Season Two- Chapter 2
Charles Dickens- Football Manager. The Second Pre-Season… a more boring circumstance than watching Ben-Hur and then Lawrence of Arabia in a row with Chris Moyles…actually that’s a lie
After discovering the transfer budget was 14,000 guineas, I spent the night shitting on the boardroom’s coffee table. When I broke the news to the people who actually make this club tick….
-”Impossible, Jim. Worth less than an NHS support staff member…”
Scout Robert Louis-Stevenson!:
“Fuck that shit, I’m fucking outta here laddie” (fuck knows why he’s scottish…was Robert Louis Stevenson scottish? I can’t remember). (wasn’t lying about the wife, eh? I’d bang that oily-painted face faster than Sven-Goran Errikson’s reaction to a fistful of corrupt cash)
“That’s barely a pint o’ bitter!” says Trev the Scout
“How mightily shit-eating of them”- Assistant Manager Oscar Wilde, after agitating the local witch (who happens to enjoy sculpture of gay Irishmen)
The words “Please sir, can I have some more” come to mind. Except this time it’s not coming from a disobedient little oik, they’re coming from the sexiest, godliest, most important manager of all time: Charles Dickens, Gentleman Fucking Football Manager.
We did our best to contain our discontent at this utterly piss-wank state of affairs, and thusly made do with our business.
Thanks for nothing, you porpoise-brained cockends.
On to better news- once again we top the table upon entering it. Excellent start, I say. Still, it’d be better if this place wasn’t falling apart. It was tinpot already, this is approaching Neville Chamberlain levels of forward-looking failure.
Cheers, I’ve forgotten who the fuck he is already.
Superb- the second season truly begins.
Here’s my recruits already. God I’m impressive.
Ex-Stanleyman Joynes shows his charisma with the fans- that’s Dickensian spit and broil, that is. I hear he used the words “cunting cockbags”. I’m so proud.
This is who I’m competing with for the official title of godliness. Yes, that’s my biographer in second place. Don’t ask how this time travel business works, it’s something to do with wormholes and paradoxes or something.
Bones gets another experimentation victim.
SUPERB news. Someone who looks like they can understand you need to put a ball BETWEEN the sticks to score. Plus he’s Irish, so endless racist funtimes ahead.
Here’s our squad ahead of our first friendly- against Leicester, a team famous for their [ready] salty reputation.
“Cocks, score, win etc.”
Seems like only yesterday since we played… *harps* The steaks [and onion] are only as high as the cliffs I’ll push the scapegoat off.
TRY HARDER, RETARDS!
Hammond does not produce the crisp finish expected from this quality team.
GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
so carries on the pre-season of Charles Dickens, Football manager
