Bullion had a good night’s sleep and was fresh and psyched for his Broads adventure. They picked the boat up at Brundall on the river Yare, opposite the Coldham Hall Inn. Ingot was not much of a sailor but listened well and followed instructions. The boat was tied to the pier as Bullion engaged the engine and let it idle for a few minutes while he checked his equipment.
“Cast off lines,” he announced to Ingot.
Bullion meandered slowly out onto the river and followed the tide out towards the pretty wooden boat sheds and chalets dotted on the banks.
“How’d you like one of those for a weekend getaway?” he shouted to Ingot who was still on the bow of the boat. Ingot didn’t quite hear him, but he nodded his approval.
Bullion liked the simplicity of the cruiser and the thought of not fighting with a wet main sail and his jib this week. Maybe things had turned out for the best, after all. He was going to miss a good tack, but he didn’t have to worry about mooring with a bow thruster to play with. He shouted up to Ingot again. “Excellent choice Ingot, well done.”
Ingot still couldn’t hear but did his usual nod and smile.
“I say Ingot, have you been all the way out on the Broads? And seen all the birds?”
Ingot nodded again.
“You can stop that now. It’s just us. No one else is here, Ingot.”
He crouched down and nodded smiling again.
Bullion screamed at him. “Get down aft right now.”
“What’s that you said?”
“Get down here to the stern,” he shouted louder.
Ingot nodded.
“Look up in the sky,” said Bullion, pointing at a lapwing.
“Come on, Ingot. Sit back here at the cocktail table and make yourself at home. Open a bottle of bubbly and delight in the fauna.”
He handed him his Zimmell’s and pointed to the sky again. “Do you see it?”
Ingot couldn’t see a thing with the binoculars—they were out of focus, and all he could see was a cloud that looked like a man sleeping on his back.
Bullion asked him again. “Do you see it?”
Ingot saw something, but it wasn’t a bird, this was definitely a contented man resting high above that he saw.
“Yes, Boss,” he answered, moving the lens gauge to no benefit.
Bullion slowed the boat down and played with the wheel.
“Are you much of a twitcher?” he asked. “Do you hear that? The crying and whaling of the common lapwing?”
Ingot pulled the binoculars away from his face.
“James Blyth was a big twitcher,” continued Bullion. “Look above. The sky is full of them.”
Ingot saw and heard the birds. He also felt a tiny drop of rain.
Bullion felt it too. “Here, put this on,” he said, throwing him a wool ruana.
“It’s fine. I don’t need it,” answered Ingot, handing it back to him.
“Put it on. It’s getting nippy, and it can turn quickly out here. That’s why I always have my ushanka and Soviet general’s coat handy,” said Bullion, retrieving them from behind the galley door.
Ingot was still hanging on to Bullion’s last words and thought about Captain Bligh and mutiny on the Bounty.
He put his binoculars back up to his face and focused in on a round-winged shape in the sky. “I see it,” he screamed. “It has a black and white under-wing.”
“That’s a peewit,” answered Bullion.
Ingot strained into the binoculars.
“Do you see it? It has a splendid long, dark crest wavering on the wind,” said Bullion.
The bird was too fast for Ingot to follow, and the lens blurred again. He handed the binoculars back to Bullion and looked over the side of the boat.
“Look in the reeds. There, two mute swans,” said Bullion, pointing.
“Oh, yes,” said Ingot.
He watched them go about their business as they went by. “Why are they called that?”
Bullion carried on steering. “They’re not too vocal,” he said, looking ahead for other fowl.
“What? They don’t talk? Sounds like the ideal bird to me.”
Bullion turned the engine off and let the boat drift.
“Do you hear that song?”
Ingot nodded.
“That’s the reed warbler over there, that’s his nest.”
“I can’t see him,” said Ingot.
“No. You usually don’t. He’s an illusive bugger.”
“Pimm’s Cup?” asked Ingot, getting out the drinks.
