A return to Taunton Town via places that would curl your toes

[Jibby123]

Being waterboarded is not considered torture, right?? Bobbing around on a British warship in a cold Baltic gale as an unwilling passenger is not what managers of Dutch football teams would consider a good day out, right?? Give an Ajax away on the last day of the season, needing to win by 5 goals to stave off relegation and save a mere 'job', any day over this.

Nor would any professional football manager in modern western Europe be expected to be hooded, deprived of any sort of interaction, and cable tied/mummified for the last three days before being handed over to whoever wanted to chat to Ryan Hull next over exactly what had been going on at BV Veendam over the past few months.

And we're not talking the latest fan who recognises you at the worst time (when you're late or depressed about the game) for a chat. I'm guessing when oddballs, sadists, career obsessed CIA, MI6, and take your pick from the Turkish and Bosnian security forces want to chat they aren't going to be telling you who they think should be upfront for that upcoming Ajax away.

The latest 'tactical questioners' cared about that less than they might about whether what they were doing was actually legal. But if it's signed off at any level up to Her Majesty all they wanted was to squeeze Ryan completely dry of anything he might know. Irony being the wetlook technique of this latest 'chat' was anything but dry. So not dry Ryan wondered whether he'd ever be able to run a tap again without gagging.

Trouble was, Ryan didn't know much about what had gone on at Veendam off the field. Sort of like Beckham; whatever was going on around the circus was not that important, it was always about the football, right? I say sort of because Ryan's circus around his on the field problems weren't about his ex-pop star's wife latest perfume range, which film premiere to attend or who in California could get him a private jet that suited best.

No. Ryan's unique, very unique, circus on the last few months around the beautiful game was a galaxy away from Beckham's ever was, and hopefully for Becks ever will be.

The stamp of a boot down on his kneecap wasn't necessary if wanting him to talk about what had gone on was their game. It exploded stars in his eyes anyway but he had nothing left to offer in the way of information. He was way past that stage of holding anything back.

It was quickly forgotten anyway by Ryan and nothing to what followed on the trauma scale when they slowly poured water from a jug in to his mouth stuffed tight with a ball of cloth whilst every facial feature was pressed flat by a light blue thin cloth which said water was having to pass through before it hit the spot and the ball of cloth stuffed in to his mouth.

The millisecond before Ryan lost it he remembered thinking,

“Light blue/maroon cloth. Reminds me of home; good old Taunton Town. Wonder what league they're in now”.

Odd thought to have in his circumstances, but then Ryan never was conventional in anything. And to be fair to my old mate, his circumstances weren't exactly run of the mill so if faraway, irrational thoughts were bombarding his brain.

But that's Ryan for you. What can you do?? He's a mate.

I would love to fill you in on what had happened at Veendam. Max, Eva, the Serbs, the dodgy money, the MI6 sting.

….but I can not. If Ryan Giggs did media injunctions or STFU pills like MI6 or Her Majesty's Government can/do then he'd have been fine (and could I dish some dirt on that Welsh bad boy...but that's for another day).

My whole transcript from Ryan Hull's time at Veendam was seized when the 'men in black' in big boots carrying big muscles from Vauxhall Cross/Albert Embankment/SIS/MI6 (call them what you will) offered me the chance to hand my journal over and swallow the STFU pill like a good little British citizen or keep posting here about that time....oh and see my wife lose her job, my kids kicked out of university and me arrested/investigated on something nobody wants to be arrested for.

God save the Queen, eh??

But hey, it's not about me. This next stage of the story needs to be told. After Veedam. After everything that happened.

I knew the story of what followed might have to be told as soon as the huge, heavy gates at HMP Dorchester popped open a little side door and saw Ryan's grim face as he walked out in to freedom towards my car at 7am one January day 10 months after Ryan had been given his own version of their STFU pill and spent a few months at Her Majesty's Pleasure. This was in return for 'them' not soaking Ryan properly after they'd wrung him dry and realised they were talking to the wrong guy in the Baltic after his Veendam experiences as a football manager by ditching him over the side weighed down just enough to soak him forever.

I definitely knew the story needs some postscript after what happened in the months after Ryan got out. Better than Coronation Street?? 10-3?? No. I'd not be here typing if I could write such genius but what the hell.

Oh, and by the way....Taunton Town are in the Evo-Stik League Southern Division South/West One if you were wondering.

After everything. Ryan. He never gave up his dream. He knew one day he would 'match' that crazy genius in a green top (you know the one, the best manager England never had that dropped, with a punch and a teamsheet, Ryan years before)

And no place like home, right??

Disclaimer - This story contains adult themes, drug taking and violence. If you are likely to be upset or offended by such themes then please do not read on. The players and characters used are randomly generated including names except for one, and apart from in that one person's memory are not based on anyone I've known, do know or will ever know or indeed ever heard of. As far as I know nobody in this story exists, for I do not know of the fate of that one, but wish so much I did....any references to Taunton Town FC or MI6 or Avon and Somerset Special Branch reality are purely made up by me.

[tenthreeleader]

I think this is fascinating. Do please keep going.

[Jibby123]

Thanks 10-3.

As a little background I am using FM12, with Uncle Ron's edited database taking the English pyramid down to Tier 8 which can be found here:

http://community.sigames.com/showthread.php/276730-FM2012-FMUpdates-England-Levels-7-amp-8-Southern-Isthmian-amp-Northern-Leagues-*Out-Now*

I have the Welsh, Scottish, Northern and Republic of Ireland leagues as view only. This is a follow up really with a new FM save from an original story started here about the main character Ryan Hull starting at Veendam on an old FM save.

Unfortunately the story never got finished. Those damn MI6 guys and gals eh. Hopefully this one goes a little further. Though managing in tier 8 of England is tough. Might be sacked before xmas....

[Jibby123]

26th May 2011, Taunton, Somerset, England

Ryan was unsure how long the scream had been invading his sleep for, but it seemed to be getting closer. And louder. And more desperate.

But worse, the terrifying sound seemed to be coming from within his room. From whomever it was coming from, it slowly dragged Ryan from the land of semi-conscious half sleep to the world of the awake.

As the dots in Ryan's brain slowly reconnected for a new day, he felt himself stare around his room wildly with bloodshot eyes to seek the source of the noise that had woken him.

The room was empty.

The sheets half on the bed, half on the floor part stuck to his sweat soaked body, not to mention the soreness in his throat which can only come from a terror scream (or Liam Gallagher impressions all night) told Ryan all he needed to know about who had woken him up today and from whom the screaming had been coming from.

“Fricking nightmares again. When will it end?” Ryan muttered to himself as he groggily and automatically reached for his small bedside radio, as much for the background noise and company as to listen to the latest clueless debate on Five Live.

Ryan's head fell back on to the wafer thin, smelly lump with cigarette burns adorned they called a pillow and looked around his new home. Best described as 'simplistic' his 9' by 7' humble abode reminded him too closely of his ensuite room at Her Majesty's Pleasure (“no love, the pleasure was all mine” as Ryan used to wince) establishments he had spent the last 10 months dossing in. Not to mention countless digs and military accommodation he'd stayed in as an ex-YTS football apprentice and then soldier.

A bare light bulb, curtainless window with a sheet nailed over to keep some light out, a bed ready to collapse with a mattress which after too many lagers Ryan was sure he could make out a pretty good impression of a world map from the stains of previous occupants bedwetting adventures.

These hostels for the insane, criminally insane, the homeless, the addicts, recently released from prison football managers weren't so bad according to Ryan. If you didn't mind the noisy neighbours (and we're not talking smart alec Sir Alex little quips here) shouting, singing, arguing, fighting from behind paper thin walls that is. Or the regular police visits to arrest, or calm down and arrest the latest nutjob who had blown a gasket. Not to mention the constant smell of mildew, sick, urine and decade old sweat that seemed to linger in every pore of the run down victorian building Ryan currently called home with 31 others just like him.

No, not so bad at all. And as Ryan would say,

“It could be worse mate”.

Ryan lay there for a few minutes thinking and doing nothing. There was no reason to get up just yet and besides, his legs and hands still felt a little shaky from his sleepover with the 12 Carlsberg Special Brew cans now sat empty and crushed with an angry hand the night before beside his bed.

The voice from the radio suddenly caught Ryan's fuzzy, hungover affected attention and he sat up.

“Reports are coming in from Serbia this morning that Serbian security forces have apprehended and detained the former Bosnian Serb commander, Ratko Mladic, and are holding him in Belgrade on an arrest warrant from the International War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague...Ratko Mladic, who had evaded arrest for a number of years....”

“****. They got him” Ryan thought, suddenly more awake now than he had felt for weeks. “Eva. Max” Ryan muttered outloud, wondering who had broken, or been broken, by those hired muscle meatheads from the foreign office. Though never confirmed by anyone Ryan spoke to (like they would) Ryan had long suspected you don't have the CIA/MI6 going to such lengths as they did in Holland back then just to clean up a money laundering scam using a football club. No, it had all been 'big boys games, big boys rules' intelligence services fun.

Ryan wondered for a second how much of a contribution to events on the news today he had personally made in between having his throat used as a drain for a jug or three of water. Then smiled with an ironic grimace,

“Her Majesty owes me one. Another medal maybe for my part??”.

Ryan gave his head a shake as the radio voice filled in the background of who and what Mladic was (which Ryan did not need reminding of) and Mladic's chances of evading extradition to the Hague (which Ryan knew would be zero chance).

Closure of sorts anyway. Sort of.

“Right then Ryan you dickhead. Put that chapter to bed, its over. You need to get yourself a job son. Life begins at 40, right??” and with that Ryan dragged himself out of bed, grabbed his wash bag and headed for the communal shower with no lock that dribbled on you lukewarm rusty water if you caressed the dial lovingly enough.

Half an hour later Ryan was down at the front door ready to leave to find work for the 5th day running. Always a trier, was Ryan. And in his own peculiar way the optimist as well. The front door, half off it's hinges told of another 'incident' here last night but pushing through what was left of it something else caught Ryan's eye.

The sorry excuse for a parking area the hostel provided (Ryan always wondered for whom it was providing parking...maybe the police riot vans that frequently stopped in for a chat with somebody....because none of the residents were driving anything, except each other mad) contained a silver, pristine, obviously extremely expensive Mercedes and in it were two men in suits. More 'out of place' parked here on waste ground as you could find.

Ryan stopped and stared at the vehicle, musing at what could have been if things had worked out differently all those years ago at Nottingham Forest under Clough (its Mr Clough to you). Or worked out differently to what it had at any point since in Ryan's life of misadventure.

