Football Crazy by Terry Ravenscroft, Ravenscroft Page A

couldn't believe anyone could think such a thing. “Tracey Michelle?” he scoffed. “What would my lovely wife Tracey Michelle want with another man when she's got Big Donny Donnelly?” He shook his head, ridiculing the very idea. “You do come up with them, George, you really do.” He had an afterthought. “To be fair though, it might be better for me at the end of the day if my lovely wife Tracey Michelle was completely unaware that I didn't have a mistress.”
    “ Perhaps it would be better then if you didn’t put football manager in your advert,” suggested George. “There can’t be all that many football managers in Frogley. That would throw her off the scent.”
    “ Yes. Right.” Donny thought about it for a moment, then said, “I know, I'll change it to 'professional person'. That sums up my status quite nicely.”
    So does ‘poor misguided little tosser’ thought George, but was too much of a gentleman to say it.

    Meanwhile out on the pitch the players were honing their ball skills. They had been told that Price was to address them at two-o-clock but it was already ten past the appointed hour and the new owner of Frogley Town still hadn't turned up. Hanks, his mind never far away from food, had just suggested that he probably had a load of pies in the oven and Crock was about to tell him not to be such a stupid twat but was stopped from doing so by a sudden yell of disbelief from Crooks.
    “ Bloody hell!”
    Whatever had caught Crooks’ attention now caused him to burst out in hysterics. Unable to speak for his laughter he gesticulated wildly in the direction of the dressing portakabin. The rest of the players turned to see the object of his amusement and immediately joined in the laughter. The cause of the merriment was Higgs, now to be seen waddling out onto the field with a nine gallon wooden beer firkin lashed between his legs.
    “ Shit a brick Higgsy,” said Lock, never short of an elegant phrase with which to express himself, “What do you think wor are on man?”
    “ I’m trying to make my legs bandy, what does it look like,” said Higgs. Then, in explanation: “Well the boss said Price wants a bandy right winger, didn't he?”
    The players roared with laughter. He was a case, that Higgsy, and no mistake.
    “ You daft bugger, Higgsy” said Briggs.
    Higgs then commenced to dribble around with a football, but only succeeded in falling over, to more ribald laughter. A loud voice now broke into the merriment.
    “ Good idea that mon with t' barrel.”
    It was Price, now striding purposefully across the pitch towards them. Higgs picked himself up off the ground as the rest of the players looked at Price expectantly.
    Price gesticulated to Higgs. “Go on then.”
    “ What?” said Higgs.
    “ Don't 'what' me lad,” said Price. “I said go on. And wear that barrel between thee legs whenever tha'rt training on every occasion from now on.”
    “ What?” said Higgs.
    Price glowered at him. “I thought I'd just told thee not to 'what' me?”
    “ It were only for a laugh, Mr Price,” explained Higgs. “The barrel I mean. It were only a joke”
    “ A joke?” Price looked at the rest of the players. “Who else thinks as it's a joke as I want a bandy right winger in t' team?” The silence was deafening. Price broke it. “Well?”
    Price waited. One or two of the players started to look elsewhere.
    “ I fink it's a good idea meself, Mr Price,” offered Briggs.
    Several of the other players immediately jumped onto the bandwagon.
    “ So do I, Mr Price. Stanley Matthews was bandy,” said Parks.
    “ Aye, and Willie Waddell,” agreed Cragg. “A pig could have run through Willie Waddell's legs and nae touched the sides.”
    Price smiled at Higgs and raised a questioning eyebrow.
    “ Yes, but....” Higgs began, but Price cut him off.
    “ Of course I could always buy a bandy right winger.”
    Higgs could see there was no way he was going to win so quickly set about cutting his