Season 2- Chapter One- Banking Crisis (Season Premiere)

Charles Dickens, Football Manager: The Second Season

Long time no swear, gentleman. Last time you joined me in this recording of my happy, pig-shit-stressful days at Accrington Stanley, I had led the team to a glorious promotion, just as I had promised in my first day in the office. It took all my effort to squeeze the last ounce of urine to piss on my rivals’ championship hopes.

However, I shall not immediately launch into the next season proper. The first season technically…has not ended! DUN DUN DUN!

Well, it has for us- no more games, and merely the job of ensuring this club has enough money to pay its way (which is fucking hard I have to say, the empty playgrounds of Accrington and the booming slave markets of Liverpool are not at all correlated, I can assure ye!)

Despite me stripping the squad of almost every player I could to pay the torturer’s salary, the young lads have triumphed in kicking a ball better than the other GCSE drop outs.

The award winning is not over as my esteemed godliness is confirmed yet again by the typing monkeys in the press.

Harper is not so lucky, as my midfield dynamo wins merely second place. I comfort him, giving him a biography of Tim Henman, smothered in low-grade sewage.

Needing more kitchen staff, I extend Andrea’s loan, and set her to work straight away working for my new manservant, Mr Chizzledgit (does anyone actually get this joke?! Fucking read Martin Chuzzlewit you cultureless communist cunt spreaders).

I extend Raven’s torturous slavery at the club for another few months. He’s actually turned into a semi-useful player, augmenting his regular role as my barstool and general carriage- the sight of me on his back, him lumbering along like a dumb elephant, and I exorting passers by with my cane and pistol, whilst jabbing my spurs into his eyeballs, has become a common one in Accrington, savoured and recorded by locals who praise my tyranny (or else!).

I immediately look into the transfer market, and attempt to nab young Brooks from soon-to-be-relegated League Two human toilets Oxford.

Although he looks older than Miss Havisham’s wrinkled pussy, Trev rates him highly. Maybe cos he needs another lout to share a bitter with. So do I, so I set up to sign him for free.

Proctor goes to see the Doctor.

We capture the excellent McKenna for free off of Spurs- given he’s signing in July, I hand him a handbook of all the things expected of a Stanley player, psychologically bullying and preparing him for the physical and mental whipping which lies ahead. Humane, ain’t I?

Off to the Amazonian Seminary they go… sob…it’s like seeing your retarded child finally going off to school, having the inexorable relief of no longer having to care anymore and being able to pawn them off to the institution. I trust Father Manson will do everything he can…

I have nothing to proclaim, but my arse-kicking, sex Godliness.

I get a respectable 4 of my bitches into the team of the year.

Mullin comes third, and a flurry of bids come in for the human sack of failure that is Phil Jagielka.

Ooooh yeah

For some unexplained reason, Millwall, a club of similar ilk and the role model of this club’s legions of property destroying socialist fans, wishes to take off me Robbie Williams, a player who I never deployed in the whole season. Meh, more beer and whores for me I suppose.

Dagenham win the playoffs and go up with us deservedly.

As I steadily break up my squad to merely keep the club ticking over, I sell to Oxford, who are coming the other way to us, so, like a child flinging a brick at a passing car on the motorway, I fling Tretton into their sinking ship as we rise higher towards the peak of Olympus! Now- I discover the budget which will surely carry us further and further! I quiver in anticipation as the Scrooge in the accounting office swaps all the pennies he can muster in his pockets at the bank to give us our transfer budget!:

…

JEEEEEEEEEEEESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A CUNTING WANK MACHINE! The FUCK! I check back in my diary, and indeed discover this is less than what I got at the start of this shit kicking, penny pinching season. Jesus christ. Honest to fucking devil shit munting wank piss!

so descends Charles Dickens, Football Manager, into another period of rage and destruction