Scrambling to extinguish the erupting depression in his head and heart, Ryan mentally shrugged and headed for the street beyond the waste ground to start a new day of job hunting. Somebody will want an unfit 40 year old ex-soldier, ex-con, ex-YTS footballer, ex-brief football manager with the empty CV to match. Empty to everyone that is not looking for somebody to fire a weapon, set up an ambush, take a footballing coaching session or prolong the life of batteries on the radiator of a prison cell. An empty CV to everyone then.

Ryan ignored the shout from behind him. It couldn't possibly be directed at him.

“Oi knobhead!”. The shout came louder and Ryan looked to see who was shouting at who only out of automatic curiosity. After all, this place was awash 24-7 on such type greetings.

One of the suits was striding across the rubble towards him with a big smile on his face. The face looked sort of familiar, but Ryan let that slide as he braced himself for whatever was coming next.

“Ryan ya dick. It's me. Long time no see, mate. What the hell are you doing in these parts?”.

Ryan searched the memory bank for a match with the face. A lot of brain cells had been washed away by a sea of alcohol over the years so Ryan struggled at first before it dawned on him who it was now approaching him.

The face had put on weight since. The suit, definitely not bought from Next, didn't match the face Ryan remembered either.

“Hey Kev. Yeah right, long time no see. And could ask you the same thing you tart”, Ryan offered up as greeting.

Both men shook hands and smiled. Kev carried on “Down here to do a spot of re-mortgaging on the dump behind you. It's mine and some suit ****** from the bank is out to have a look and give me a yes or no”.

Ryan looked over Kev's shoulder at where Kev had indicated. There was only one 'dump' Kev could be talking about.

“Yeah? Well I guess that makes you my landlord then Kev” Ryan said with a smile he definitely wasn't feeling. “Would ask for mate discount if the social weren't picking up the bill” Ryan laughed, feeling the laugh slightly more now some old Army type banter kicked in.

Kev looked a little awkward as it dawned on him Ryan's current situation, but had the grace not to ask Ryan how/why/what/when on how he'd ended up here. Or not yet anyway.

“It's down to you this. Remember?” Kev offered up.

Ryan didn't remember.

Kev carried on, “Way back in the 90s when we were based in Germany, I asked you what you would do with that inheritance I got and you told me to invest in the buy to let market as the housing boom was about to boom boom. Good advice mate. Owe you one Ryan! 15 years later have a portfolio of 206 properties”.

Kev's attire and vehicle told Ryan all he needed to know on how good his own advice had been. Advice that Ryan had never followed himself of course. But that's Ryan for you.

“Nice one”, Ryan grimaced, “so apart from doing a Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman business plan impression, what else have you been up to?” as Ryan saw the seedlings of Kev's 'owe you one' comment turn in to a job offer. Just in case Kev also owned a mercenary outfit, professional football club or wanted to hire someone to teach him handy tips and tricks to know when banged up.

“Robbie? Steve? What regiment were they in then? Don't remember them. You gave them the advice as well?” Kev asked.

Ryan smiled. Kev had never been in to football so would never have heard of Robbie Fowler or Steve McManaman. In fact, Kev a tidy rugby number eight, as Ryan's memory inched back; hated football. “Prima-donna lettucey w**kers” was his quip when anyone mentioned football, let alone played it back in the day.

“Nah Kev, they were Premiership footballers who got in to the buy to let game about the same time as that advice I gave you. They did rather well too”.

Kev laughed again. “Never heard of them. Prima-donna w**nkers”. Kev's impression of footballers had not changed much there then over the years.

Kev carried on, “Speaking of which, I own a bloody club now. Football that is. Can you believe it? You still poncing around on that football field?”

Sometimes in life all the stars in the galaxy line up in complete synchrony. Sometimes.

Ryan couldn't believe it. The lineage and synchrony on this one was too perfect, but the trier (not to mention optimist) in him immediately saw an opening here. Whilst he wondered which club it might be Kev now owned, probably in the South West; the two Bristol clubs, Yeovil Town, Torquay, he quickly wondered whether they'd need a youth coach or dogsbody like Ryan with UEFA coaching badges and a spell managing in the Dutch leagues to match.

“Not being funny mate, but you hate football. How did that come about then?” Ryan asked.

“It was a birthday present for the missus. She's nuts about the game. Dozy bint. Can you believe that as well?” Kev laughed again.

This was all becoming a bit surreal. Ryan wondered whether he had actually woken up after his scream-fest that morning and if this was still some mad dream to offset the mad nightmares visiting every night.

“Lucky her” Ryan said almost a little too bitterly. “Which club is that then?”.

Kev pointed out in to the busy East Reach street over Ryan's shoulder and beyond down in to Wordworth Drive.

“That dump down there. Hardly Manchester United but I couldn't give a f**k. Keeps her from moaning and she loves it”.

Ryan assumed he meant Taunton Town; Ryan's home town club, a club he never got to play for because Forest had whipped him up from school. Ryan's optimism and excitement stopped dead in its tracks. It was hardly Torquay United, let alone Manchester United.

“Oh right, nice one. Isn't looking for a football manager is she? Got my coaching licences” Ryan said out of crushed bitterness, half joking.

Kev looked serious for the first time.

“F**k knows mate. Nothing to do with me. I own it in name only. She runs the place”.

Kev must have seen the look on Ryan's face and was obviously semi-aware that all was not well in Camp Ryan, being his new landlord and all.

Before Kev could say anything, there was a cough from the second suit. The one from the bank. Ryan had not noticed him before, but he was obviously a man in a hurry and bored of all this old chum talk. Or maybe he hated football more than Kev did.

“Tell you what mate. Have my card. We'll have to catch up over a coffee, give me a ring, yeah? Great to see you again.”

Yeah, but not in these circumstances, Ryan thought. Not for me anyway.

“No worries. Will do” Ryan said. Knowing the chances of that happening were slim. Unless Kev was paying that is. And as more memories of Kev came back to Ryan, Ryan knew there was even less chances of that. You don't get rich by being generous after all.

Ryan walked away, feeling lower than ever. There in front of him was a 'what could have been' staring out from a tailored suit and Germany's finest engineering of expensive car.

There was another shout from behind.

“Hey Ryan. Give me that card back a sec. Will put the missus' mobile on it. Give her a bell. You never know”.

Four hours later....

After a long morning visiting every shop, business and job agency in the Taunton town centre he could, Ryan needed a pint. That he couldn't really afford a pint wouldn't stop him. He needed one. His hands were shaking again.

Sat in Wetherspoons, Ryan thought back to his meet and greet with Kev, an old Army acquaintance that morning and the business card with Kev's wife's number scribbled on the back and wondered if he had enough coins to use the public phone in the corner of the bar. Or if it still worked now every man and his dog walked around constantly plugged in to their I-Phone. Ryan didn't do mobiles.

Sod it. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. After all, Ryan was always convinced he'd make a great football manager. It wasn't his fault the CIA/MI6/mad dutch criminals and Serb gangsters had derailed him just as he was getting to grips with it back in Holland.

From little acorns, oak trees grow as Ryan paced towards the phone, pockets jangling with loose change. As acorns go Taunton Town was a conker, but what the hell.

After stuttering introductions and some reluctance from Kev's wife on the other end of the phone she played music to Ryan's ears on his enquiry as to whether she needed a manager for her toy hobby.

“Well Ryan, I might well be interested. It so happens I do need a new one before next season starts. You say you managed Veendam and once played for Notts Forest? Can you come down to the club after 4pm today for a chat?”.

Ryan didn't correct her on the fact that it was Nottingham Forest, not Notts Forest, nor that he had never actually played for Forest. Or not the first team anyway. No, he wanted to dance a cautious jig all the way down to the ground right there and then.

Ryan hadn't googled his own name, nor that of Veendam (prisons and homeless hostels don't offer much in the way of the internet) so was unsure of what Kev's missus would find if she tried to check out his time at Veendam and his sudden departure. But on the football side felt sure he had done ok there.

Ever the optimist Ryan.

[Jibby123]

Now please forgive me here. There have been some famous, world class, sports stars born and bred, or who plied their genius trade in Somerset, but I can't find anyone who has got to the top of the tree from the county in football. Ever.

Ian Botham, Jenson Button, Marcus Trescothick, Andy Robinson, Martin Pipe and Viv Richards come in to the category above, though none of them really excelling in the football world, so we're not talking a hotbed of football here. It's a county where cricket and rugby union rule for the most part. In fact apart from Trevor Francis (from Devon?) the whole South West region has not produced many top level footballers. Maybe it's the water. Or the accent. Or maybe my football knowledge is crap.

None of the above is necessarily a problem if you're FC Anzhi Makhachkala and can ship in Samuel E'too, Roberto Carlos or Guus Hiddink from afar, but it is if you're Taunton Town's new football manager.

Taunton, as lovely as it is, is a hard place to attract anyone to come and play football for one reason. You can't actually pay them for doing so. Or not much anyway. Not enough to live on. Which means they either have to be in the area with a job/unemployed or willing to play for....well; the love of it really. That's the offer on the table. As soon as you might find somebody anyone is willing to pay even £50 per game to, they will be snapped up from such slightly more football hotbeds such as Dorchester...or Weymouth.

Which is not so different to the manager's terms of 'employment' really. Some players at Taunton are paid something; a £7 here, £30 there. The manager doesn't even get a tracksuit. Or pair of trainers. Or a mobile. Or a desk. Or £7.

One plus side I guess, is that you don't have to deal with agents (no bad thing; Ryan doesn't like men in suits much, especially ones fleecing him), wage demands, contracts or fining players and Ryan was never very good with money anyway.

To be fair to Ryan, unlike at Veendam, he knew the score on all of that, this was Taunton Town after all. This time you couldn't accuse my old mate of naively walking in to a situation blind.

And come 4pm that day walk he did, down to the ground to see what Kev's missus could offer. He was buzzing.

Ryan wasn't sure whether his obscene exclamation was from shock of slamming the door in to somebody's face or what it was that actually stood in front of him once the door had opened enough to see her.

“Sh*t” I guess can be used as response to both nearly knocking somebody over or to seeing pure sex on legs so close in an all of sudden kind of way.

“I beg your pardon”, came the flustered reply from the obviously offended gorgeous door stop, as Ryan spluttered and flapped at the sight.

“Oh...****...sorry. Umm...my name is Ryan Hull, I spoke to...umm [Ryan at this point realised he'd not got the name of Kev's missus in their earlier chat]...the owner earlier and she asked me down for a chat at 4pm”.

Not the best way to start a job interview granted, but within a minute, greetings over; the sex on legs (Kev's missus) had Ryan beckoned inside and following her up a corridor (of sorts) to what Ryan guessed was an office.

