The Flying Physio Room. Part 71
Tuesday 4 October…10:02….Bright, bracing, blue sky with bubble clouds. The summer’s last hurrah, the impending gloom of winter with one foot in the door…
The shock and reverberations from the hotel video footage was still smouldering like the wreckage of a car crash. If the revelations of the England manager generously steering businessmen to “ways round the rules” for princely sum of 400 big ones wasn’t enough to bring sick up into ones throat, the remainder of the film was wisely buried by the media. It was after the 16th Sambuca shot that things got really ugly. The chimpanzee, 3 dwarfs, 2 ladies of the night, one sword swallower and a fire extinguisher ordered by Allerdice and his business partner, to put on a show so disturbing, even Ch5 baulked at airing it after hours.
The aftermath saw much retrospective soul searching and varying calls for the game to be “cleaned up”. Ironic given the governing body of football are the most corrupt organisation in the world, maybe second only to some remaining Sicilian families in New York (although that’s questionable).
Slav afforded himself a smile as he leaned back in his creaking office chair. He’d been told the tales of his predecessor’s greed, and had turned a blind eye to many of his comments on his “inheriting a great squad”. “What goes around comes around mar frend” emitted the gravely tones from the Croat leader. As Slav turned however, he was confronted by a secondary screen showing the league table. It wasn’t good. The performances hadn’t been good enough. Energy and fitness appeared in dire straits. Confidence was evaporating rapidly. He’d held off making “the call” for now. He still had time. Several key players due back, international break. However, these days a managers life cycle was at its shortest ever, and he knew this. It wouldn’t be long until he called upon his ace card…..
Payet replaced the receiver in its cradle. He knew once he had given his word, there was no going back. Cristiano had held him to his word. If his form continued into the new season, he must join in his friend in Madrid. The Spanish side were flat and needed an injection of craft, guile, skill. In essence they needed a magician now. And he was that man. January would be the time. East London had been a wonderful home, a rebirth of his mercurial talents. But time was short. And he needed a challenge, not a dog fight. Manuel would be distraught, but he would be strong and pull through. He pulled out the club phone, and text the Boss....."Boss…I’m afraid we need to talk. I’m sorry. Dimi x”.
Slavs club mobile alert went off. “Symphony of destruction” by Mega death. These days the text alerts always seemed to contain more problems. Surely this was happy news? Slav opened the text and froze…..Those last 3 words….”I’m sorry, Dimi” burned into his eyes. No, not now, not him……tears began to well in Slavs eyes. After all those happy times on the ITV sofa during the World Cup, cuddling Ian Wright and whispering sweet nothings to Lee Dixon. It seems a lifetime ago now….could it all be falling apart at the seams?
Slav pulled a Marlboro form the emergency packet in his drawer. Lighting and inhaling deeply he leaned back. Blowing a stream on thin blue smoke upwards, trailing like a fishing line, immersing itself into the water and disappearing. This was it. He was calling it in. He opened the laptop and tapped on Skype. Good…he was online. He dialled……It was answered. Slav took a deep breath…..
The Physio had never been happier. Since the unwanted arrival of the Croat genius he’d become almost a recluse. Even Andy had been a stranger for longer than 6 months over the summer period. This was a real kick in the guts as their chess games had become almost grandmaster like in the tussles. Days spent reviewing stock, cleaning, attending training courses. This wasn’t how it was meant to be? Under Allerdice he’d had a steady stream of customers, varying in severity of damage, but at least 2 meaty operations a month or several cuts from the training field aerial bombardments. These days it was all yoga, diet, talking, stretching. Pathetic. But like buses…….yes this was much more like it. Fucka George, Sammy Davis Byram, The Big Man (gawd bless his loyalty to the Flying Physio room), Smiler Daffy, and now Andre Ayew – Who, me? He was a most welcome newcomer. He also upped the ante, not 2 weeker for this first time customer, he went the full monty on his first appointment, a proper 4 month job. The big man was not impressed with this immediate challenge to the crown. And, as ever, the big man delivered with a classic “mysterious” 2 month knee issue. You had to hand it to the big man, the Physio had never seen such reserves of niggling issues to keep him occupied.
It was at this point a Boro’ fan went sailing past the physio room window. Then another. According to Twitter these fans were last seen bouncing on tarpaulin at the OS but had misjudged the tautness of the fabric. I’m sure the Chelski fans will treat the facilities with much more respect.
Almost incredibly, at this same time, a loud “Boooooom” could be heard from the Rush Green facility. It was coming from the direction of Upton Park. TV’s were switched immediately to BBC and Sky news services. Helicopters circled the famous old ground. Clouds of dust and debris dominating the skyline. Many workmen and historians dominated the scene. Digging for several days around the foundations of the old ground, looking for remnants of the old Boleyn castle, before the inevitable footings began for the blocks of apartments, or, as I like to call them, flats.
As the dust began to settle, the stands were still intact. No demolition afoot for now, but what, enquired the reporters, accounted for the large noise? The site foreman and chief scientist were ushered to the front of the lighted cameras, strobes and microphones jostling for position. The site foreman look perplexed, confused and worried. The scientist turned and called to a colleague. The lady that appeared bore no business suit or sign that the commercial world was for her. Instead, hooded cloak and crooked hands suggested the sale of lucky heather was more her domain. The scientist croaked, “Ladies and gentlemen. You may have been aware for the last 3 weeks we have been digging for signs or evidence of the old Boleyn castle. Some sign to understand further and better the events of this time. However, upon digging further and further, we were alerted to a dark sludge and foul smell so terrible, we had to ask our wider scientific community what had taken place here? What terribleness had befallen this site? Madam Krap Notpu was the only person who has been able to solve this riddle. I can confirm here on this site, both the Cairns and Browne families sold their souls and conscience to her for a bag of silver. Here she buried their offerings, and here they rot. We have now exhumed the remains and have sent for secure disposal. The explosion was caused as we dug out the last of the Browne sludge, as it appeared some Icelandic resin had somehow made its way into the structure and caused a reaction we were not expecting. The site is now secure and, Madame Krap has confirmed, the site is now at peace. We will address any further questions at a later date”.
Madame Krap was whisked away. The foul smell rescinded. The Boleyn rested once more and stood proud.
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