‘You can’t just sack a player for something like this,’ said Gary. ‘It’s… it’s-’
‘Listen,’ said Rob, ‘I don’t give a shit what players get up to at other clubs, I don’t particularly care what they get up to at this one. But he’s toast. That’s it.’
‘You know the union will get involved?’
‘Fuck them. If nothing else he’s brought the club into disrepute. That’s grounds enough for dismissal.’
‘He has?’ said Keith. ‘Bloody hell. Have you ever heard of something called irony?’
Mayes settled back in his chair, arms folded across his chest while Gary simply looked horrified as he tried to work out the impact the loss of his captain was going to have on his team.
Rob gave them a second or two and then began again.
‘In addition, I want to know who leaked that photograph to the press. If it was a player, they’re also on their way.’
‘But it could have been any one of six or seven-’ gasped Gary Rogers before adding ‘apparently,’ a little too urgently for Rob’s liking.
‘Well if you know who they are, then it should make the job of finding them easier.’
‘And what if no one owns up?’ asked Keith Mayes.
‘You have a week to get me a name. If you don’t, then everyone who was there will be suspended for a breach of club discipline. They won’t be paid either.’
Keith Mayes took a deep breath and sat up.
‘Look Rob, I understand how you must be feeling, honestly, I do. But this is just stupid.’
Rob held up his hand to stop him.
‘You have no idea how I’m feeling Keith. No idea at all. Now if you don’t mind I have to go and explain this mess to my 14 year old son, who is slightly pissed off that his mum is spread across the front of the fucking tabloids and then I have to go and deal with my wife. So if you’ll excuse me-’
As one, Keith Mayes and Gary Rogers stood and headed for the door.
‘Oh and one final thing-’
The two men turned back to face their chairman.
‘If anyone involved with the club speaks to the press about this, then they’ll be out the door as well. Is that clear?’
Only once the door had closed and the frantic, muffled voices had begun in the office outside did Rob relax and begin to recover his composure. He was quite pleased with the way he’d found it so easy to flex his management muscles. Maybe Jane had been right after all and he really had been wasting his time at the council.
Thought of Jane dragged Rob back to his domestic situation and he felt his heart sink. It was one thing dealing with crap at City; it was going to be quite another having to face it at home. He wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
He looked up as the door opened and Joanne entered carrying a cup of coffee.
‘I know you said you didn’t want one, but I thought you might.’
Rob took the steaming drink and smiled.
‘Thanks, it’s just what I need. Sorry about MacDonald,’ he said, recalling the impact the last time he’d sacked someone had on her. ‘I didn’t have any choice.’
‘It’s ok,’ she said. ‘I never rated him anyway.’
‘You bloody liar. But thanks.’
Joanne smiled in return. In truth she’d been appalled when she’d heard what had gone on, and having been around football as long as she had, was in no doubt that while Jane Cooper had her faults, the main responsibility lay with the players, especially Pete MacDonald. There was much about the culture of the dressing room which disgusted not just her, but most of the women at the club. She actually admired Rob for the stance he’d taken.
‘Look, it’s none of my business,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t blame your wife too much. Mac might be a shit but he can be incredibly charming when he wants to be.’
Rob took a sip of his coffee and then placed the mug down on the desk.
‘Maybe,’ he said drily. ‘But she could have said no couldn’t she? And the bottom line is that she didn’t.’
Wings of a Sparrow
Part Four
Chapter Thirty Five
If Rob had a sexual fantasy, it involved women who worked in makeup departments.
There was something about the heady whiff of strong perfume and perfectly made up women in white laboratory coats which did it for him. Department stores, airport duty free shops - he didn’t care, a visit to either was akin to a trip to a pervy sweetshop and he could happily wander around such places for hours.
To date, the worst consequence had been the occasional questioning glance but he couldn’t help thinking that his curious kink was about to get him in a whole heap of trouble. Primarily because, as he sat in the makeup chair at Sky News, the woman patting him down with powder kept brushing her breasts against the back of his head. Since this was the closest he’d been to any kind of sexual encounter in over six months, the impact was proving to be both severe and unnerving in spite of the fact that he’d been up since 5am. To make matters worse, having been in that same chair on numerous occasions over the past few months, he knew only too well that the apron wrapped around him would be removed in about sixty seconds.
He closed his eyes, took a silent breath and tried desperately to think of something else. Anything to switch off what was happening in his warped imagination.
Inevitably, the first thing to spring to mind was Jane, who had occupied most of his thoughts for the past few months. And those months had been little more than a living nightmare.
The press attention in the wake of the MacDonald affair had been immense and although they’d tried to ride it out, the reaction of the fans coupled with Charlie’s refusal to talk to either of them had provided constant reminders. In the end, the pain had been too much and although Rob hadn’t moved out, he now slept in one of the spare bedrooms and had taken to stopping in hotels after games rather than rushing home.
Jane meanwhile, had thrown herself back into the party scene, with the promise to behave - although he guessed that was more for Charlie’s sake than his. They’d barely spoken in weeks, although events at the club certainly weren’t helping.
