By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions. We in turn value your personal details in accordance with our Privacy Policy.
Please log in or register. Registered visitors get fewer ads.
In celebration of our comeback (my prediction of a 4-1 win wasn't quite right but was in the right spirit) and inspired by Steve Bruce's talents as a literary genius, I thought we could combine heads to start a story - written in the same style as the Bard Bruce. Everyone can contribute, say 300 words (3,000 if you're Neil) and we'll see how the plot develops:
Chris Ramsbottom, manager of struggling Kings Park Rovers, reversed neatly into his parking bay at Leftus Avenue and admired the impressive stadium from the windows of his Mercedes CLS. He pushed the button to engage the electro-retractable roof, which was fitted as standard to this model, and let the all alloy 3 litre engine rest to a halt. It was a desirable motor, no doubt about that - but it would all mean nothing if the Rs failed to beat Botherham in this Saturday's 6 pointer.
He had a fit body and sprinted up the steps into the bowels of the stadium. In his plush office, he reclined into his Simon Barker Knoll chair and asked Julie, his attractive blonde secretary to brew him a Lapsang Suchong tea. He'd fought many battles from the touchlines, but today this battle was going to be taking place in the boardroom as he prepared to try to hold on to his star striker, Charlie Boston. It was going to mean some hard talking with his Director of Football, Des Birdinhand and the tough-talking tycoon from Malaysia who owned KPR - Terry Fir-Nandos.
Julie leaned across the desk, giving Chris a revealing view as she served his tea. "Are you alright", she asked - sensing the tension in the room. "I'm fine", Chris lied - "just got a busy day ahead, that's all". He could feel the beads of sweat already forming on his forehead. "Well, let me know of there is anything I can do for you" Julie purred, seductively. He sensed an emphasis on the word 'anything' and for a few moments his mind wandered. Then, suddenly, his Apricot 9 mobile phone sprung into life - playing the theme of TVs Steptoe and Son. Chris was expecting this call...
To be continued...
[Post edited 20 Aug 2015 9:47]
"Thank you for supporting Queens Park Rangers Steep Staircase"... and I thought I'd signed up for a rollercoaster.
As he waited for the inevitable, Paul McCartney’s criminally underrated Pipes of peace came onto the radio and his whole life flashed before his eyes: the cramped house he’d grown-up in with both sets of grandparents, his father’s funeral, the year in hospital with polio, his PE teacher telling him he’d never make it as a footballer as he literally kicked his crutches away before throwing a medicine ball at his teenage head, the celebrations when he got his English ‘O’ level, the first-half hat-trick on his debut, his leg being broken by Darren Crooks in the cup final, the breakdown on his comeback after six years of physio, 3 years in the US Marines spent fighting the Vietcong, the birth of his daughters and finally, that young boy in his full KPR kit, waiting patiently in his wheelchair every morning outside the training ground; no matter the weather, no matter the previous weekend’s result, no matter whether or not he agreed with all of Ramsbottom’s decisions; always with the twin thumbs-up. Ramsbottom realised he had unfinished business. Now was not his time. Not now, not before he’d had the chance to give the young lad in the wheelchair his outsized foam hand and last year’s 3rd kit away shorts. Ramsbottom threw the Ginsters beef slice he was eating out of the open window, took his other hand out of his pocket and grabbed hold of the luxurious, genuine leather circular steering wheel that comes as standard with all Mercedes CSKs and swerved with all his strength. Closing his eyes, he recited a Rosary, looked at pictures of his twin daughters, smiled at the irony of it all — he was a coach about to be killed by a lorry, which is a lot like the other type of coach, but without the seats and the windows - and held on tight. He wasn't sure he believed in God, but he sure as Hell believed in the peerless quality of German automotive engineering.
[Post edited 21 Aug 2015 8:09]
Replied to a post from ages ago by accident. Ignore!
Rami often said fortune favours those willing to invest that little bit more in automobile safety and boy was that true here. By the narrowest of margins he avoided calamity, marshalling his cat like reflexes he caught a glimpse of the lorry driver, a strangely familiar silhouette - surely no. Was it? What was Maul Marker doing here? He hadn't seen him since they fell out over a winner takes all game of ping pong back in Nam.
A brutal battle. Brutal. In front of a watching throng of GI's, orangatans and sloths they exchanged all the common table tennis shots as well as a few you rarely see sweating like a kris aka sushi parody. Final point won the heavens opened and Rami watched as Maul slumped to the sodden ground, wetter than a Mancunian stickleback and with dead eyes he thought this won't end here. Little did he know then how much that finger spin serve would haunt Maul. Since then there had been a minor messageboard vendetta, but this was a different level entirely. Again he thought this won't end here.