“I wouldn’t say no to a port, my good man.”
Ingot went down into the galley to get Bullion’s tipple.
“Look the season’s must be changing. A wigeon,” said Bullion, excited.
Ingot thought he said pigeon. “Yes, I’m not interested in seeing one of those.”
“They fly here from Russia to escape the brutal winters and go back to breed in the spring,” carried on Bullion.
“I didn’t know that. I see them all year round in Covent Garden.”
Bullion surveyed the wet grassland for any other fauna. Several snipes flew across the bow, fleeting into the dense reeds. He knew they were snipes because of their jizz.
The week was action-packed, spent twitching, fine dining, and lazing about on the river drinking rare ports and Pimm’s. Ingot had learned more about birds in one week than he had in the rest of his life. He didn’t realize how many working windmills England had. He’d been horseback riding, cycling, and kayaking. He also visited some of the most delightful teahouses Norfolk had to offer. The Malthouse Broad and Ranworth Staithe were his favorite part of the voyage, as they had nightlife as well as scenery.
“What do you think of Carrow Road?” asked Bullion.
“It’s alright, I like the city better.”
“Yes, I do too, but what about the stadium?”
“They had it rebuilt,” answered Ingot.
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“It’s alright, I suppose. I haven’t really thought about it, why?”
“Do you think it’s better than the job we did on The Quattro Fianco”
“Well,” said Ingot. “All four stands are finished, so…”
“So, is it better?”
“Erm… well, it’s a different kind of stadium.”
“How is it different?”
“It’s a cozy atmosphere.”
“And?” pressed Bullion.
“Ours is more hostile. From an entertainment point of view, they’re completely different, but I like both.”
“Oh.”
“I think both have different attributes,” said Ingot.
“Yes. I like what they did. They built two of the stands with a heavy foundation so they could add another tier and increase their capacity when they need to. Very clever, really, when you think about it, and it wouldn’t cost a lot to implement.”
Ingot listened to his Boss. “Are you interested in making an offer?”
“I’m always interested if the price is right. We have to sell Bitominge City first before I can look to acquire another proposition, Ingot. I think Delia would listen to offers, but she has stressed in the past that there have to be major investment in the team for her to relinquish her shares.”
“And?” asked Ingot.
“Well, you know as well as I do that if you want to make money out of a football club, you don’t want to be blowing your wad on players, do you? They’re the biggest cost factor in not being able to run a successful club.”
Ingot didn’t think it mattered what he thought, because Bullion had his own way of governing.
“You know the way I work, don’t you?” said Bullion.
“Yes, Boss. Loans and Bosmans.”
“That’s right. That way you don’t have to stump money up front and if they don’t perform, you ship the loans back. I can’t believe more owners haven’t cottoned on to this yet?”
“Yes, Boss,” answered Ingot.
&nb
sp; “Shall we get to the ground a bit early to relish in some of Delia’s culinary delights?”
“Sounds great to me. I love the spread she puts on,” said Ingot. “She always does match-day specials. The last time I was here, I had a hot goat cheese onion soup. It was bloody marvelous.”
“Yes, I’m beginning to salivate myself,” said Bullion. “I do like it when Delia rolls her sleeves up and labours over her love and shares it with her visiting directors.”
Ingot nodded in agreement.
“How do you think we’ll do today?” he asked his Boss.
“If The Lightbulb is on from the start, 3-0 or 3-1 to us. We’re due to spank someone, and I’ve got a feeling it might be Delia.
Ingot giggled. He liked it when Bullion talked like that.
“I do like a good spanking away from home,” continued Bullion. He called up Gold. “Hi Dee, we are on our way to the ground. We should be there in about ten minutes.”
Gold was still upset after last week’s game.
“I wasn’t sure if you would be turning up today, David,” he answered with cynicism.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I told you I’d get away for a few days, then be here for the game on Saturday, and here I am.”