‘Mr. Cooper, we’re ready for you.’
After a brief mental check on the status of his now thankfully dormant groin, Rob whisked the apron from his neck and followed the floor manager from the room, although not without a brief final glance at the makeup woman’s chest - which if anything, looked even better than it had felt. Jesus Christ! Rob thought to himself as he made his way through the set, where Eamonn Holmes was sitting bathed in bright light and announcing that they would be talking to him after the break. I need a bloody woman.
‘Good to meet you again,’ said the genial Irishman as Rob sat. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s been better,’ he answered as his eyes adjusted to the studio lights.
‘We’ll talk about that in a minute. Here we go.’
Eamonn smiled into the camera as Rob glanced at himself in one of the monitors and fixed a smile to his face.
‘Welcome back. It's 7.45 on April 23rd and I'm joined by City chairman Rob Cooper - who many of you know, is on something of a mission this year. Morning Rob.’
‘Morning Eamonn,’ replied Rob, baulking a little at his own overly cheery voice.
‘Now for those people who might have been living on Mars these past few months, you inherited ownership of City at the beginning of the season and stand to inherit over six million pounds as long as you fulfil certain tasks, is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ replied Rob continuing to force his smile.
‘And they are?’
‘That the club do better on and off the field than they did last season.’
‘And how’s that going?’
‘Erm, pretty good. Off the field we’re sorted.’
‘But not so good on the pitch?’
Rob caught sight of the league table which was being shown across the right hand side of screen.
‘It co
uld be better, that’s true.’
‘Now it’s all about the final points tally isn’t it. What’s the magic figure?’
‘City have got forty four, I need them to reach fifty one.’
‘So you need seven points from five games or you lose the lot, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ stuttered Rob, increasingly unsure of where this was leading.
‘But City have only taken three points from a possible 15 and potentially, if things don't improve they could even get relegated. Tough game at Southend tonight. You must be getting a bit nervous.’
‘There’s still 15 points at stake,’ said Rob, trying to sound as confident as he possibly could.
‘Now things were looking good until earlier in the season but then you sold your keeper Steve Webber to United and then sacked your captain and one of your leading goal scorers. With hindsight, d’you regret any of that? I mean if you’d kept them you could be 6 million pounds better off by now?’
‘Maybe,’ said Rob slightly abruptly. ‘But Webber has been outstanding since he joined United. It's largely down to him that we're in the play-off places.’
‘And that’s the point here isn’t it? United are actually your real team.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘But don’t you think as City’s owner, you should have some sense of duty to them and the supporters?’
‘What, the scummers?’ replied Rob, aghast at the very idea. ‘Fat chance of that. They hate me, I hate them. That’s how it is and how I like it.’
‘But-’
‘Look,’ continued Rob who was becoming increasingly irritated. ‘All this football is one big family stuff is rubbish. Real fans know that when it comes to your local rivals, you only ever want them to crash and burn.’
‘Do you think that’s why so many people want you to fail? Not just City fans either, fans from all over England. Even the PFA have come out against you now.’
‘Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.’
‘But,’ continued the Irishman almost without breaking for a pause, ‘you’re now in the position where you're dependent on the City players pulling you through. Having spent all season criticising them, selling the club captain-’
‘With good reason,’ interrupted Rob through gritted teeth.
‘Well on that subject, isn’t there an FA hearing to discuss those erm, events today?’
‘Yes,’ growled Rob. ‘He pulls my missus for a bet and I get hauled into a disciplinary hearing. You couldn’t make it up.’
‘Do you not think that whole affair could have been handled better? I mean, it can’t be easy for the manager to get the players motivated to play for you.’
‘They shouldn’t be playing for me anyway. They should be playing for their wages!’
‘But don’t you think it ironic that they now have your destiny in their hands? I mean, you could lose everything.’
‘As I’ve always said, at the end of the day no matter what happens at the end of the season, if I can go back to United with my head held high, I'll be happy.’
‘And you think you'll be able to do that?’
‘Yep,’ said Rob sharply.
‘Well, as a fellow football fan,’ replied a smiling Eamonn, ‘I’ve got to admire your principles but I certainly wouldn’t want to be your position. We at Sky will certainly be watching, that's for sure. Sally, how about some weather?’
The camera light went out as all focus switched to a pretty brunette standing next to a green screen. Eamonn Holmes reached over and shook Rob’s hand.
‘Good luck tonight. I really hope you pull it off.’
Rob smiled a silent response and within seconds was being ushered back into the shadows. However, as he headed for the makeup room and some wet wipes to clean his face, he suddenly began to feel anxious. And it wasn’t because he was about to have another close encounter with the melonous chest which had caused him so much angst barely ten minutes before.
After his uncomfortable time at Sky News, a pain of a day at the FA listening to various lawyers arguing with each other and succeeding in doing nothing but ramp up their already weighty bills, then enduring a nightmare journey along the A13 which mostly involved dodging a succession of morons who seemed to think that anyone who drove a Bentley in Essex must be either a footballer or a star of TOWIE so has to be photographed, stared at or abused when being overtaken, Rob was in a foul mood by the time he arrived in Southend.
