Season 2- Chapter Three

The Not Really Curious, But Generally More Accurately Describeed as Fucking Amazing Case of Charles Dickens, Football Manager

After the debacle at Leicester, I decided I would never allow a superior team to best us once again. Therefore, I signed Martin on loan. He’ll be a nice little asset. And with his contract up in 12 months, it’s possible we can nick him- it’s the secret to success I tell you, ensnare them and groom them, and finally make the bitch yours (Dickens’ Law of Football #3).

To remember who the hell he is I’ve included this screenshot. As you can see, he looks like a fast little bugger- a perfect rapist/athlete.

Our next game is against Brentford, a team famously owned or ran by Greg Dyke, the only man in BBC history to advertise his sexuality in his surname. New signings Murphy and Martin start.

Cheers, retards. I break out my king-size spiked bat, and forcefully massaged it into their backs.

FUCKING YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! TAKE THAT, JIZZ IN THEM!

ARSE! In this frantic second half, after a first half so boring I felt I may have achieved more by watching Loose Women, the game heats up. It’s end-to-end competitive stuff, which is good considering Brentford are a league better than the Stanley. I’m taking a rather laid back attitude to these friendlies- I actually don’t give a fuck, so long as I have a slut servicing my john thomas, failure or no failure, I’ll be happy. Wait until it gets to the season though, cunts, they won’t know what hit ‘em. I like to lull them into a false sense of security, and then to bugger them with a rusty screwdriver.

Our team’s fightback is thwarted by a man with a flag! Little cunt. Cunning use of flags…

FUCKING ARSE. Still, next game’ll be good, eh?

Today’s pointless friendly(TM) is against Livi, who in a parallel universe are possibly about to disappear from existence. I plan to beat those muthas so hard that they fizzle and destablise their atoms, such is the asskickery which the Stanley will hand them.

My plan goes to plan (that makes sense). I’ve handily indicated that it was crossed- sometimes it’s confusing and Mr Dickens has to work out who scored by what person receives the lightest stirring of hatred and bile in the dressing room.

Our arse-handedness thwarts us once again as Livi score a long-range shot.

TOO FUCKING RIGHT. Honestly these arses are going to be torn a new orifice on every inch of their body when I’m finished with these lazy dicks.

Hooray! We’re topping another league! Unfortunately it’s a league of who is in Bones’ hands in sickbay, which frankly is a fate worse than death, the food consisting of fish and chip crisps and space invaders sandwiches. Now, if there was a league of how many players I’d hospitalised…

Our next game is against a little known team called Liverpool. It’s their reserves though. Notice how good Accrington sounds in a Scouse accent?

Our team is a firmly attacking one, as there’s is a firmly defensive looking one. I made my pre-match speech:

“Stuff their net with your balls!”

I walked away crying with laughter, whilst the cluster-retards didn’t get it.

TRAITORS! Not even 90% of our team blocking and manhandling them could stop them! Clearly the only explanation is treachery. I’m looking at you Raven!

OOOOOOOOOH! Our attacking pulls off as we shove our fingers in their eyes, using the opportunity to knock it between the sticks. Who said violence doesn’t solve everything, eh? Not Charles muthafuckin Dickens that’s who.

Nigga, please!

With another loss under our belt, this pre-season looked decidedly more depressing, as I walked out the stadium and into the overcast Accrington landscape, I found myself contemplating whether it would be good policy to cut out the brains of every player, and replace them with mice on running-wheels. I decided that’d be money not spent on whores and pints, so I made my way to those establishments, to fuck them as hard as we’re being fucked by foreign teams.

so continues the pre-season of Charles Dickens, Football Manager