Football Crazy Read Free

good enough, as is the case with the personnel of most lower division teams, the Premiership being as far removed from such players as the planet Neptune.
    In his office Donny Donnelly, wearing only a leopard skin thong, was lying on his sun bed topping up his tan. Prominent on the wall of the office that faced the door were two large framed photographs, a spotlight playing on each of them, thus guaranteeing that any visitor to Donny's inner sanctum would need to be as blind as a bat to avoid seeing them. One of the photographs was of Ron Atkinson, who was Donny's hero, despite his recent problems (of which Donny claimed Atkinson to be totally innocent, preferring to believe that the disgraced pundit hadn’t called Marcel Desailly a lazy nigger but a mazy dribbler, and had been misquoted). The other photo was of Ron and Donny together, Ron with a friendly arm around Donny's shoulder. It was signed, 'To my mate Donny, Big Ron'. All the money in the world could not have bought it.
    Apart from their respective heights, Ron being about six two and Donny nearer five two, the images on the photo were quite similar, both in build and features. Both of them had pudgy bodies and fat faces sporting a Mediterranean tan, and both had blonde hair worn combed over the top of their head in the manner favoured by Bobby Charlton when he still had some hair to favour. However if you looked closely at the photo you would see that while Ron was naturally blonde Donny was blonde courtesy of a bottle of peroxide, his black roots giving him away. Furthermore Donny had plenty of hair and, unlike Ron, didn't really need to comb it over the top of his head in a vain attempt to camouflage a balding pate.
    His thirty minutes up, Donny swung his legs off the sun bed, got to his feet, and went to the mirror to check his tan. It was spot on, midway between light and George Hamilton. Pleased, he went to the window to check on his squad.
    As he looked out at them one of the players, Higgs, a man short in stature and even shorter in talent, was about to take a throwin near the corner flag. About ten players were jockeying for position in the penalty area. Donny nodded his approval. He had recently put in a lot of time coaching Higgs in the art of the long throwin and now the player was putting his newly acquired skill to good effect.
    Higgs threw the ball in. Its trajectory was all wrong, much too high, and the ball landed well short of the jostling players. Donny groaned, opened the window and shouted out. “Higgsy!”
    Higgs looked over to the portakabin. “Boss?”
    “ Arch your back more.” Donny demonstrated the required technique, bending backwards from the hips. “To give yourself more leverage.”
    Higgs nodded. “Boss.”
    The ball was booted back to Higgs by one of the players, missing him by several yards, and after collecting it he prepared to throw it into the penalty area once again. The players jockeyed for position. One of them, Darren Briggs, called over to Higgs. “On me head, Higgsy my son, on me head!”
    “ How can ye miss a target like that Higgsy!” mocked the player guarding Briggs, Jimmy 'Floyd' Cragg.
    “ Bollocks, you Scottish wanka,” retorted the Londoner.
    Higgs drew his arms back, arching his back in the prescribed manner.
    “ That's more like it Higgsy my son,” Donny encouraged him.
    Inspired by this, and determined to impress his manager even more, Higgs arched his back even further, but only succeeded in overbalancing and falling flat on his back in the mud, much to the amusement of his team mates.
    At the portakabin window Donny rolled his eyes. It was going to be another long season. Then he remembered his idea. He smiled to himself. No, it wasn’t, it was going to be an excellent season.

    Joe Price, the owner of Price's Pies, a large, stout man in his seventieth year, was seated on the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce, registration number 1 PIE, on the way to his pie factory. His face told