To add to his irritation, he had been forced to curtail his daily post-school phone call with Charlie when he’d become tired of trying to decipher the series of grunts which formed the sum total of his son’s conversation these days. Although he continued to feel sorry about his lad’s predicament, there were times when the Kevin & Perry act really got on Rob’s tits. Besides, at least Charlie was going to see United tonight while Rob was being forced to endure what was sure to be another piss poor City performance against an equally shit team in the depths of Cockneydom.
To top it all, having been forced to avoid the usual eating and drinking haunts for fear of encountering any travelling scummers en route, Rob was now starving hungry. But with cars full of fans already passing the entrance to the ground, there was no way he dare go in search of food for fear of getting involved in a row and so had resorted to handing a couple of local youths a tenner and asking them to go and fetch him some fish and chips. Thankfully, the promise of a second tenner on delivery had clearly appealed to the entrepreneurial gene which seems to be inbuilt in all Essex males and even as the players’ coach turned into the ground, the two lads appeared carrying a white parcel of bounty.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ muttered Rob out loud as he took the parcel and handed over his payment.
‘You’re that geezer with the will aren’t you?’ asked youth number one as he pocketed the cash.
‘Jesus!’ gasped Rob through a mouthful of chips, ‘these are hot. Yeah, what of it?’
‘My ol’ man reckons you’re a wanker,’ said youth number two cheekily.
Rob nodded sagely as he picked through his chips and selected another morsel.
‘He should meet my dad, they’d get on.’
The youths however, didn’t walk off as Rob expected them to but instead, simply stood watching him curiously so after a few seconds, Rob held out his bag of chips.
‘So why does your dad reckon I’m a- whatsit?’ he asked as they thrust their hands into his food.
‘He reckons you’re mugging football off.’
Rob frowned at the youth.
‘Is that right? How’d he make that out then?’
‘Dunno,’ said the youth with a shrug. ‘I don’t listen to what he says.’
‘Mr. Chairman.’
Rob turned to find Gary Rogers standing beside him so he pulled the bag away from the youths and held it out for his manager who eagerly helped himself. Rob however, kept one eye on the boys who having had their food source removed, were now lighting cigarettes as they stood idly by.
‘Saw you on TV this morning.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Rob. ‘Bloody Eamonn Holmes. He was taking the piss.’
‘I’ve gotta say, the lads didn’t appreciate the wages comment.’
Rob pulled his chips away from his manager and threw him a I don’t give a fuck look.
‘All they need to worry about is getting three points tonight,’ he barked.
The two youths scoffed, causing both men to turn and look at them.
‘Yeah right-oh mate. You got no chance tonight,’ laughed youth number one through a cloud of Marlboro.
‘Oh is that right?’ said Gary. ‘You know about football do you?’
‘I’d bet you the tenner he just gave me that you lot are playing non-league football next season,’ said youth number two.
‘Maybe you should let these two speak to the team Gary,’ said Rob wryly. ‘Remind them what’s actually at stake.’
‘Cost you,’ said youth number two. ‘Fifty quid. We’ll even
do half-time.’
Rob couldn’t help but smile at the lad’s cheek.
‘The players know exactly what’s at stake Mr. Chairman,’ said Gary abruptly, ‘and they know exactly how many points they need.’
Rob turned and stared at his manager. There was something about the tone in his voice which made him uneasy.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Chickens and roosts Mr. Chairman.’
Rob kept his gaze fixed on his manager as he wandered off in the direction of the club entrance. Only once he had vanished from view did he turn back to the two lads.
‘Blimey,’ said youth number one. ‘Looks like my old man’s got it wrong.’
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Rob.
‘It ain’t football getting mugged off, it’s you mate.’
Rob sat and glumly watched the players troop off the field. A 2-1 defeat against a side fighting for promotion was hardly a shock but he wasn’t happy about the way the game had unfolded.
For after starting as if their lives depended on it and taking an early 1-0 lead, City had come out for the second half and basically sat back and invited Southend to come at them. The equaliser, inevitable winner and final whistle all appearing to be greeted with as much elation by the travelling fans as it was had been by the home ones.
To all intents and purposes, it wasn’t a case of accepting a defeat, it had been a case of engineering one. The very idea left a bad taste in Rob’s mouth and after throwing his customary V sign at the travelling fans who began abusing him as soon as he stood, he headed up the stairs toward the sanctuary of the directors’ suite and just as importantly, the toilet.
He had just about made it when the home chairman approached him, hand outstretched. Rob took it reluctantly.
‘Strange game,’ he said.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ replied Rob gruffly.
‘Well you can hardly blame them can you?’
‘What's that mean?’
‘Come on,’ replied the chairman. ‘After some of the stunts you’ve pulled this season? No wonder they didn’t put any effort in, it suits everyone. Except you of course.’
Wings of a Sparrow Page 17
