by Scott Allen
One evening as Frank was serving dinner (he’d taken over cooking duties from the overworked Beetroot), there was a firm knock on the door.
Frank left the burned chicken he was trying to remove from a baking tray to see who was there. He returned a few minutes later with a man in a crisp blue suit, white shirt and a plain dark-blue tie. His face was very solemn, as if he’d never heard a joke in his entire life.
‘Sorry to interrupt your evening, everyone,’ said the man in an unusually high-pitched voice.
The rest of the Gravy family stopped what they were doing, which was mainly trying to work out how to set the dinner table around a mountain of half-finished Llama United scarves, and stared at the stranger.
‘This man is from the bank,’ announced Frank. ‘He’s here to talk about a few money problems we might be having with the farm and what he can do to help.’
The man shifted uneasily in his suit and looked at the ground. Tim knew straight away this man wasn’t a goodie.
‘I see your team of llamas are doing well in the Cup,’ said the man, with zero emotion in his face.
‘Yes, they are doing well thanks to my son here,’ replied Frank proudly, pointing at Tim. Tim felt hot. He was always embarrassed when he got praise from his dad.
‘Well, the bank is taking a keen interest in the team’s progress, and have decided that with the all extra money you’re receiving from the team’s success, we can increase the payments you owe us.’
Frank and Beetroot both opened their mouths, a little shocked by this statement.
‘We aren’t actually making much money,’ replied Frank eventually. ‘We’ve just about got enough to pay you what we currently owe each month with a bit left to live on, but that’s it.’
‘The bank has concluded that as you gain more supporters you will gain more money from ticket sales and merchandise.’ He pointed at the pile of wool and scarves on the kitchen table.
Tim noticed the man couldn’t stop sweeping his short, greasy brown hair away from his forehead every time he spoke. After a while this was all Tim could concentrate on, and he began to count the number of times the man did it.
‘Llama United has a few hundred supporters who go to the matches, and our merchandising is run by my wife,’ said Frank, pointing at Beetroot. ‘We won’t be able to get you the money you need.’
The man smiled oddly, displaying a small number of gold teeth in the corner of his mouth. Then he touched his hair again. ‘I’m afraid if you can’t pay the required amount, we’ll have to take the farm off you. It’s very simple, Mr Gravy.’
Frank put his head in his hands and slumped down in a chair. Tim looked around the kitchen; apart from the man from the bank, everyone was totally glum, even Fiona (but mainly because her dinner had been delayed).
Tim wasn’t going to let this nasty man ruin his family. ‘You know what, mister bank person?’ he said, moving closer to the man and wagging his finger. ‘My llamas are going to win the Cup and we’ll get enough money to stop you taking the farm away from us.’
‘You’d better hurry up then. The clock is ticking,’ the bank manager replied coldly.
He placed a piece of paper on the table in front of Frank. ‘That’s the new amount we need to receive at the end of every month, starting immediately.’
Frank didn’t look up.
‘Oh and good luck with the Cup. You’re playing the team I support in the next round . . . I’ll see myself out.’ With that he slithered out of the room.
Beetroot and Frank were silent for a few minutes. The colour in their faces had drained away. Frank started thumbing through his little black notepad anxiously.
‘Don’t worry, I think it’s going to be all right,’ said Tim enthusiastically. ‘We’ll play really well in the next few rounds and we are bound to get more supporters and sell more tickets.’
‘Plus we’ll all chip in with the merch, Mum,’ added Monica. ‘There’s a T-shirt-printing machine at college, which I’m sure we can use.’
‘And I’m sure Molly can find some extra volunteers for the animal shelter so she can help you more with the merchandise here,’ said Tim. ‘Cairo is always saying there are loads of people that want to look after rescue animals. Until they meet the goats . . .’
Frank and Beetroot slowly began to smile. It was great to hear their children try to think of solutions to their money problems.
‘You know what, you are both right,’ said Frank. ‘We can do this if we all pull together! We’ll make this a proper farm . . . just one that has llamas who play football and that sells T-shirts and scarves instead of potatoes and carrots.
This was the first time in ages that Tim had seen his dad really energized.
‘I’m also going to give up beekeeping and start making wine,’ he announced boldly. Beetroot and Monica rolled their eyes.
‘I can also help,’ announced Fiona at the top of her voice. ‘By eating my dinner . . . that is now four hours late.’
The burned chicken was chucked away and dinner became beans on toast, if you’re interested. Nasty cheap beans. And the toast? Brown wholemeal; the most boring type of bread. I think I’d rather have what the llamas were having.
28
BULTON ATHLETIC V LLAMA UNITED
The fourth round was another away match against a team called Bulton Athletic, who last season had been relegated from the top division. All their best players had been sold and they’d been left with a team full of young players desperately trying to make a name for themselves. Their manager, Ted Peters, was also young and fairly inexperienced. He looked like a baby in an expensive suit.
When the two teams were led out on to the pitch, Tim noticed that Peters was escorting a tiny, cute black lamb by a blue piece of string. He was grinning from ear to ear and trying to catch Tim’s attention.