“That.....is a distraction at any football club” Ryan thought to himself as he followed the most pert bum cheeks he'd seen in a long time moving very nicely in the knee length, tight, black dress and black heels towards his new dawn. The size 8 body, prominent cheek bones and long, black ringlet head of hair....not to mention obviously perfectly toned arms and legs popped the cherry on the cake on those cheeks just nicely.

“Yeah” Ryan thought bitterly not for the first time that day, “Kev really has done well for himself”.

[STFCDP1990]

This is an excellent story so far, keep it up!

[Jibby123]

Thanks STFCDP1990. Appreciated.

[Peacemaker7]

Glad to see you were inspired to write again

Taunton were relegated last season in my game, thought you might want to know that!

Keep up the good work is such an awful phrase, really hate that, but seriously, a well written and interesting story so try and keep it going as long as you can.

[Jibby123]

Thanks a lot Peacemaker7.

I heed your warning as well. Have my work cut out here for sure....

[Jibby123]

“Forgive my attire Ryan. Not very football is it??” the newly introduced Sasha smiled with an ever so subtle twinkle as she settled behind the desk. “I've just come from court”.

Ryan wondered if she was taking the pee. Nothing whatsoever wrong with Sasha's dress, away from red blooded testosterone factories of football clubs that is, but maybe Ryan realised Kev's missus knew that and this was her marking her patch on who was control here. Not exactly Ryan's previous Chairman old Max, to look at, but same flavour different package. Kind of. Power dressing is not all about looking smart, is it?? Woman like Sasha maybe do it to put men on a back foot from kick off. Effective as it is nice to look at on that.

According to Ryan that is.

….or maybe she really had just come from court. She had no reason to lie to Ryan. Or not yet at this point anyway.

If Ryan was expecting a football groupie, taking the seat in front of the screen of the packed pubs for England world cup games, without a clue about the game but there because the pub was packed with blokes (Ryan still gets bitter about Euro 96 and all of a sudden England fans) then he was about to be disabused of that naïve notion swiftly and with a crash. Never judge a book by it's cover and all that.

As they compared Football CV's Ryan's shoulders drooped just a little lower.

Nine England caps. Scholarship to the US for her ability with a football at her feet. Games by the shedload in the US Collegiate leagues and now defunct former Women's United Soccer Association, the world's first women's soccer league in which all the players were paid as professional. In double quick time; qualified for the UEFA 'A' coaching licence on the back of her US College stint learning a bit of theory whilst she played.

Tossing up whether to ask why she was looking for a manager in the first place or wondering if she could clean up from the break on a pool table whilst downing pints as well, Ryan decided on the mouth shut, ears open approach whilst she cocked her leg once more and marked her territory very nicely. In a manner of speaking of course.

Ryan was really only interested in one thing though; did she have a role for him.

Of course she did....Like I said; I'd not be writing this if she didn't....Or not on a Football Manager forum anyway.

Chest puffing over, Sasha rested back in her chair with a slightly less 'ever so' subtle twinkle in the eyes than Ryan had noticed first time round when apologising for her dress and proceeded to confirm with an almost teasing smile what Ryan had already guessed.

There was no contract. There was no transfer budget. There was a small wage budget that could be used, to pay a paper round kid judging by the amount. Sundays only. Average gate 200 on a good day. On the flip-side there was an Assistant. A coach. A physio. A scout. Ryan wondered if they were all one and the same bloke. Or all Sasha. And there were 30+ players on the 'books'. But 'unfortunately' last season's star and top scorer had 'emigrated' 1 hour down the M5 motorway to take up a new painter and decorator's job in Plymouth and wouldn't be available next season.

Oh and she expected a top 3 finish in their current league. A league Taunton Town had finished 9th and 18th in the previous two seasons. Fairly ambitious there then, but hell; so was Ryan in being a football manager.

Sasha would 'smooth out' any player acquisitions, with Ryan 'welcome' to give input, leaving Ryan to wonder whether it was the size of the player's thighs or actual ability and talent that tipped the balance with this box of surprises. Ryan suspected the latter more than he had 20 minutes before. She was no idiot, that was clear. And the criteria was hardly going to be about any potential new player's wage demands, was it?

“Get a grip Ryan. This is the 21st Century. Sexism is for yesteryear. Even at a football club”, thought Ryan. Ryan knew he was lying to himself, but what choices did he have?

He accepted the role. Of course he did....

[Jibby123]

27th May 2011, Wordsworth Drive, Taunton

Thankfully Sasha had kept things all football in the interview. No mention of Ryan's situation, tenant status to her hubby via the social, his sudden 'departure' from Holland or stay at Her Majesty's Pleasure. Or luckily for her, not a dicky bird on Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service/MI6 and their Ryan episode either. Maybe she didn't do google either. Or really had been tied up with court all day.

The buzz Ryan felt crossing the busy East Reach in to Wordsworth Drive; a walk that took all of two minutes the next day was tenfold on the optimism he had had the previous day, he was back at work doing what he had always wanted to do and after another day of unsuccessful hunting for actual, real (as in paid) work.

This evening he was going to meet the 'lads'; the players for their first meeting on a get to know exercise organised at impressively short-notice by Sasha where Ryan could introduce himself and would start to put his stamp on the club about how he would set up tactics, what he expected from his players and begin to fathom out who was who.

Those who couldn't be contacted by Sasha in the previous hours, those working a night shift, working late, too lazy to bother or revising for GCSEs and A-Levels Ryan hoped he would meet over the summer. Not that Ryan could contact anyone who hadn't turned up, or not until Sasha arrived or gave him a key to the clubhouse that stretched down side by side of one of the stands so he could get to use the land line in her office anyway and he wasn't expecting to see Sasha today. A world away from the Premier League for sure.

Taunton Town's home at Wordsworth Drive is, as one might expect, not much to write home about. Nestled between the local fire station whose training tower overlooks one end of the ground and a public park it is at least floodlit and has 3 'stands' of sorts down 3 sides, with an uncovered open bank of concrete behind one of the goals covering the 4th side. Directly behind this bank is the car park, leaving car's and their windscreens completely unprotected from any wayward shots at the goal at that end. Not Ryan's problem; Ryan didn't have a car.

As Ryan noticed about 20 lads of of 'footballing age' all milling around by the various work vans and cars in the car park and started to make his way over he heard an almost timid voice behind him,

“Excuse me mate. Are you with the club?”

Ryan turned round to see one of the smallest adults he'd seen in some time. The body size matched the voice; lightweight, as Ryan wondered if the little guy was part of the club as well.

Not waiting for an answer, the little guy carried on, blushing now, “My name's Richard Stevens, I'm looking for a team next season...and....uh....I can play a bit up front and wondered who I should speak to....”.

Ryan looked at the 'kid', a not much taller than 5 ft ball of nervous energy in front of him and thought to himself, “Yeah but not for dwarfs and you look too old for the youths”. Caught on the hop slightly Ryan nevertheless very briefly explained who he was and invited the kid that looked about to burst in to tears of nerves, to join him as he headed over to the group of players now all staring at the two of them.

After all, until he saw what he had to play with, Ryan couldn't afford to turn anyone away. You never know and all that.

An hour later, meet and greets over, Ryan had seen enough of the full size game he had organised to get a first look of what was at his disposal. Whether any, or all, of the players were going to be around or want to play a few months later when the next season kicked Ryan had no idea, but what could he do about that? Hastily compiling notes on some of the players; apparent qualities and flaws that he noticed, Ryan kept off to one side of the pitch throughout. For now he only took the names of those he'd noticed do something encouraging...or something worrying.

To finish off the session Ryan called the group together and started straight in with letting the guys know some of his philosophy on how this game would or should be played. As they gathered around him he noticed an Aston Martin, racing green, pull in to the car park behind one of the goals.

Out of the car got Sasha, now dressed in a smart navy blue trouser suit, but instead of looking over to Ryan and the large group of players (which she could not failed to have noticed) or even approaching them she hurriedly jogged, or as well as you can in high heels, over to the clubhouse, unlocked the door and without a backward glance went through it.

“Right then lads. Thanks for the work out there, I learned a few things for sure. Hopefully all or most of you will come back after the summer ready for next season”.

Ryan carried on “I won't take up much more of your time, I just want to give you a bit of background of my own history and the way I see football being played. I never played the game professionally, but started at Nottingham Forest on the old YTS scheme under a certain Brian Clough. It didn't work out, but I went on to play for the Army and Combined Services before getting in to the coaching side with German Division 2 side Paderborn and then a spell as manager of BV Veendam in the Dutch 2nd Division last year”.

Ryan wasn't sure whether that impressed anyone or not, but that wasn't really his goal, so carried on confidently.

“I expect three basic things in a footballer. One...” Ryan lifted the index finger on his left hand, “...Determination. You must be as determined as you can be. No excuses. Two....” Ryan lifted the middle finger on his left hand “....You have to all work for the team. The team is all. I don't care if you're Cristiano Ronaldo, if you don't think teamwork in every thing you do out there, I'm not interested and you won't play for one of my teams for long. And finally, Three....” Ryan completed the set by lifting his ring finger...”....You will work hard out there. Work rate is key, and I don't care if it's training or in the match. You work hard for me but more importantly for each other and we'll get along fine. Those three ingredients are essential gentlemen. Bring me those and you all have a chance with me!”.

Ryan scanned the now expectant faces, “No team has ever won anything without a spine of those three qualities in it's players and staff, whether its Barcelona or The Rose Inn 3rd team. I have them. I hope you do too gents.”

“I play a basic 4-2-3-1 and I've not seen anything to suggest otherwise that you can fulfil those roles out there. I appreciate you all have lives away from football but I expect you to turn up promptly and ready to go at training 3 times per week, matches allowing. No excuses”.

Ok, Ryan might have gone too far on the no excuses demand he realised immediately. They were amateurs after all, and all may well have genuine excuses to miss the odd session, but he was hardly going to offer that up at this point.

“Right off you go lads, and thanks again for your effort out there. Date for your diaries for those who want to be part of what I intend to build here: First session next season is 1st July. 7 PM. If your contact details change in the meantime I expect you to leave a message at the club updating me. Have a good summer”.

As the players, now dismissed, trailed back in groups of 2s and 3s Ryan called over the guy he had met as he entered the ground earlier in the evening, Richard Stevens. He looked like he was about to cry again.

“How old are you son?” Ryan asked.

“20”.

“Richard, I will be honest with you. I'm worried about your size, especially at this level. But one of my beefs about the game in England is the obsession with strong, fast and big units and the idea that if you're neither you're no good to anyone. Lionel Messi and Paul Scholes coped just fine with that 'disability' and I'm encouraged by what I saw out there, so if you ring the club tomorrow and leave a message with your contact details hopefully we can see you in July.”

“T-t-thanks Ryan. See you then”.

