the wind for Princess Di's funeral. It was originally written in 1973, in honor of Marilyn Monroe, who had died 11 years earlier.In 1997, John performed a rewritten version of the song as a tribute to Diana, Princess of Wales. This version of the song was released as a single and reached No. 1 in many countries, proving a much greater success than the original, officially being listed as the second best-selling single of all time.
''Sandra Love'' , Gary bellowed ''Bring us the Burner''. Sandra ,Gary's lovely ,long suffering spouse appeared at the doorway struggling with a rather large cardbox which had the words Junior Chemistry set emblazoned on the front.
''No you silly mare' he sniffed affectionately , ''Not Jamie's bunsen burner .I meant the Burner phone you know, the prepaid cellular phone, replaced frequently to avoid leaving a trail and getting caught up in illegal activities.''
''Oh Gary, your not up to your old tricks again are you'' Sandra trumpeted with mock outrage'' you're such a ''wheeler and dealer''
''Facking wheeler and dealer-- I'm a football manager'' Gary roared, and playfully patted her on her behind.
Normally this playfull interaction was the prelude to a bout of steamy role play. But not today .Porkchop had business.
'' Ello, yes put me through to the club doctor please.Tell him its Billy Premium Bonds''
A refined Indian voice answered ''Hello ,Billy?''
''Ello Doc, nah its me Gary, I just use that sods name to throw people off the scent'' Gary snorted
''Listen , you know that favour you owe me? Well I'm calling it in son..'' ''Yep you got it ,them X rays,, the ones without ligaments ,you know the ones. ........ | |
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