‘Ha ha, look what I’ve got,’ he called to Tim, nodding at the lamb. ‘We’ve also got a sheep. What you going to do about that?’
‘Do about what?’ shouted Tim.
‘We are going to put this lamb in our goal and then your llamas won’t shoot at it. ’Coz llamas like to protect sheep and lambs, don’t they?’
‘Where did you find out about that?’ replied Tim casually. He was trying to show he wasn’t concerned by this sheep tactic, but it made him slightly worried, what if it worked? What if his llamas wouldn’t be keen on shooting at the goal with the tiny, cute black lamb in it? They couldn’t afford to get knocked out of the Cup now, especially after the visit from the bank manager.
‘I read about it. Llamas are programmed to protect things, guard stuff and all that.’
Cairo had noticed the manager and Tim exchanging words across the pitch and had been listening in. ‘It’s only certain llamas that like to be guards,’ he called helpfully. ‘Not all of them are like that. Goal Machine doesn’t care about what he’s shooting at. He’s just hungry for goals.’ He gave Tim a wink, which made Tim feel instantly better.
Ted Peters’ smug face dropped, but he tried to brush off what Cairo had said. ‘I don’t believe you. Just watch, you’ll hardly have a shot on goal, especially as my little lamb is really cute and I’ve got a really good goalkeeper.’
‘We’ll see, shall we,’ Cairo shouted back.
Ted Peters tied the little black lamb into Bulton’s goal, whispered something to his keeper and left the pitch. The lamb did not look happy; the hubbub of the expectant crowd before kick-off was making him nervous. He was also slightly angry nobody had bothered to give him a name.
As the first whistle blew the crowd roared loudly and started singing several boisterous songs. The cute, little black lamb let out a panicked bleat and starting frantically running about the goal. The Bulton keeper, who was trying to concentrate on the game, was distracted by the panicking animal and tried to calm it down. This seemed to make the lamb even more stressed.
At the other end of the pitch Motorway sat in her goal chewing at the lush green grass around her. She was an exp
erienced pro now and the roar of the crowd had a calming effect on her. Plus, this was some of the best grass she had eaten during the cup run.
‘Your little lamb doesn’t like the noise of the crowd,’ Tim shouted to Ted Peters across the technical area on the side of the pitch.
Peters tried to ignore him and focus on the match, but out of the corner of his eye he could see his keeper chasing the little lamb around his goalmouth. It was like playing with ten men.
As Cairo had predicted, the lamb didn’t bother Goal Machine in the slightest. After ten minutes he chipped in his first goal from forty yards out – into what was pretty much an empty net, as the keeper wasn’t watching. Goal Machine wheeled away and wiggled his hips in delight, it was the first time Tim had noticed something that resembled a celebration. Goal Machine actually had a few lice and they were making him itch, but Tim wasn’t to know that.
Goal Machine’s next goal came in the twenty-fifth minute; a low drive from outside the area. The keeper had finally managed to catch the little lamb and was holding it in his arms, so he couldn’t go for the ball.
By now, Peters had realized he’d made a huge mistake and was frantically trying to substitute the little lamb from the field of play. But as the lamb wasn’t technically a player or actually on the playing area, being behind the goal line, Peters wasn’t allowed to remove it. The fourth official kept instructing him that he could only make the switch at half-time.
The Bulton keeper was now forced to play the rest of the half with a cute little lamb in his arms and had to kick everything away. He was half a keeper.
Llama United’s third goal came from a beautiful bit of skill from Dasher on the wing. She turned two Bulton players inside out on the edge of the area, then whacked a rabona into the top right-hand corner of the net. This was at exactly the same time as the cute, little black lamb decided to go to the toilet on the Bulton keeper. He wasn’t happy – it was his lucky top.
The lamb didn’t appear on the pitch for the second half but it didn’t make any difference; Bulton were already beaten. The Duke majestically headed the fourth and fifth goals from corners, and those were the final nails in the Bulton coffin.
Ted Peters didn’t shake Tim, McCloud or Cairo’s hand after the match – he just stormed off down the tunnel. The Bulton keeper, however, did shake Tim’s hand and was polite enough to thank him for the match.
‘Why did you shake his hand?’ whispered Cairo to Tim after the keeper had left.
‘I was just being nice, you know – a proper sportsman.’
Cairo raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s probably got lamb’s wee and poo all over his hands though.’
‘UUUURRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!’ cried Tim.
29
THE GEOFF COREN SHOW
As any seasoned football fan knows, football can occasionally be very boring. Often you go to matches only to find your mind wandering on to what you should have for dinner or how many plates you could stack on your head before they fall off. Sometimes you’ll spend a good chunk of the match watching other people in the crowd to see what they are doing. Look, someone’s losing their temper over a throw-in; oh, that chap is going to spill all those drinks . . . oh no he hasn’t! Well played, sir. Anything, really, to take your mind off the tedious spectacle that is happening on the rectangular piece of turf in front of you.