Ryan wasn't going to write the guy off; 5ft 2” and nervous as a kitten or not. He was by and far the best finisher he had seen out there tonight. By far. Every time he got the chance he hit the target and that's a wanted commodity at any level of football.

Ryan headed over to the clubhouse hoping to get a chance to catch up with Sasha, and to see if he could get a key for the place if for no reason than to use the office phone through the summer to cover the admin of prepping this team for next season.

Entering the office, the only part of the ramshackle building with a bulb burning, Ryan cheerfully started

“Promising what I saw out there Sasha. And guess what? Just made our first new signing; a dwarf admittedly, but boy can he hit the net, name's Richard Stevens.....”

His voice trailed off. There lent over the desk with her back to him and shoulders shaking was Sasha.

Sasha was clearly sobbing....

[Jibby123]

Sasha jumped up with a start and quickly turned to face Ryan. With a startled look in her red, swollen and very moist eyes she seemed to take a second or two to register who Ryan was. Ryan, clearly feeling as awkwardly uncomfortable as I guess Sasha would have been, asked that ridiculous question we often ask, when the answer is clearly as unnecessary as the question.

“Sasha, are you ok?”

Hesitatingly, and seemingly vacantly looking like she was a 1000 miles up in orbit in mind if not in body, Sasha seemed to stare right through Ryan before coming back down to earth with anything but a reassuring;

“Yes, Ryan. I'm fine.....uh hard day at the office, you know how it is”.

The smile forced from both eyes and mouth and with the subtly shaking hand she immediately moved to her face to attempt to wipe the tears from the cheek told even somebody as socially inept as Ryan that she was lying. She certainly was not fine, and Ryan no more believed she was than he did that the distressed state was from a bad day at work. That much was obvious, but what else could Ryan say or do, they weren't yet so familiar to each other to make any probing or further disclosure seem appropriate.

Ryan filled the awkward 'about to develop' silence by bringing things back to things football. A subject he was never socially inept at speaking about,

“The training session Sasha....I saw some positives for sure, some hard working lads out there”, and remembering all of a sudden what Sasha had said at the previous day's interview about wanting to have input on any new potential players hesitated before carrying on, “....and I uh might have found a half-decent little player, names Richard Stevens, striker, little being the word, but he looked very promising....I've asked him to leave his contact details on the phone and to return when we start back in July”.

Slightly less pronounced than before the vacant look in Sasha's eyes returned. Ryan might as well have told her that he'd just signed Steven Gerrard from Liverpool, she looked at Ryan, or through Ryan, for a few more seconds than was comfortable,

“Oh....ok.....um....good. Look I need to get going, glad the session went well, I'm going to lock up now, so uh if you need to contact me at any time over the next few weeks you have my number, right?”.

It was clearly obvious the chat was over and Ryan was being asked to leave her the hell alone and go. With a typical “no worries, will do” Ryan inwardly shrugged and left Sasha to it. Whatever 'it' was.

Taking the short walk back to his one room 'cell' Ryan didn't spend too much time worrying about Sasha. He had far more important and to Ryan, exciting, things on his mind; football and what he had seen out on the pitch out there tonight. After all, even at Veendam and the circus show out there in Holland it had always been about the football, right?

His thoughts only returned to the odd, but brief, chat with Sasha when he suddenly remembered and muttered outloud to himself,

“Damn, forgot to ask her about that key for the clubhouse”.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Almost 3 months later - 8th August 2011 – Taunton, Somerset

I had not seen too much of Ryan over the summer, I'd been working up in London and he'd been busy with his latest projects; finding a job, finding somewhere better to live and working on the project that now mattered most to Ryan; Taunton Town aka The Peacocks of the Evo-Stik Southern D1 S/W in Tier 8 of the English League pyramid.

On a personal front, though we were close we weren't in each other's pockets, such lack of contact was not uncommon. Things had improved for Ryan on the first two of his projects, if admittedly least important of the three to Ryan, he had found a job as a part time postman on a temporary contract. Suited Ryan, he didn't have to deal with members of the public much and was out and about left alone for most of his shift.

Secondly, Kev was no longer Ryan's landlord, he had moved in with an elderly couple as their lodger which was a definite upwardly mobile step from the probation hostel he had been in when we had last spoke.

I could almost taste in the air the excitement oozing out of his every pore as he filled me in on what had been happening in Ryan's big (and to Ryan only) project; Taunton Town. The season was to kick off in a few days, and bless my old mate...he was definitely buzzing.

He had not seen much of Sasha, most of the contact had been by phone (Ryan had finally got that key to the clubhouse, and by default a phone), but she had definitely been busy behind the scenes with the club by arranging friendlies and bringing in a few signings. Ryan hadn't cared that he hadn't much input to the signings and seemed to accept them without complaint.

After all, if any number of Chelsea managers over recent years had to put up with their chairman doing the hiring/firing of players, then what room did Ryan have to complain at this level. He was just happy to be back managing, and I was happy for him.

He quickly bought me up to speed on how the pre-season had gone. Pretty much every player from the training session in May had turned up on the first day of pre-season training, and there had been a few in/outs at the hands of Sasha. Ryan felt most of the players had returned because they liked what they'd seen in Ryan in May, but that's Ryan. Bless him. I'm the cynic so was thinking more along the lines that those players, with no approaches for their services from anywhere else, had no choice but to come back if they still wanted to play half-decent football, or the most decent level football in 10 miles around. The very short (he hadn't grown over the summer!) Richard Stevens had also returned. Ryan's first signing.

Ryan, sat in the bar (where else?), ran through some of the new signings Ryan hadn't made (Sasha had), but were going to be along for the ride;

Leon Gierke – A 31 year old Striker with nearly 100 games in these level leagues at a career total of 22 goals. Boundless energy, with the experience of how to make those not-quite Lineker runs off the ball, he looked to add some experience alongside his football brain and great engine.

Craig Bentham – A 26 year old defensive central midfielder who as a youngster had had 4 seasons at League One and Two side Bradford, playing nearly 30 games for them. Admittedly some years ago, but at a club like Taunton Town that was FIFA World Cup level. What he was doing living in Somerset I have no idea.

Richard Batchelor – A young 22 year old who looked fairly promising. Adept at either right back or as a deep lying midfielder, the boy had muscles on muscles and a not too shoddy brain on the defensive arts of the game.

Steve Campbell – Former Royal Marine, recently having left the Corps and 40 Commando who were based in Taunton at the age of 33, this was to be Ryan's Club Captain. His leadership qualities and mental toughness were clear to see, probably honed on the battlefields of Helmand and Southern Iraq, but straight from the off the players seemed to take their lead from Steve. An attacking central midfielder, who though had never played outside of the military, could do a job for Taunton just nicely.

Graham Cheeseman – Very experienced, 34 years old Striker, who could have and should have played at a far higher level with indisputable flair, dribbling and finishing but with a suspect temperament to match. Ryan got the impression he'd punch his own mother if she looked at him wrong, which was probably the reason his career had never gone anywhere. Aggressive as a bag of cobra's, age had not mellowed Graham.

Chris Chapman – Probably the most exciting prospect of the new signings; Sasha had done really well here. 18 years young, strong beyond his years and towering centre back at 6' 4” already (and still growing) just what might be needed in this division with the route one tactic employed by many. Only recently released by League 2 side Hereford who had been with since he was 9 years old, this boy might not be around long when bigger clubs had a look and like Craig Bentham I had no idea how he had ended up in the area.

The friendlies had been....umm....inconsistent. Ryan's only gripe was that Sasha had arranged for them to be played at Taunton's home Wordsworth Drive and it showed. Days before the long, long season kicked off the pitch after 7 friendlies in 3 weeks already was beginning to look like a mud-wrestler's party venue.

Seven games played, winning only one, and losing four they had gone from a 5-0 win against league above side Chippenham to losing 5-2 to a team only Sasha had ever heard of.

Ryan finished his pint with a smile.

“Not bad, eh?”.

“Cool as Ryan, looking good mate. But what about the players already there? Any worthy of the shirt?” I asked mirroring his smile. His enthusiasm was rubbing off on me.

“Haven't got time mate. Early round tomorrow. Will fill you in next time. Some good, some bad, some indifferent”, he smiled. And with that he was gone.

Five days until season kick off. The rehabilitation of Ryan was on-track. If only, yeah if only it was kept to football I had a feeling Ryan would do just fine. If only....

[tenthreeleader]

This is keenly impressive. The only things I could say are matters of purely personal style and preference. I really hope you keep posting this. A very nice, smooth read.

[Jibby123]

Thanks Tenthree, appreciated.

4 days later - 12th August 2011 – Taunton, Somerset

Ryan looked out over the pitch whilst it slowly disappeared in to the approaching dusk and let out a long, resigned sigh. With the new season only one day away and for what should be the eve of a whole new exciting chapter for Ryan, the initial buzz of what had been offered on the back of the chance meeting with Kev back in May had drip-drip seeped out of Ryan over the summer, not that I realised that at the time. And only slightly seeped out mind you, but when the pot of optimism has been repeatedly kicked apart for years on years, it becomes a near empty bag of optimism that you can't really afford to lose much more from.

“39 years done and it comes down to this” Ryan muttered as his shoulders, chest and head slumped measurably further in to himself with the realisation of what he had done with his life. Or in Ryan's case hadn't done. A seemingly better qualified, and very expectant chairwoman wanting an instant promotion with a local, not even semi-pro club and a dump for a ground surrounding a mud heap where the manager has to help the players who are willing to come in early to put the nets up before a game, get a pot of white paint and borrow a white line roller from the local college and hope the pitch markings lines were at least straight. Or straight-ish.

He should be excited, he knew that, but couldn't grasp why he sat there alone looking out over an empty ground just feeling like he was in a long, pitch-black tunnel with the walls of said tunnel seemingly closing in slightly more each day.

Three failed marriages, on the professional football scrapheap at 19, joined the Army where the Army, in the perverse way it works, always seemed to want him to represent them at football more than they wanted him to soldier, and in spite of that the horror of the sights from the Bosnian war that kept his nightmare pot full even 16 years later. Add to that the crushing disappointment at Veendam, the prison sentence, the alcohol, the violence and complete lack of trust in humanity were the external indicators that others had seen out of Ryan since then, but compared to those internal malfunctions only Ryan really saw every single day they were literally nothing.

We all only briefly saw Ryan's demons, Ryan lived with them every hour of every day.

“So which of the three are you going to be in to young man; the birds, booze or betting?”, the words of his first ever boss in his first ever day at work came echoing back to Ryan in that moment dragging him down lower in hopes for the future and his current black mood. Well, prophetic words or genuine question it turned out to be from the legend that was Brian Clough. Two out of the three for Ryan; he never did get the gambling bug.

