Withdickens & I- Charles Dickens, Football Manager- A ‘Slightly More Literary’ Special
It is the silent Kinge,
Who perhaps inspires the most reverence-
That is what they shalt say, but not in this realm,
This realm of Accrington, with its valiant Stanley
“It’s been another week, hasn’t it? So you come to me, drunk, whiskey on your breath, a pool of piss siphoning from your leg, and a line of fizz and powder still on your nose.”
“Why are you talking into a mirror, Charles?” asked Mr Wilde, his assistant.
“I’ll do whatever the FUCK I want you irish rucksack of shit and small pox,” said Charles.
McKenna is reported injured, but he is loaded full of drugs and sent out back to the pitch- no matter, wrote Charles in his diary, — He shall play on, under the influence, like a washed up rock star whose clock is numbered and limited, or a whore of a supermodel who has overdosed on cock and cocaine marching down the catwalk. These men mean little to me.”
“We’re second in the league, Oscar. I can feel the itch of success stronger than ever,” said Dickens.
“Perhaps, then, dear Charles, you should follow the instructions on your prophylactics and not sleep with so many cheap harlots?” said Oscar, wildly.
“None of that mouth, I am master of all I survey! When God proclaimed in Eden that man shall rule all, it was directed at I, and, despite the doubting of my wits, that everything be this little football club in this hole of a town is the endless irony of my sentence!” said Charles, dickensly.
“That pun didn’t really work, Charles,” said Oscar.
“GET OUT OF MY OFFICE IF YOU’RE TO DOUBT ME YOU STREAK OF STERILE SEMEN!”
We prepare for another home show against Leyton Orient, a pretentious team name if there ever was one. At least we’re named after our only fan, ole Stanley from Doggehill Crescent.
Awards time!
…well we’re not in there…
“Or any others! Fucksakes. The board are pleased however, and raked in a tidy profit- capitalist pigs. Where the fuck is MY share of all this moolah?! Heads will roll!”
“I believe the damage to the equipment and furniture from your eccentric…applications of them to the players’ bodies rather covers your share.”
“How can I expect to work in these fucking conditions?! To turn this still-born aborted foetus into a being adequately equipped to defend itself?! ‘How Infinite in faculty’ my ARSE Shakespeare! If you were to see the walking fools and inbreds I work with every day you could barely hold your nancy self together you shower of piss! Pathetic!”
However, 3 of our players did make the team of the month, from all three sectors of the field.
“Good. Now get back to work you JSA-dodging cockend!”
If he does not do his job now after this kind rest I have given him…a cruel spider will be placed in his bed, so that when he jumps out of the sheets, he ends up on the landmine I have craftily placed.
Sigh, here we go again, ‘underdogs’, et cunting cetera.
I try some new tactics, and lay on my usual speech:
“You people are not worth the belches which spring out of my mouth- fuck you, get on that pitch, do what the fuck I want, I’m having a whiskey.”
The match, however, is incredibly boring, as evidenced by the first photo being from the 57th fucking minute- despite having THREE strikers I haven’t had a single FUCKING SHOT ON TARGET! WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU PEOPLE- Be French?!
YEAH BUT IT FUCKING WASN’T SO WHAT FUCKING GOOD DOES THAT DO!?
“Fucksakes! You CUNTS. Mediocrity! Fucking mediocrity. Mediocrity is an excuse for not being fucking good enough to be of any real use, and not useless enough to warrant pity! The middlest of the fucking middle!”
In punishment for their sins, the whole team is forced to listen to the latest boring, plodding, mediocre pop, whilst being slammed head first into a beige-painted wall. Teach them the fuckers.
More injections for McKenna.
Ten games unbeaten! I watch wild eyed and ready, a cigarette limp in my lips, and a lump of anger in my throat, as I wonder when the wheel will fall off this tremendous train, and what twat will get my righteous punishment.
“I make preparations to expand the team- I hunt out exam dodgers abroad, in every nook and cranny, in every labour exchange and workhouse, as I seek to assemble a motlier crew. With a bunch of players ready to be loaned who are more vital to my plans, I send Heaton back, bruised and with a little dickensian wear and tear back to Manchester to free up a berth in my loanbook.”
“Oh dear chap, I do love it when the new lads get off that bus and we see their faces light up,” said Oscar.
“You mean in terror as I attack with my cane and you attempt to carry them off to your office?”
“Naturally, dear Dickens,” said Oscar, winking profusely.
Ah, our new fixture approaches. I instruct the team that more mundanity is not fucking acceptable, and a rusty knife would be shoved up their arseholes to set them on the road to backstreet womanhood if they didn’t do better! They walked out clutching their balls, but they do that usually anyway.
Oh BALLACHE. Fucking hell now I have to do something. I scribble some notes, and throw the sharp fountain pen at the iris of the nearest Stanley defender. Fucking useless pricks.
oh thank fucking goodness. Silva saves me a good deal of rage and risk of heart attack.
Murphy pulls one back!
Half-time arrives and it’s deadlock. Mullin replaces the exhausted Barker up front.
Oooooooooooooooooh yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasaaaaaaaaaa! It does not take long for the mighty Stanley to once again rock my Dickensian cock and send shivers of joy up the vaginas of women all around the stadium as I pose in triumph at my mighty tactics.
Mullin is harshly ruled out of another by the fact he was “offside.” They just make this shit up sometimes, I swear.
We push harder and harder for a third, as we violently pummel and rape the orifice that is the Pilgrims’ defence.
NO YOU USELESS SON OF A CU-
And it was at that moment, that I felt my heart tug and tear, the anger pouring and bursting, exploding inside of me as my rage encapsulated my person- and then I realised, I was, in-fact, having a fucking heart attack. The cunts had DRIVEN ME INTO A HEART ATTACK.
With me incapacitated through my fury, and the final giving way of my bitter heart, Oscar helmed for the remainder of the match.
As I lay in my bed, a whore massaging my penis, and a pen scribbling foul words and tactical instructions on the parchment in front of me, I realised I’d learnt something- that these fuckers should take me fucking seriously or face the fucking consequences. When I return, it shall be a thunderous one!
Charles Dickens, Football Manager- don’t go breakin’ my heart!