“Well done, David, but what about Tuesday. Did you forget?”
“Forget what? Was there a meeting?” asked Bullion.
“No David, there was the League Cup game at Southampton.”
“Oh. How did we do? Did we win?” he asked openly.
There was a pause before Gold answered. “No we did not win. We lost 5-0.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Really, David, you should have been there. It was awful. It was an unfair result for Southampton. It should have been more.”
“I won’t put up with that kind of shoddy showing when they get paid like kings,” said Bullion.
“I kid you not. They played us off the park; they looked like Brazilbion.”
“Oh well, then, you can’t blame the lads,” said Bullion.
“You can, though, when they play like a pub team more interested in the ale and grub after the game.”
Bullion’s mind slipped on to Delia’s delights. If they were excited about the after-match cuisine, Southampton put on, God help us with how we play today knowing Delia’s cooking.
Nore Itch City 1 Bitominge City 1
Although Bitominge led at halftime, they had to fight hard to take a point from Carrow Road. The daggers were out to take the scalp of big Bitominge, and the Canaries felt a tad unlucky they didn’t manage it.
The Blues were crap and looked disinterested again but could have nicked it at the death with The Lightbulb clean through with a one-on-one but some how managed to dither uncharacteristically in front of goal and allow his shot to be blocked by The US Marshall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN
Gold sat in his office contemplating last week’s events as the elements flashed and roared at his window. He looked out over the rain-sodden pitch.
Monday morning, and his partner’s actions along with the horrid performances had made him concerned for the future of the club and its immediate goal—promotion. He was very similar to Bullion when it came to results: There was nothing more important in any walk of life.
He had ordered his brother Alf and Bullion to be in this Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. He mulled over the numbers from the two home games. There was a 65,000-drop in attendance, and both travelling teams brought 30,000 fans each with them. Based on these facts, he estimated they only had 150,000 home supporters for the Barnzli game. That was nowhere near enough to balance the books, and, hopefully, it was a temporary thing until promotion at the end of the season. But that was still heavy conjecture on everything going right—not something to tie your business plan to.
He tucked into his mammoth Jamaican breakfast of crispy hog meat, mashed salted ackee, fried plantains and three eggs sunny side up. He washed it all down with a pot of blew hump and several nips of Tio Mario and Monk’s rum. He was going to take no prisoners today. The Gold of old was about to go viral and, woah be hogtied, anyone that dared to question him.
Troy knocked at the door and delivered the revenue data for August. It was not pretty reading, only two home games. Gold dabbed around his mouth with a Bitominge City napkin and thanked him.
“Will you be needing me?” he asked.
“No Troy, I need to talk with my brother and David alone. Thank you.”
Troy nodded and left. Gold watched the clock tick on his mantelpiece. Bullion bustled in with his mug of tea.
“Morning, Dee. What’s cooking?”
Gold nodded to acknowledge him. “Will we have your full attention this week?”
Bullion stared back at him. “It’s polite to say ‘Good Morning’ when you greet someone.”
“Good Morning, David. How was your week?”
Bullion sat himself down and took a gulp of his Welsh breakfast tea.
“Bloody marvelous. I like my boating, but this trip was a lovely surprise I forgot how tranquil it is out on the Broads. Yes, there are lots of people and boats on the river, but when you get out on the Broads and anchor up for the night. It’s like a new dawn of life. I don’t think you can get that sensation anywhere else, Dee. I really don’t.”
Gold managed to hide his immediate anger. “Really, David, I’m sorry I missed it. Maybe next time.”
His nineteenth century porcelain ormolu clock chimed the half hour. Alf came barging in.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, sitting down next to Bullion.
Bullion smiled and chomped down on his leek.
“Hello, Alfie Boy, long times no see. What you been up to? I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy?” he said fondly.
“That’s enough, thank you, David. What time is it Alf?”
“9:32 a.m.”
“And what time did I ask everyone to be here today?”