An hour must have passed with Ryan sitting there motionless thinking....well thinking too much if I'm honest. It was as dark as it was going to get now; literally and within Ryan's head, or at least so we all hoped for Ryan. As the pitch and ground were slowly swallowed up by the night, Ryan's version of sanity fought a similar battle in keeping the darkness at bay.

Ryan's doom was interrupted with a start as he realised he was about to have company of sorts, company he should not be expecting at this time of night here at the empty dark ground.

The soft crunch of tyres on gravel seemed at odds with the size of vehicle as the large, Range Rover 4WD, purred through the gate and on to the car park behind the goal closest to the clubhouse, did a neat turn to be parked up nose facing the exit. Lights and engine were cut and there seemed to be a too-long a pause of silence again.

“Hmm, drug dealers” was Ryan's first thought as he sat stock watching earnestly but still fairly confident that the occupant, or occupants, were unaware of his presence. The blacked out windows of the vehicle only enhanced the conspiracy theory briefly invading Ryan's mind and ensured he had no idea whether he had been seen, by whom or by how many.

Now for all Ryan's shortcomings, of which there were a few, admittedly, you could never accuse him of not being able to sense 'trouble'. Ok, what happened at Veendam happened, but in defence of Ryan he was so wrapped up in managing the team and finally realising his dream he had been temporarily blinded, and if anything the whole experience in Holland had only honed this one Ryan asset further anyway.

As both front doors of the vehicle opened the passenger jumped out with a large unwieldy sports holdall, and the driver could be seen gobbing off in to a phone from the driver's seat, Ryan 'knew' or sensed two things instantly.

The change in Ryan was subtle, some call it flight or fight, but he involuntarily tensed every muscle, ears and eyes opened their receive valves fully and he waited and muttered again to himself,

“This doesn't look right....this looks like trouble”.

To up the ante of flight or fight, Ryan realised he had been seen. The driver, now finished with his call, was calling out to Ryan aggressively and starting to head with long determined strides towards where he had been sat alone for most of the evening....

[Jibby123]

Without looking over his shoulder, the bundle of heavy aggression did not break his stride towards Ryan, nor take his eyes off of where Ryan was sat alone in the empty stand, and shouted over his shoulder to his accomplice with the sports holdall who looked to Ryan like he was doing a rabbit dance in headlights.

“Back in to the vehicle Sasquatch”.

The rabbit in the headlights and his luggage was gone from view. Back in to the vehicle I guess.

Out of the gloom the fight on two legs came closer with every step. Who recognised who first I don't know, but Ryan visibly relaxed slightly as did the caveman like march to battle heading his way once recognition lowered the stakes here.

Kev. Ex-Army acquaintance, Ryan's far more recent ex-landlord and husband of Ryan's new boss.

“Ryan for ****s sake. It's you. What the **** are you doing here?”.

Ryan waited. Something still didn't seem right. As Kev got whites of the eye close the aggression didn't quite lessen enough to allow Ryan to relax like it should. Kev's eyes were like rods of lasers dancing all over and right through Ryan.

Ryan started hesitatingly,

“Alright mate. You know how it is. Just prepping for the new season to start tomorrow. Gathering last minute thoug....”.

“Boll*cks. You waiting for my missus?”, cut Ryan short.

No old Army banter or teasing there Ryan thought. Kev meant it. Kev's sniffing that Ryan could now see and hear clearly, his dancing eyes and jerky movement of limbs told a whole different story than barracks humour tease of taking on other's girls.

“Uhh. No mate, course not. Nothing's happening there. Are you alright Kev?”.

Now Kev was closer, too close for comfort, Ryan knew everything wasn't alright, and was sure he could see white flecks of dust in Kev's nostril hairs. Pleasant thought. With that Kev seemed to relax slightly, one of them had to otherwise this was going messy, and with that Kev gave an out of place inappropriate very hollow laugh.

“It had better not be happening son,” and with that Kev gave a not friendly enough double tap to Ryan's cheek. Ryan clenched his fists ready and tensed his chest, thighs and shoulders involuntarily.

Son? They were the same age or thereabouts. Blatant put down.

“Right,”, Kev carried on, “Best it's not. Wouldn't want to have to batter my old mate would I or bin him from his love fest of poncing it at football, especially now he's the tramp in town, eh?”.

Uncalled for. Too aggressive. Too nasty if we're being blunt.

Before Ryan could respond Kev seemed to lose interest and was walking back towards the 4x4.

If there was any doubt before, Ryan was under no illusion now who really called the shots at Taunton Town, if not on the football itself. Sasha might wear the trousers so to speak, but it was clear whose Ryan's boss was. To a soldier there's ways to act and speak that no matter the rank (to a point!) everybody knows where they stand.

As the 4x4 kicked in to life and purred out of the car park behind one of the goals at Wordsworth Drive, Ryan sighed just that bit deeper than he had been sighing all evening. Ryan's last view of Kev was Kev in the passenger seat. Now illuminated by the internal vehicle light through the darkened window as Kev seemed to lean down towards his lap with something that looked like a rolled up bank note being passed to him by the driver.

“Oh. It's like that is it?” thought Ryan. “Max at Veendam....to this”.

It was pitch dark now. Ryan stood up from the empty stand and started the slow shuffling walk towards the exit of the ground.

“Sod it. The season starts tomorrow. Think Football. Always Football. The season starts in hours” sort of geed Ryan up. What else did he have? But hey, I love football too, that's enough sometimes.....

[Peacemaker7]

*phew* I thought you'd given up Jibby, nice to see you haven't

[Jibby123]

writer's block/taunton is hard work along other save! Hopefully temp.

But thanks Peacemaker7. It is appreciated.

[Jibby123]

Saturday, 13th August 2011 – Wetherspoons Pub – Taunton, Somerset

I was running late. The queue at the door of the pub and the bouncer's policy of 'one out one in' was only going to make me later. 9pm on a warm summer Saturday night at one of Taunton's busiest pubs was not the best time and place to arrange a catch up with Ryan hours after Taunton Town's first league game, but Ryan liked the place. The lager was cheap.

Getting increasingly worried I'd not get in at all and seeing through the glass doors a seething melee of the young and 'beautiful' stacked 6-7 deep at the bar jostling to be noticed by the overworked bar staff, I could hardly ring Ryan on his mobile to tell him to come out to me and find an alternative bar where we might get served some time this weekend. Ryan didn't do mobiles after all.

Then I saw him, but didn't like what I saw. Not one bit.

Forgetting the queue, forgetting the bouncers on the door looking bored I ignored both queue and bouncers and pushed my way through, pressed my face as close to the glass door as I could get without kissing it and banged hard with the flat of my palm against the glass.

It didn't get Ryan's attention sat alone, eyes staring in to space, shoulders slumped at a table with a half full glass in front of him...but it got the attention of the queue and the bouncers in that order.....

Big time. It kicked off.

[Jibby123]

Well, on the bright side I finally got to chat to Ryan and find out from him how his first competitive match as football manager of Taunton went. Of sorts anyway. There were downsides to this chat and it wasn't exactly how I'd planned the night to end but looking on the bright side it was another one to tick off on the list of life experiences; good, bad and indifferent.

"You there mate? You hear me?" I heard the muffled shout I instantly recognised as Ryan's west-country wurzel accent coming from close, but not as close as it should have been all things considered.

"You know I am ****head. What the hell happened?", I gave as cheery a reply as I could muster back trying to keep the what the hell am I doing here frustration out of my voice.

"Sod it mate. Win some, lose some.....get you the thug, never knew you had it in you. What's the missus going to say?" and Ryan's voice was lost in loud, (slightly too much...) manic laughter. Under normal circumstances it would be great to hear Ryan laugh, it had been a long time, but this wasn't normal circumstances. Anything but.

"Yeah. So then, how did it go today?" I fired back. Anything to take my mind off my/our current predicament and what led us here.

"Mate. Nightmare. They're ****. Crap. Useless. Even I can't polish a turd, can I", said Ryan; his tone changing....serious all of a sudden. Drunk he might be but talking football always focussed the mind in Ryan's case. Like nothing else could.

“So then, tell all...what happened?” Not like we have anywhere to go any time soon I didn't add.

“Lost. All that way down to Dorset and get dicked. Sod it.”

“Ouch” I thought. That will kill Ryan. Day one or not. Ryan hated losing. Trying to get some best out of a bad situation I pathetically shouted out to him “Ah well, only one direction you can take now son. Onwards and upwards....what happened?”.

“Don't want to talk about it. Read the ****ing Gazette on Thursday. Night”. Ryan replied. He wasn't right. Or not right even by his standards. Any further calls from me to Ryan were ignored.

Or maybe he couldn't hear me through the cell doors that separated me in Cell 6 and Ryan in Cell 7 of Taunton police station after my fracas with the queue and bouncers earlier trying to get Ryan's attention by banging the window....not to mention Ryan's reaction to looking out of said window to see me being spun around by my collar all over the pavement by queue and bouncers alike.

13/08/2011. Game One.

Poole Town 4v0 Taunton Town.

Att: 254

League Position after match: Bottom

[Wegason]

This is excellent.

[Jibby123]

Thanks Wegason, appreciated.

Monday 15th August, 2011 - Portishead, North Somerset. Avon and Somerset Police Headquarters.

Working on the police Special Branch (Anti-Terrorist/Home Security) team in this force's area wasn't as quiet as one might think. Ok, it wasn't Belfast, the Met or any of the Yorkshire or East Midland forces on the home front fight against terrorism or national security issues, but it was more a hotbed than many might want to know. Bristol, with it's culturally diverse population provided enough work to keep the job interesting enough if not interesting enough to clock up the overtime to make anyone earn more than they might in police work. Depends what floats your boat I guess.

DS Rigby, of said Special Branch team, was intrigued enough on the message that greeted him this morning to raise one of his extremely bushy eyebrows; mainly because 99% of instructions and (too one way for Rigby's liking) 'liasion' with the dark side came from the Home Office's own Security Service, MI5. And 99% of the same involved the city of Bristol. This morning's call was about neither. If the suits at MI5 came across as aloof and arrogant these boys wanting him to return their call today took the biscuit....

A man from the Foreign Office, Steve Hyland the name, wanted somebody to get back to him asap (as in now!!) to speak about an incident in Taunton at the weekend. If a man from the Foreign Office wanted to speak to somebody from the Police's own Special Branch, it only meant one thing; the Secret Intelligence Service MI6. It was hard to keep up, all these agencies seemed to work in isolation and all wanted to mark their territory with peeing over whoever was in their way, forgetting what the end game purpose was. But there was no doubt who wore the trousers. It wasn't DS Rigby and it wasn't the Avon and Somerset's Special Branch.

