 |
| P.R. realises that the Special
Brew budget is empty |
|
There was mayhem and farce in equal measure at the hastily
convened press conference at Bingslag Park, home of Fourth Lanark.
The assembled press pack squeezed into the luxurious
Portakabin that serves as the managers' office, the players'
changing room and a franchised late-night brothel.
An ashen faced P. R. Lunatico announced
that the club had gone into administration and that all the
assets of the club; Bingslag Park, the players, the strips,
the goalposts, and his personal collection of XXX rated animal
pornography films, were for sale.
With an average crowd of 328, the clubs'
weekly turnover from ticketing and merchandising was less
than £2,000 per week. An extended cup run this season,
into the second qualifying round of the Inter Jokey cup, brought
an additional £45.
But the huge burden of wages for their
foreign stars, the food bill for Francisco Muchabelli, and
the exorbitant cocaine bill for the first team squad, meant
that the clubs' weekly losses of £630,000 were no longer
sustainable.
As a weeping P. R. Lunatico was introducing
the Official Receiver from accountancy firm Forgetit &
Buggeraff, there was a commotion at the door of the office.
The assembled throng were astonished when Jeffy Marcher,
the most honest man in British politics, burst into the room clutching a bundle of twenty pound notes in one hand
and a young lady of the night in the other
 |
| "How many players can we
sign?" |
|
“I have seen the light”, he
proclaimed. “No more lying, no more cheating, I'm here
to save this club and this young lady from eternal damnation.”
Clearing a way through the empty tins
of Super Lager that littered the floor, Jeffy declared that
as a young man that he had played for Third Lanark and scored
seventeen goals in the Scottish Cup Final that had secured
the clubs' only silveware. He radiated sincerity as he vowed that the opportunity to “save
the club and this young lady, the most fragrant soul I have encountered since
I left prison, is an opportunity I cannot let pass by.”
“No players, will be sold. Debts
will be paid off. The brothel will close in the next year
or so and this club will survive” he declared embracing
his young, handsomely bosomed companion..
P. R. wept some more, the man from Forgetit
& Buggeraff left cursing mightily, Muchobelli had a couple
of pizzas, Fuckov and Jerkov a couple of lines of coke, and
Jeffy and his fragrant companion departed with the last six
cans of Super Lager.
This is a story that may run and run.
|