Steely eyed he returned to the road onwards to Mudbanks......
[Post edited 25 Aug 2015 19:23]
If not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled. PG Wodehouse
Replied to a post from ages ago by accident. Ignore!
Rami often said fortune favours those willing to invest that little bit more in automobile safety and boy was that true here. By the narrowest of margins he avoided calamity, marshalling his cat like reflexes he caught a glimpse of the lorry driver, a strangely familiar silhouette - surely no. Was it? What was Maul Marker doing here? He hadn't seen him since they fell out over a winner takes all game of ping pong back in Nam.
A brutal battle. Brutal. In front of a watching throng of GI's, orangatans and sloths they exchanged all the common table tennis shots as well as a few you rarely see sweating like a kris aka sushi parody. Final point won the heavens opened and Rami watched as Maul slumped to the sodden ground, wetter than a Mancunian stickleback and with dead eyes he thought this won't end here. Little did he know then how much that finger spin serve would haunt Maul. Since then there had been a minor messageboard vendetta, but this was a different level entirely. Again he thought this won't end here.
Steely eyed he returned to the road onwards to Mudbanks......
[Post edited 25 Aug 2015 19:23]
Rosie.
It all comes back to Rosie. If he was right, and he was never wrong, Rumplestiltskin was going to have to find out just what she was up to. Think, damn it, think, he thought.
Rosie, if that was his, her or its real name, was masquerading as a dog. Dogs, it is understood, are quadrupeds that enjoy bones. And, of course, the biggest bones come from dinosaurs.
Suddenly, he had it. Not the plague or matted anus hairs but the solution. It was all so obvious.
Fracking.
Natural gas is extracted from underground shale deposits by forcing water and chemical solvents under high pressure to fracture the rock strata in which it is trapped. Rosie's diabolical scheme was nothing less than the destruction of Britain (as distinct from the political entity that is the UK or 'United Kingdom')!
The dinosaurs were either carnivorous or herbivores. Either an all meat diet or an all vegetable diet will result in quite horrifying flatulence. It was clear to Ramsey that the gas being extracted by Rosie's front company 'Quadrilla' was millions of years of trapped dinosaur farts... And she was planning to release them, rendering these sceptred isles an uninhabitable wasteland, full of holes and smelling worse than a Faliraki skip in a heatwave.
'That bitch!' he snarled, fully aware of the irony...
'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!'
0
Creative writing on 12:33 - Aug 26 with 1923 views
Meanwhile in an edifice of shimmering glass and steel not a million miles away from Canary Wharf, a frantic figure bursts the door of the News Editor,Daily Heliograph. "Leader front page Chief,hold the presses" "What is it this time Scoop?" The object of scorn is enthusiastic cub reporter Scoop Whittington,freshly scrubbed and pink of face that positively glows with zeal and acne cream. "Toothpick?" "No thanks Chief,I'm trying to give them up.I've tried using Interdens but it's not the same.You got a drink handy?" The Editor pours out two tall glasses of Sanatogen - a cheeky little tonic wine from the north end of the factory - beads of moisture form on the glass like tears on the face of a glacier. "Long days" he mutters "And cool nights" completes the toast. "Spill your guts Scoop,unless this is a staring contest." "It's like this Chief,got a hot tip,some shit is going down up West,human trafficking,slavery that kind of thing,huge amounts of dirty money involved,may even be some kind of genetic experimentation." "And?"The Editor examines finger tips crosseyed to see where the nails begin and the flesh ends. "Okay,this guy from second rate football club phones,an old snout of mine,plays the piano down a local dive, wild tales of extortion,fraud,money with menaces,desperate people kept in barbaric surroundings with just a solitary cup of tea between 16,000 and a single toilet.The way he told it would make your very soul twitch like a freshly amputated leg." "You get on down there Scoop,sod the royal wedding,this is pay dirt.I want quotes,I want juicy pictures,human misery,discarded condoms - the works." "I'm on it Chief." Exit Scoop in a shower of splintered door frame wood and etched glass. "And bring me back a Pulitzer prize ya bum..."comes a booming voice at his back.
And so we have the final missing piece, and the tale is set to accelerate vertiginously in a rising vortex of tension to the final face off in Istanbul / Nordkapp / Ocean Billy's as the case may be.
A magnificent football club, the love of our lives, finding a way to finally have its day in the sun.