So with as much a sigh of being down the food chain as curiosity intrigued DS Rigby, he made the call. You never know, the Chinese or Russian secret service might have moved a cell in to sleepy market town Taunton. Then again....

"Right Rigby. You need to listen in. Your force of plods arrested a man at the weekend down in Taunton. A misunderstanding of drunk and disorderly I believe and the chap is now on bail. Name is Ryan Hull. You are to drop all charges immediately, investigate no further. Mr Hull will not learn of this, when he reports back to your chaps on his bail date he is to be told simply that all charges are dropped. No caution. No further interview. Case closed. Am I clear??".

DS Rigby was long enough in the tooth not to let his testosterone allow his annoyance at these people's arrogance get a rise. They were what they were and even if he could protest about the right of the law of the land, this Hyland guy from MI6 would take it all the way to the Chief Constable if needed. And win. And it wouldn't look good on DS Rigby's annual report either. Pick only the fights you can win or whatever Sun Tzu wrote DS Rigby smiled to himself.

As intrigued as he was, he knew asking for any further information as to why this random event had got the interest of the Intelligence Service was as pointless as it might have been ego-boosting to tell the MI6 man to 'do one' and learn how English law worked at the same time. Whatever this random guy Ryan Hull had done to turn up on their radar DS Rigby had no idea; under-surviellance, an agent or brother of this Steve Hyland MI6 man, he wasn't about to ask. It doesn't work like that. These people would almost enjoy telling him, or reminding him it was all "need to know....and you don't need to know. So be a good little boy and just do it".

Two hours up the M4 overlooking the Thames, Steve Hyland, placed the phone back on it's hook and looked over at the screen in front of him on the wall.

"Hmm. Eva Stankovic. Well well well." The crystal clear CCTV image of her entering Heathrow's Terminal Two didn't look so different to the image of her an hour later boarding the rail link all the way in to Paddington, and all the way to her stepping on to the Penzance train with a ticket bought cash one way to Taunton in sleepy Somerset.

For some background, might want to refresh on how Ryan and Eva might have crossed twice before in previous story:

http://community.sigames.com/showthread.php/229127

[IWWROCKS]

I live in Street so not too far from Taunton so this has caught my interest! really enjoying so far

[Jibby123]

Thanks IWWROCKS, appreciated, my first g/f went to Millfield so remember Street well.

Tuesday 16th August, 2011 – Wordsworth Drive, Taunton Town FC

I had really wanted to get down to see Ryan's team as soon as possible, as much to show support to my old mate as to actually see Taunton Town play. Nobody in their right mind really wanted to see Taunton Town play apart from a few die hard and loyal fans and I was never going to be one of those; Ryan or no Ryan. The quality of football was extremely poor as you might expect this far down the English football pyramid, but what always miffed me about Taunton Town was the ridiculous price they charged for entry. They always had. £8 per adult for 'entertainment' this un-entertaining was about £6:50 too much for my tastes.

When I saw the Taunton Town fixture list at the beginning of the season I had not pencilled their first home game of the season as one I would be able to get to; it clashed with the date of my wedding anniversary and the dinner my lovely wife had booked for us to celebrate the fact that we'd tolerated each other this far.

But my lovely wife was not exactly feeling so 'lovely' towards me since my adventure and overnight stay as a guest of Taunton's finest boys in blue in one of their en suite cells on Saturday night and she wasn't actually speaking to me; five coldly delivered words aside to say “you can forget Tuesday night”, so what the hell; without any better offers on the table off down to the Wordsworth Drive I trundled for their first home league match of the season. Under floodlights no less even if they weren't exactly needed this time of year. Very cosmopolitan. Or not.

At least the weather was good, another fine mid-August summer evening greeted me and about 100 other fans of Taunton Town and the pre-match squeak of music over the tinny loudspeakers only added to the atmosphere, or lack of. Dexy's Midnight Runners crooning “Come on Eileen”. Rodgers' and Hart's “Blue Moon” or the Stone Roses' “This is the one” in front of a packed 48000 Mancunians at the Eithad or 70something thousand southerners at Old Trafford it was not, but hey.....sheesh, I was getting grumpy and far too sarcastic cynical in my old age I thought to myself as I handed over the Eight pounds of hard earned to the far older, but more jovial than me guy in the shed robbing me of the admission fee.

Looking around the ground, spoilt for choice where to stand or sit I noticed a core group of about 30 supporters behind one of the goals. The open banked concrete terrace, with the ¾ empty car park behind it, was where it was 'at' it seemed and intrigued to eavesdrop over the loyal and faithful on any opinions about their team's new manager I wandered over to join them. Nobody took any notice of me, it wasn't like I was likely to be one of the 'enemy' as in 'an away fan' coming to take their end like some 1970s throw back. Abingdon, in Oxford and tonight's opponents, was a long away trip for a Tuesday night at this level I guess. There weren't going to be any away fans tonight.

As the teams came out I tried to gauge Ryan's state of mind from afar as he took his place on the bench off to my left, never the easiest of tasks up close to fathom what really was going on in that boy's head, but he seemed to look pretty dandy from what I could see. He was where he felt most comfortable at least; focused on football and focused he looked. All good there then.

The football was dire. That's all I can say, and I won't bore you with the details of every misplaced pass or lead footed first touch from either side, not that the 30-40 of passionate fans around me seemed to care, they must be more used to it than me; or more likely just loved watching their home town club, a rarity at any level. Even when Taunton Town trudged off the field at Half Time 2-0 down their banter didn't stop or change a notch.

I could see what Taunton were trying to do, bring the ball down and pass it to feet, football the way Ryan believed it should be played, so at least his players seemed to be listening to what I knew he'd be harking in to them but they just didn't seem to have the ability to pull it off. Or not yet anyway. Abingdon had no such qualms about the beautiful game and sorry to purists, but maybe they knew what worked at this level. Because work it did; Abingdon ran out 3-0 winners, adding another goal in the second half.

As I watched the players head to the dressing rooms at the final whistle and Ryan take the long walk across the pitch to join them I noticed something I hadn't noticed before. Or rather someone, and an extremely pretty someone she was too. If her looks weren't enough to wonder why I hadn't noticed her before, what she was doing now as Ryan marched over towards the shed of the dressing rooms did get my attention.

This woman, as good as they are at multi-tasking, seemed to easily speak in to a mobile phone in a language I didn't recognise, sounded Eastern European if I had to bet my mortgage on the dialect, at the same time as snap pictures on a small compact camera held in one very delicate, small looking hand with the zoom out to the maximum on the camera pointing at my old mate Ryan as he got closer to where we stood. Odd, I thought and very out of place it was too. Before Ryan got close enough to recognise me I watched her slip away out of his line of sight. As easy on the eye as she was I couldn't help but notice the small upside down L shaped scar on the cheek under one of her almond, striking eyes.

Before I could think anything else about the beauty of her or oddity of being here doing what she appeared to be doing I heard Ryan shout over.

“Thought it was your anniversary mate, missus got the hump has she?? Won't mind joining me for a pint then will you??”. Perceptive was our Ryan. A pint right now would go down very nicely. And at least Ryan was smiling.

Game Two

Taunton Town 0 v 3 Abingdon

Att: 130

League Position after game: 21/21

League Record so far:

P 2 W0 D0 L2 Gls 0 Ag 7 Pts 0

[Jibby123]

Same date, 1 mile across town

The second job of the night, though never risk free as these jobs never are, should be much easier than the one he had carried out only a mile across town not more than an hour before. Breaking in, having a nosey around, leaving little 'presents' behind to work after you've gone and then getting yourself out again is not so difficult is to do, smacked out addicts do it all of the time after all. To enter somebody's property, do the work required on jobs like this and leave without anyone realising or ever finding out you were there, including the best forensic teams on any police force around, is a little more tricky, requires a certain finesse and not least skill. Getting caught was not an option in this line of work.

That's why they called to guys like Jason for jobs like these.

Tonight's two jobs tonight weren't so different in what they would achieve and basic plan on how to achieve it, but the first one had been slightly more complicated because it was going in to a house in late summer evening daylight whilst, if not the target himself, the two elderly occupants who were the target's landords were asleep in the property at the time. Waiting until they left the house would have been easier, even better if the old couple ever left the house after dark routinely would have been ideal, but the world is rarely ideal.

This second job was in a bed and breakfast which was good news for guys like Jason, because bed and breakfasts and hotels were often filled with transitory people which made it quite normal to see, or be a stranger coming and going. As an added potential bonus you might normally be able to get right up to the target's 'front door' without the target seeing you coming and if things really got heavy and the job was going to stretch out over hours or days you could usually move in literally next door to set up base.

The first job across town had gone without a hitch, the old couple had slept, snorted and snored throughout Jason's visit. The target was not going to return whilst Jason was in the house, or not without Jason having plenty of warning, because the earlier brief had informed him the target would be at a football match in town all evening. Making the target even more unlikely to leave early was that the target was the team manager. Besides if the target even moved a yard from the stadium the running commentary in Jason's covert ear piece would let him know, because the target had a however many it took surveillance team boxing him in now and would have until they were called off by those 'up high'. Not that the target would ever know or be aware of being followed or watched.

Jason walked with the small rucksack casually over his shoulder to the target bed and breakfast from where he had parked the car some distance away, buying a ticket for 24 hours. He'd not return to the car again, after being used for tonight's work it was now 'tainted' or 'dirty' and would not be used again on this operation. It would be collected in the morning by unknown fixers, whisked away, resprayed with new plates and back in the pool of cars Jason's firm used for jobs like these by Friday, which is not so different to Jason's own situation.

Jason's work boots caked with dry mud weren't the best fit he'd ever had but he wouldn't be wearing them for long and never again after tonight's work anyway. The cement/paint spotted dirty work jeans and scruffy frayed hoody completed the picture subtly but very effectively.

Upon approaching the door of the bed and breakfast, naturally and casually Jason slid the dirty boots off, placed them in his bag and slipped in to the brand new trainers as any muddy builder or worker might do before going through the front door at the end of the day. It was essential Jason didn't work with anything on his feet that had any contact elsewhere, especially outside elsewhere, with everything else to clean on his way out he didn't want to be sweeping the place for anything that might have dropped off his shoe. He couldn't dress up like a police forensic team on this one and anything that minimises trace is common sense I guess.

They'd already briefed him which room was the target, which wasn't always the case, and Jason never asked how they knew so you could never not plan that they have given you duff information. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best was the motto of this work. Armed with location and room number Jason marched straight towards it. There was no point in messing around, some jobs need a silent sneak around in the dark, this wasn't one of them so he had to appear as natural as possible, and he knew on this one the target was not at home. The covert ear piece kept telling him so. If anyway stopped to wonder in the few seconds it would take him to get in and out of the door he'd brazen it out.