For Llama United, the fifth round was very boring. They drew a small league team called Gubbins Town, who had somehow fluked their way into the latter stages of the competition. So compared to facing Borwich City they were a really easy side to play.
Llama United won the match 3 – 0; once again Goal Machine lived up to his name by scoring two, and the Duke got the other with a header. The Duke loved scoring goals. He would arrogantly pose in a defiant manner, holding his head as high as possible towards the rival fans. Which they hated.
McCloud, Tim and Cairo sat in McCloud’s office in the corner of the llama barn, listening to the quarter-final draw on the radio. The Scottish manager had started to grow a beard at the start of the Cup, which he was only going to shave off when Llama United had been knocked out of the competition, so it was getting really long and itchy now. Soup and other bits of food had nestled their way into it over the weeks, and several people had pointed out that he probably had enough for a sandwich filling in there if he gave it a really good scratch.
Over in the main field, Frank was busy trying to construct his vineyard, which was going just about as well as the building of Fiona’s princess castle; that is to say, terribly. He hadn’t realized you first need to build an elaborate fencing structure to hang the grape vines on. It was making him very angry, so he wasn’t listening to the draw.
The result was that Llama United were to be pitted against Enfield Hotspurts in the quarter-final of the Cup, away from home again. They were a Premier League team who regularly played in Europe and had a whole host of expensive players and internationals. However, it was the manager that McCloud was worried about. He was a devious, mean-spirited little man with huge white hair. He always appeared to be chewing on gum, but actually it was the inside of his cheek.
The manager’s name was Geoff Coren, but he made everyone call him ‘Guv’ because he saw himself as the ultimate football manager; one who should be respected by all. McCloud knew Geoff Coren would have a trick up his sleeve to deal with Llama United.
Perhaps I should go and see what Geoff Coren is up to? Then we’ll all know what’s going on, even if Tim, Cairo and McCloud won’t . . .
Geoff Coren was looking in the huge gold-framed mirror that he’d hung up in his massive lavish office at the Enfield Hotspurts ground. He was brushing his huge mane of white hair, up and back, up and back, up and back, until it reached a height he deemed acceptable. When he’d finished, he smugly admired himself in the mirror. Geoff Coren loved everything about himself, apart from his lack of height. To combat this he made his hair big and wore platform shoes and extra-thick socks. This didn’t make a great deal of difference, if I’m honest with you.
Geoff Coren’s teams were very successful and made him loads of money. Frank’s little black notepad wouldn’t have been able to handle the amount of money Geoff Coren shuffled around.
After a full ten minutes of hair brushing, Geoff Coren sat back at his desk and lovingly admired a huge pile of player contracts he had been working on for weeks. Geoff Coren didn’t like computers – he wrote everything down using an expensive fountain pen. He rubbed the contracts against the side of his face and took a deep sniff of their inky goodness.
On top of this pile was a brand spanking new contract for his own job. He had spent months lovingly crafting every single aspect of the huge fifty-page document and it was the only version he had drawn-up. It was incredibly boring, but worth so much money that Frank could have bought ten farms with it. Geoff Coren treated it like it was a baby and regularly talked to it in a coochie-coo-coo voice.
‘Oooh hello, my little precious darling . . .’ he whispered now to his new contract. ‘Did you sleep well and gets lots of important rest?’ Geoff Coren knew that if he won the Cup this season the owners of the club were bound to sign the document. He certainly didn’t want to miss out on millions of pounds by losing to a team of llamas.
On the other side of the desk was a thick file marked ‘Llama United’. It held all the information he had on the team gathered by his large network of scouts; scouts are the people who spy on other teams and steal their players and ideas. He leafed through it, stopping when he came to the section marked Dangerous. It had one page and it was solely dedicated to Goal Machine.
Goal Machine had become a bit of a star over the course of the competition, helped by a hatful of brilliant goals. He was the main player everyone looked out for and the one most of the other llamas always passed to. If he wasn’t so ugly, he could probably have earned loads of money for Frank by doing TV commercials for aftershave and really overpriced cars. But sadly he was just too weird-looking. And a llama.
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In bold writing under the picture of Goal Machine were the words ‘STOP HIM AND WE’LL WIN THE GAME’.
Geoff Coren rubbed his forehead a few times to get his brain warmed up, and then wrote the words Goal Machine at the top of a blank piece of paper and underlined them a few times. Then he started to write in large capitals.
POISON?
KIDNAP?
MURDER?
ASSAULT?
CAREER-THREATENING INJURY?
ACCIDENT?
MURDER? (Which he then crossed out, as he’d already written it.)
He stood up and began pacing around his plush office on his double-thickness white carpet that was softer than any bed. Occasionally he would stop to look out of the huge window that overlooked the pitch and catch his own reflection in it, which he would smile at, like the peacock he was. Then he’d return to his paper and cross off one of the words from his list.
He continued this pacing, looking out the window, checking his reflection and crossing out words until he had just one option left:
KIDNAP
Don’t ask me how he came to this conclusion. I’m just watching him; I’m not in Geoff Coren’s brain. It did make him laugh though, an evil cackling laugh that went on for far too long.