And so we have the final missing piece, and the tale is set to accelerate vertiginously in a rising vortex of tension to the final face off in Istanbul / Nordkapp / Ocean Billy's as the case may be.
I may have started it but there's no way I can finish it - I'll leave it to a brave soul(s) to pull together the various yarns and make a blockbuster.
The whole story puts me in mind of our Junior (on a good day) - lots of twists and turns, no meaningful ending.
"Thank you for supporting Queens Park Rangers Steep Staircase"... and I thought I'd signed up for a rollercoaster.
Lurching from his induced coma, Ramsbottom felt a violent need to be sick. As a keen autodidact (a self taught person) he'd read of these effects of medicinal intervention in car crash cases, but his years of taking care of his own fitness spared him the indignaty.
It all came back to him. Charlie Mustwin. That camp fellow... Christ he was camp. Rosie! It was all...
"Rosie!" he shouted
"Ha ha ha"
That chuckle. He'd heard it before. Teddy Bear Nandos? Here?
"Alright me duck? Just gonna butter me bread, need owt?"
Ramsbottom sat up, marching through the pain barrier like the warrior he'd once been.
"I don't understand. What's happened?"
Teddy Nandos stood by the bed. The benign Malaysian capitalist had his arm around a man Ramsbottom knew as Colin. He could have sworn there were penguins stood behind them.
"Well," said Teddy, "It's like this. That mischief with Mustwin and Tatty Fill Ups. They're premiership standard players, you know, so...."
Ramsbottom waited for him to continue.
"Soz about that," said Colin, "he works with 140 characters at a time. Give im a mo"
The penguin closets to Teddy appeared to wind some sort of key in Teddy's back. He sprung back to life.
It was eerie, thought Ramsgate with his mind. There was Colin, a man with no discernible eyebrows and a nose that could influence the tides, standing with Fernando but it seemed as though he was only doing so under some duress.
Could it be that Rosie was, even now, holding his eyebrows hostage to ensure his compliance? Certainly, Riptide wouldn't put it past him or her. And just where did the mysterious Chinese CEO, He Loos fit into all this?
Suddenly, without warning, surprising him utterly, the door flew open and in strode what can only be described as 'someone'. They were dressed from head to toe in black and several other colours. Ramraid knew that this spelled trouble - and he was good at spelling so he should know. Colin visibly paled under his deep Yorkshire tan. Fernandinho grinned beatifically and began fingering his nuts, showing them to this new arrival. 'They're dry roasted', he said. 'You should wear looser underpants', the stranger replied.
Ramsey's eyes narrowed. Not too much, because then he'd be unable to see, but enough to indicate an uncomfortable feeling of discomfort. Was this stranger wearing a life vest...?
[Post edited 5 Nov 2015 20:16]
'What do we want? We don't know! When do we want it? Now!'
It was He Pee On Loo. The small hospital room was beginning to feel crowded, because of the crowd.
"Confuscious, he say 'Don go out side when rain with out life jacket'. In your country, always rain. Always wear life jacket!". Pee On Loo rocked with laughter at his his own joke.
"By eck" said Colin.
Something was wrong. Ramhide could sense it with his senses. Why were Teddy Nandos and Pee On Loo both here, with Colin and his nose?
Despite the pain he was feeling from his pain he swung himself up and out of the bed, and stood up using his legs and feet.
"What's all this about Teddy?", he said, forcing air from his lungs past his vocal folds, causing them to vibrate at a fundamental frequency of approximately 120 Hz. Expertly, he modified the shape and size of his throat and mouth, restricting and releasing the flow of air using his lips and tongue to form his intended words.
"I still believe", said Teddy. "Sorry?" "The boys are giving their all for team #WeRQPR" "I don't... what are you talking about?" "Individual errors. QPR fans don't panic. Back the manager" "I'm the manager, what on Earth"
Suddenly the door was flung open, banging against the wall and sending penguins scurrying away in a panic.
"What he is trying to say", said the silhouette in the doorway, black cloak fluttering behind him, "Is that you're fired".
Two penguins dropped dead on the spot.
"Wha... who the hell are you?" "I am he that you do not see, the one you know but have never heard of, the unpronounceable, the --" "That's Ruby Gnal Anal-Ham" declared Colin. "That's right! Now, back in your box Nando" The penguins were already packing him away into a cardboard box. "Now, to business. Ramspittle, you sod off. Colin, we need to talk about a new plan I have, ranging over four years".
And with a sweep of his cloak they were both gone, shortly followed by four penguins carrying Nandos out in his box, and finally He Pee On Loo, still chuckling to himself.
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