Using the frayed hoody cuffs that had slipped over his hands Jason had negotiated the lock in seconds and Jason closed the door behind him as he stood inside the target's room. Wasting no time he had the camera out and took a sweep of the room. Before he did or touched anything, he'd take a photo and after he had touched or done anything he would consult the picture to ensure everything was as is before he had touched it or searched it. Attention to detail. The ultra thin gloves Jason put on added another barrier between Jason DNA and target and Jason was ready to get to work.

Within an hour the job was complete. Devices left for others to watch and listen through the only thing of even slight interest that had turned up in the search was a pistol, a Browning 9mm, which Jason had recorded and re-assembled with an almost invisible tracker device, but that was no biggie in Jason's line of work. That was for others to analyse the significance of.

Jason, upon brazenly walking out of the bed and breakfast, reversed his trainers and workboots changing trick and walked back towards the safe house wondering where his bosses with MI6 would send him next. Jason was what's called a sledgehammer, he bulldozes in, plants the bits that let the really subtle clever one's who now takeover the job do their thing.

The next day. MI6 HQ, London

Steve Hyland finished reading the report and sighed. The sledgehammer's work the night before started producing results immediately. Or at the B&B it had.

As Steve moved on to the next report, he wondered only to himself, “Ryan Ryan Ryan, what have you done....I thought I'd wrung you dry. Who's she working for now? Which foreign agency would want to shoot a football manager, and more importantly why the hell would they. He's just a football manager, we've checked enough”.

[Jibby123]

Monday 29th August 2011

Obviously at the time I was blissfully and wonderfully unaware of any of the above and life moved on.

If managing football teams at this level was tough; playing wasn't a whole lot easier either and the rewards were paltry even if your team becomes half way successful. Not only might you need your boss at home in the shape of an understanding partner or wife to cut you some slack to allow you to play, but for many in this league your boss at work needs to be equally 'on-side'.

Forty league games, various minor obscure cups such as the Somerset Premier Cup, FA Trophy, not to mention the big one; the FA Cup were the meat between the sandwich but one aspect many might never consider for players at this level is the travel. Criss crossing the south and west of England sometimes involved a round trip of 4-5 hours on a cramped coach; arriving an hour before kick off to leave within 20 minutes of the final whistle. If it were an away midweek game this may need you to get away from work an hour or two early and not return to Taunton until past midnight before needing to get up for work 5-6 hours later. Money restraints for almost every club in this division meant a hotel or B&B were out of the question. Even a coach to travel to and from the game as one group was a luxury, and at least thanks to the chairwoman; Sasha's generosity Taunton were luckier than some in the Evo-Stik League Southern Division South/West One.

Not a problem for my mate Ryan, the manager, he was unemployed again and single after all, but certainly no picnic for the players, nor their families or work mates.

Compounding this problem for all involved, by a quirk of the fixtures Ryan and Taunton Town FC had the following two weekends off and inconveniently for all their next game was an away game on a Monday night on the 29th. As away trips go though, this wasn't such a bad one; a fairly quick 60-70 minute sprint up the M5 to 10th placed Yate, a few miles north of Bristol and not more than 55 miles from Taunton.

I'd not seen or heard much from Ryan in the two weeks since the previous match, I had some grovelling to do to my wife after mine and Ryan's night as a guest in the cells, but it hadn't stopped me slowly getting drawn more and more in to hoping that Taunton Town were going to do well, because that meant my mate was doing well and he deserved a break. Though hardly able to call myself fan of the team, and nor would I ever want to, I found myself scouring the team's supporters forum on the Taunton Town website more regularly than I might have believed only a month or so previously. Ryan's enthusiasm, if extremely rare on anything much, was almost contagious when he did take something close to his heart. He was that kind of guy.

Being nosey and wanting to hear what the same old dozen stalwart fans thought of Ryan the manager I found myself drawn to the forum more than was healthy, but maybe bizarrely, of all things you could get almost instant score updates from a crazy, if dedicated, Taunton fan who apparently appeared at every game, friendlies as well; home and away who would kindly update the forum with the team's progress for the 9-10 of us who were following the team from afar. Jeff Stelling he wasn't but as I sat at my computer that Monday night I had to admit I was fairly nervous for Ryan and his team, and wondered who the mad one really was here; this fanatical fan giving the updates from all over the south of England or me eagerly waiting on his every post.

The match must have only been 4 or 5 minutes old when the first 'match update' appeared with a “GEEEETTTTT INNNNNN” in the title. Somerset's version of Kammy sounded revved up and I have to admit I was finding it difficult not to smile as I read the remainder of this guy's post to be informed Taunton Town had taken the lead with a 3rd minute headed goal from central midfielder, Zak Hendly from a Beckham-esqe whipped in cross. Or that's what this guy was claiming anyway.

Further updates followed; “playing really well. Knocking ball about short and sharp. Yate chasing shadows”, “really impressed lads, europe here we come” until just before half time we got another post title in capitals.

“SHEEEEEEEEEEEEET. PENALTY TO YATE. SHOCKING DECISION”. My heart sank a little, yes I was really getting this bug, sad as it might sound now. “A Taunton Town bobble hat and scarf for xmas at this rate” I smiled to myself. If Ryan lasted in the job that long is.

Whilst I dismissed the ridiculous thought that I could be turning in to somebody who cared, as in an actual fan, the next update flew in. “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!! MISSED. KEEP YOUR EYES OUT BOYS. BALL SKIED SO HIGH LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW. SHOULD BE FLYING OVER TAUNTON RIGHT ABOUT NOW LOL LOL”. This boy was something else. I again gave myself a self-conscious grin in my empty study as I noticed almost embarrassingly that I had instinctively and silently punched the air with a delight any fan would understand.

At Half Time, with Taunton leading 1-0, our man in Yate gave his audience a run down of the game so far and marks out of 10 for each Taunton player. Nobody was getting lower than a 9. It also reminded me that Ryan never had given me a rundown on his players aside from the one's Sasha the Chairwoman had picked up in pre-season, and for the first time I really wanted to know.

….it's what fans do, isn't it??

I couldn't help myself keeping an eye on the time, the second half must be starting any minute now, when the next post popped up.

“OH BAAAAAAAAAAABY. YES YES YES”. I wondered if he'd left the ground and found a Bristol brothel in the break, but luckily for us he was still banging out match updates. “WOOOODLEY. GET IN. SLIDING IN ON A CROSS. 2-0”. Marc Woodley I had heard of, he was Taunton's brightest prospect; not yet 17 years of age. This time I let out a “yesss” myself and stood up wondering if Ryan's half time team talk had fired up the lads (lads?? lads?? god give me strength!!) up or some tactical tweak were the 'reason' for the 2nd goal. I so wanted it to be so, but whatever the truth Taunton were winning.

Further updates were scarce, but with Taunton 2-0 to the good that was fine by me; no news being good news. Or maybe this lad had fainted in shock and was no longer able to feed us with the tidbits we eagerly awaited.

Whatever had happened to this guy 40 minutes later he'd pulled himself together enough to put us out of our misery with a simple “FINAL SCORE 2-0. UP THE PEACOCKS”, and as I read his final match report and shut down the computer I caught myself in the mirror. I was grinning like a lottery winner.....

“Nice one Ryan. At last maybe things are coming together for you mate” I thought to myself. The optimist I once was.....

League Game Three

Yate 0 v 2 Taunton Town

Att: 130

League Position after game: 18/21

League Record so far:

P 3 W1 D0 L2 Gls 2 Ag 7 Pts 3

[Jibby123]

Friday, 2nd September 2011, Wordsworth Drive, Taunton, Somerset

I'd grown up in an era of football when matches were rarely live on TV in England, which I'm guessing made those games that were shown live that extra bit special to us kids desperate to see our heroes throughout the 1970s and 1980s.

The climax of the world's oldest and longest running football competition, the FA Cup Final was one of the highlights of the football season for any television football fan because it was one of the few games we would get to sit glued to in front of the TV all afternoon one May Saturday every year. World Cups and European Championships were great, games also shown live to us, but these only came along every 2 years and England were definitely not guaranteed a presence on these schedules in the 1970's. Anything but, so these competitions never quite managed to match the excitement of the FA Cup for me.

The only two TV companies that showed any football back then would go head to head on the day and start a build up of fun that started from midday with the sublime, interesting and ridiculous of sketches, quizzes and interviews with celebrities and ex-footballers and the teams themselves, often with camera's embedded on the team bus on the way to Wembley and interviews on the pitch for the traditional pre-match walkabout. The teams would also have pretty much without fail bought new suits for the day and there was always the inevitable song released by each of the two finalists with compulsory appearance on Top of the Pops in the weeks of build up to the big day.

The FA Cup really did seem magical back then, to us kids more than most. Or this is what I tell my own children who through Sky Sports now can easily watch 5 or 6 games live a week if their mother allowed them. To this, they roll their eyes and switch off fast whilst I try to tell them they don't know how lucky they are to have near seven days a week live football, but any fan of my generation will maybe understand with a sentimental smile when the words “the FA Cup” are mixed with “magic of”.

Added to this, part of that magic of the FA Cup for me was that every football team in the country down to Tier 10 of the football pyramid had, in theory, as much chance of winning it as the Manchester United's, Arsenal's and Liverpool's. If you avoid defeat and win your matches in the competition you will be there for the Final at Wembley come Cup Final day, no matter who you are and anyone could play anyone in each round you progressed to, right up to when the 'big clubs' entered the draw in January. In practice of course, most of the 100s of teams who entered the competition were never going to play in the Final but this unique set up of the competition had provided some great feats of 'giant killing' on the way to that Final over the years which only added to the special allure of the competition.

Tonight the FA Cup was coming to Taunton and I was going to be there to watch as the very first rounds kicked off 8 or 9 months before the big day. I really was getting this Taunton Town bug. With the wife packed off to see her parents for the weekend, our kids in tow, I had no reason not to go and if I am honest I was quite looking forward to it. As a 'get out of the house and do something different' bonus to this; I had also been invited by Ryan, who had in turn been invited by Sasha, Taunton Town's Chairwoman, to the Somerset FA Annual Awards dinner at nearby Hestercombe House. An awards dinner that the three of us would arrive late to, but as Taunton Town and none of it's representatives were going to win an award that seemed to bother nobody. A black tie do, 'free' alcohol included was enough. Where Ryan was going to get “Black Tie” attire from I had no idea, nor how “Black Tie” Ryan might be with Ryan being Ryan, but I was excited nonetheless. I don't get out much.