“9 o’clock.” answered Alf.
Bullion sniggered. “Oh this is going to be a good meeting.”
“Neither one of you were here on time. David, you have not been here all week,” said Gold. “What has happened to the club? It’s like no one cares anymore.”
Alf shrugged his shoulders.
“What does that mean?” asked Dee.
Bullion spoke up. “What’s this meeting for anyway?”
Gold composed himself again. “It’s about Saturday.”
“Okay and?” asked Bullion.
“How bad it was…” answered Gold.
“Oh it was bad,” said Alf.
Bullion looked at Alf. “It wasn’t all bad. We got a useful point, and what about Delia’s cupcakes? They were exceptional.”
Alf smiled and agreed. “Yes they were knockouts, weren’t they? I saw you filling your face before and after the game with both hands,” he said, pleased, to Bullion.
“Yes, I did enjoy myself with her ample servings. And the best thing about it was she stood there in front of me smiling proudly while I did it. Great girl is Delia.”
Gold interrupted. “We are not here to discuss Delia’s cupcakes! We’re here to talk about the lack of funds, and the team, and the woeful performances. Not that the pair of you would know anything about the playing side. It’s come to my attention that the fan websites are kicking off again, questioning the manager and his tactics again.”
“Do you want me to go on one or two in support of him?” asked Alf.
“No I don’t think it matters these days. I think we have to go to plan B.”
Bullion bit down into his leek and slurped a mouthful.
“The crowds are unhappy with Alsex, you can hear the groans and grumbles at the games,” said Gold.
“What are our options?” asked Bullion.
“Like what?” Gold asked.
“Well, like are you thinking of selling MyQuiche on to a bigger team for another quick profit? Because, if you are
, I’m all for it.”
“No,” said Gold. “Besides who would want him?”
“Good point,” agreed Bullion when he realised what he said.
“Well then, that means I presume we have to see his contract out,” said Bullion stoically.
“It’s early days on this one, but, come Christmas, if we’re not in the automatic promotion position, then we’ll have to think about it.”
“Who would we replace him with?” asked Alf.
“Someone big, famous, an ex-International who would get the locals frothing at the mouth,” said Bullion, beaming.
“That wouldn’t be hard… to get that lot frothing,” quipped Alf.
“Yes, they’re breathtaking when unleashed,” said Bullion in full agreement.
“Look you pair, cut it out. Take a serious look at these numbers,” said Gold, throwing the spreadsheet at Bullion.
Bullion spilt his tea all over his blue, two-tone tracksuit.
“For God’s sake Gold, did you have to do that?”
Gold’s steel blue eyes pierced Bullion. “Thou shalt not take the Lord Gold’s name in vain. Be mindful of the commandments, David.”
“Right, sorry Dee. I keep forgetting.”
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again and go and change.”
“Yes, I need to change,” answered Bullion.
“We will have a fifteen minute recess to clear our lungs and for David to change,” said a resigned Gold.
Alf and Dee went down to the pitch and watched the rain conduct a symphony of movement.
“Do you want to be here anymore?” Dee asked Dee Alf.
“Not really. I think we’ve taken this club as far as we can.”
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Dee.
Although Dee Gold was chairman and the guide of the club, he recognized his younger brother’s wisdom and perception when it came to business.
“Let’s face it Dee, it’s done. We’re going through the divorce stage right now. We still have to get back up into the Premier League to be able to hopefully find a buyer and get out with a bit of coin in our pockets.”
Gold stroked his beard in contemplation.
“Come on, let’s get back and finish the meeting. It looks like we’re going to have to top the club up with some creative quantitative easing.”
“How much?” Alf asked.
“Another million soaked up into thin air.”
They headed back to his office and their partner Bullion. Bullion was sitting in Gold’s chair holding a new tea cup and wearing the full Blues kit with the number 21 on the back of his shirt.
Football Fiction Page 9
