Season 1- Chapter Fifteen

The Secret History of Charles Dickens, Football Manager

“

After the debacle at Gray’s, and a night of auto-asphyxiation to relieve myself I set back to work, and composed my MASTER PLAN- DO NOT FEAR MY WORSHIPPERS:

Wait for it guys. Wait for it. It’s genius. Just you wait:

…….

*drumroll*

Not to Lose a single game more.

It is bold- far-reaching, just like my conquering phallus. You wonder whether that should always be the plan- well, sometimes, I find draws strategically acceptable. Well, I shall not now.

I inform the squad of the decision, and they kneel before my leadership at the forever enduring altar of the fatherland.

Now, let’s get on to kicking ass- straight in against Gravesend and Northfleet. Mullin is rushed back from injury to partner Fortune-West. We desperately need people who can actually do their FUCKING JOBS.

“Now, dickweasels, remember the plan! I see y’all goin round da hood been all look ’shiiiiiiiieete man that dickens nigga is always on about plans, whats different this time around’…the difference is…is that I’ll be watching you.”

Goooooooooooooooooooood, gooooooooooooooooood, my apprentices….

Their goalkeeper is hilariously dispossessed by the lanky Fortune-West, who strikes it home.

Progress is made in our planned Blitzkrieg: Operation Make-em-fuck-a-buzzsaw. 7th is now ours. The gap is an epic 15 points, and if we take out the Daggers in our game with their gang, my crew will be 12 points behind instead.

Word of my godliness has quickly spread- pity I’d rather holiday in Mordor than live in Wrexham, eh?

The next game is against Crawley in the FA Trophy. What a silly fucking distraction! They may as well hand me the trophy, let’s face it, like a whore gratuitously passes on her valuable diseases from her loose, oft-occupied cunt: if the position of Home Secretary ever had a rival for how many dicks it has in it, it’d be this hairy slit.

Excellent. I’ve already forgotten who he is.

We loan some half-decent cover, another youthy striker- the others have been dramatic disappointing failures. Yes, I am talking about you Joynes, Shaw, Brown, Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grubb… (hilariously, I DO have a player called Dibble).

The excellent Patrick Cregg, recently arrived from Arsenal takes his place, replacing jive-ass-muthafucker Boco the Clown.

Now onto Crawley…

They waste no time gifting us a goal as Roberts strikes it into the net. I wave my cock as I dance to the bustin’ rhymes of LL Cool J: Mama Say Knock You Out. God I fucking rule.

Richardson falls in the field of duty!

Fortune-West strikes to make it 2-0 to the MIGHTY STANLEY. TAKE THAT YOU FUCKING GIRLS.

Crawley score just before half-time. CONFIDENCE, NIGGAS!

Relentless late attacks by Crawley culminate in two disallowed goals for Fleetwood as he’s caught by our offside trap.

You know, I am totally superhuman. Cregg’s debut was also excellent: some hope in this shit-pit of a place.

Bones reports the bad news:

“Jim, he’ll be out for a loooooooooong time. I’ll use the time to test out these new beauty products I’ve been synthesising, apparently we’re not allowed to test on animals anymore. Don’t you think that, what with gay animals, females, and the fact we have beauty pageants for animals means that it’s slightly hypocritical if I give them some anti-aging cream?”

Fucking Mengele, I tell ya. And stop calling me Jim!

INJURIES?! I’LL SHOW YOU SOME MUTHAFUCKIN’ INJURIES *swipes Raven with a mace into his eye*

The next stage in ‘Operation Feed-them-to-the-Dogs: Rabid Dogs at That’ gets underway as we face up against Morecambe, a team whose ruthless slavery almost matches my own predeliction for Chinky slavery.

It does not take long for us to score, as a cross from the left wing by Roberts is quickly centred by right-winger O’Neill on the line, straight into the path of the rampaging Harper. I burn a cross in celebration, dressing up as a ghost in the process. Raven gets scared, and I tell him that dressing up as a ghost is possibly the lamest way to scare black people- the nigga still got scared though, gotta give him some muthafuckin kleenex, his eyes were so teary [stop with the awful jive talk and get on with the game!- Oscar Wilde Ed.]

Bloomer commits a cynical foul as everyone points and laughs at him. I cynically foul him as he comes off by hitting him over the head with my copy of Private Eye (badum tisssssssch).

Roberts converts the penalty as we romp to victory, taking all their women in the process back to Fortress Accrington and our great mead hall.

God I’m awesome.”