With my own “Black Tie” to change in to after the game safely locked away in the clubhouse I took my, slowly becoming 'regular' spot behind the goal, ready for kick off. I was obviously not alone in this “magic of the FA Cup” lark because there seemed to be a much better than normal crowd in tonight, almost doubled by the look of things. To the die-hards this was also a match they might expect to win; tonight's opponents Kirby Muxloe from Leicestershire were a tier below Taunton Town, playing in their own local league of the Midland Football Alliance – Division 1.

The first half passed quickly, Taunton Town's football was definitely beginning to take shape with the shorter than the norm at this level zippy short passing game but they could not find the net, with some impressive (or lucky according to the old sweats on the terrace around me) goalkeeping from Kirby Muxloe's man between the sticks keeping any chance Taunton did create on the wrong side of the goal line as far as Taunton Town were concerned.

Just before Half Time, with the players seemingly already thinking of their half time Lucozade, Kirby's central defender smashed a rugby full back's 'cloud-high' kick in to Taunton's box. The man mountain up front managed to slip between Taunton's own sleeping central defenders and somehow toe-poked the ball past Taunton's keeper and that was that. 1-0 down. I glanced over to Ryan on the bench, his face was thunder. That half time lucozade had just had a very bitter pill dropped in to it.

As the teams came out for the second half it was clear they'd spent 15 minutes drying their hair with a hairdryer provided by mate Ryan, the determination and energy was much improved from the 'go through the motions and we'll win' mindset Taunton might have been showing in the first 45 minutes. None more so than team captain, Steve Campbell, the former Royal Marine Sasha had signed in the summer, and who minutes after the restart clattered through his direct opponent in that centre of midfield taking ball and man as one before rising from the ground and making a driving run with the ball towards Kirby's goal. Defenders simply bounced off him as he hit a low driving shot in to the bottom corner and without celebrating turned to his team with a silent, but set in stone “that's what we need more of. A bit of moral bo**ocks boys”. 1-1.

Taunton Town's players seemed inspired for the remainder of the half, winning those 50-50 tackles, and even some 30-70 tackles odds against won by their Captain Steve Campbell as they bombarded Kirby Muxloe's goal. The 'beautiful game' as Ryan liked to play had taken a back seat but to my untrained eye that seemed like no bad thing tonight. This was the FA Cup after all.

On 70 minutes the inevitable happened; Taunton scored the second goal their play deserved from a corner. Whilst the ball bounced around the box, the scramble was ended as the young Taunton forward Lee Carr took a touch and steered the ball in to make it 2-1. The 10-15 diehards around me started up a jovial chant of “Wembley....wembley....we're the famous Taunton Town and we're going to Wembleeeey”. I smiled to myself.

Normal order restored and as we counted down the final seconds and my thoughts turned towards the Awards Dinner after the game I heard groans from the fans around me and a loud blast of whistle from the ref. On only Kirby Muxloe's second attack of the game I looked up to see the ref surrounded by irate Taunton players as he pointed firmly towards the spot. As soon as the penalty was dispatched the final whistle was blown. 2-2. A replay it is then, not that I will be travelling to Leicestershire for that, but I couldn't help that sinking feeling I was surprised to feel. Football could be so cruel.

As the ground slowly emptied and I made my way over to the clubhouse to get ready and changed for this Awards Dinner, I didn't mind so much about the result, and by the look on Ryan's face as he greeted me he also seemed to be taking the late equaliser rather well.

With a cheery grin, he slapped me on the back,

”Ah well, played bloody well. Just concentration cost us, concede minute before half time, minute before full time. Football eh??” Without waiting for response he carried on, “Right then old man, let's get on it. You off to get changed?? Sasha will be here in about 10, you met her yet?? Foxy lady, you wait!!”. He didn't wait for my reply, laughing over his shoulder he was gone in to the dressing room leaving me to wonder how foxy this Sasha really was. Ryan's standards on that score were as standard as his dress sense on the suit he'd had for tonight's do lying over his forearm. Dodgy.

FA Cup Prelim Round

Taunton Town 2 (Campbell 50, Carr 70)

Kirby Muxloe 2 (Longford 43, Swanton 90+1 Pen)

Att: 254

[Jibby123]

The following day. Overlooking the Somerset County Cricket Ground

I woke up and immediately wondered where I was. In the not far enough away distance I heard a front door slam that pounded through the headache that greeted me this morning in a seemingly slow stuttering judder of sharp jabbing pains. As my senses recovered I looked around and as these things do, the memories of the previous evening crashed through and I allowed myself a small smile. The grin was in spite of an invisible road working gang that had burrowed between my ears whilst I slept and were now giving me the good news with pneumatic drills deep in my brain.

What a great night.

Like any great night, it's usually the company that makes the difference of the good, bad and indifferent and last night's company was the best I had had in many a year. Ryan, despite the draw against Kirby Muxloe, had been in almost manically happy spirits enthusiastically telling me with increasing regularity as the complimentary cognac flowed how well Taunton Town had played and how much on the up they were. Whether that view was shared by the only person that really mattered I didn't know because Sasha, the Chairperson and Ryan's boss, had stayed tight-lipped on anything football, but that took nothing away from her excitable, sweet and chatty nature which made her the second part of the double act of excellent social company.

Sasha was, as Ryan had described her, certainly a “Foxy lady” but that was only the half of it. She was just down to earth, cheeky, cheery fun with no airs and graces. “Just my type” I ruefully smiled to myself at the same time as happily admitting “in my dreams”. She had arrived in a very expensive and classy but just enough sassy cheongsam black and dark red wine satin body hugging dress, or “her suzy wong number” as Ryan had called it and teased her for all night and eye candy always helped with his mood where Ryan was concerned. And my own now I mention it.

Not only was Sasha clearly easy on the eye, she came across as intelligent and extremely wealthy evidenced by the 'flat' I'd entered the land of the living in this morning. After the night at the awards dinner had ended, and with none of us seeming to want the night to end Sasha had invited us both back to her “weekday residence” to carry on the party. Her weekday residence being one of the new luxury flats that were part of the Somerset County Cricket ground and that overlooked the cricket pitch itself with views to match. As a part time residence pushing at triple the cost of my “every day residence” one couldn't help but be impressed.

Upon returning to the flat the night before Sasha had beckoned us out on to the balcony and if the darkened view of the cricket ground impressed me the working hot tub big enough to fit a football team in came as the cherry on the cake. Like excited, giggling little school boys Ryan and I were stripped down to boxer shorts and taking the plunge in a flash whilst Sasha with a giggle of her own returned in to the flat to collect a bottle of champagne and three glasses for that party to carry on.

“Think I'm in there” Ryan had laughed as we both laid back and relaxed under the hot, frothing bubbles. For some reason, or a too much cognac reason, I remember finding this hilarious. Apparently I wasn't the only one dreaming when I'd first seen her. Bless him. As she returned I tried hard to remove my eyes from the bum and thighs that caressed the satin whilst she bent over to place the tray of drinks down on the tub side and with a mischievous grin turned to us and asked,

“Room for a little one??” and with that she stepped in to join us still clad in full attire of dress, jewellery and heels whilst she wiggled her bum on the hot tub seat opposite our aghast mouths and playfully splashed us both. A real live wire this one I had thought.

Ryan gave out a playful snort and had said, “Whooooa, dry clean only swimming cossie?? That must be one expensive swimming costume you have there....and for ****s sake watch where you're putting those heels” as he crossed his legs in mock protection of his own jewels.

“Oh who cares” Sasha laughed with him and lifted a leg from out of the water as she teasingly waved a heel wearing foot in the direction of Ryan's groin. I had no idea how long we stayed in the tub talking about absolutely nothing but at the same time discussing everything as the champagne flowed, but at some point I'd had to leave them to it. The hiccups were kicking in for me, a sure sign that I was extremely drunk so with a gushing thank you very much to them both I left them to it in the hot tub and headed to the spare room Sasha pointed to. I was almost gutted, if that dress had been figure hugging before now soaking wet it was something else.

As these memories of the night bought a glow of good memories made I wandered out on to the balcony for my first cigarette of the day and some well needed fresh air. With a look in to the scene of the hot tub party last night I noticed not only Sasha's dress, underwear, heels and stockings floating in the now cold water but Ryan's Snoopy boxer shorts tangled in her long dress in some kind of grotesque embrace of wet cloth.

“You....lucky ******* Ryan” I laughed half in envy, half in shock to myself. It was clear where they had BOTH undressed last night and though who had undressed who I had no idea of, I could certainly make a good guess.

MI6 Headquarters, London. Later the same day.

Case officer Steve Hyland scanned the video and photo on his computer screen and as was the way in his line of work only saw opportunity over what was borderline pornographic erotica. The pictures, probably taken from the other side of the cricket ground were crystal clear and though he knew Ryan was single, the woman he was wrapped in to with in the hot tub certainly was not.

Call it leverage, call it blackmail....both were very useful in Hyland's line of work and always a handy card to have in the deck if anyone needed 'bending' to behave as agents of Her Majesty Government might want them to. "This wasn't a bad card" Hylnd thought to himself. For what, Hyland did not yet know but one never knew when these things could come in useful.

[tenthreeleader]

Continues to be a very nice read, Jibby. Like what you have done with your characterization here.

[Jibby123]

Thank you tenthreeleader. Have lost the thread a little in that from who's point of view am telling the story has zig zagged, and maybe football side has become side-showish a little too far, but just want to complete a beginning, middle and end on this one now. Know where it's going, but how to get there is.....

[Jibby123]

Midday. The Plough Inn, Taunton, Somerset. Sunday 4th September 2011

I liked the Plough, as pubs in Taunton go it had a bit of character if sitting in a large living room pretending to be a pub was your thing and the place served real ale and local Somerset's scrumpies, never a bad thing in my eyes. Besides my company today, Ryan, manager of the town's football team just liked pubs. Full stop. So being one of the closer pubs to the cricket ground in Taunton and his new found love interest's penthouse flat suited everybody I guess. Not so far to walk to 'get some' as Ryan was openly gloating over.

“But she's married mate. Playing with fire a bit don't you think?? Especially the owner's missus of all people. And thought you said this was your last chance at football management?? Why would you throw it away??” I asked him as we took a sofa with our pints clutched in hands, a sofa that was one of only two seating places in the whole cramped, but luckily for us and our ageing knees, empty bar.

Ryan stopped gloating and held my gaze, serious all of a sudden. Mate banter or not, the old mother hen I sounded like was mingled with genuine concern. Ryan wasn't exactly oozing on return tickets out of last chance saloons and he knew it.

“Yeah, fair one, but you would. Wouldn't you??” Ryan asked the question that didn't need answering. I would.

Quickly trying to change the subject, whether out of envy or concern of or for Ryan I couldn't hand on heart tell you I steered the conversation away and back to what mattered most to Ryan, football and specifically his football team.

"So then mate, happy with last night's game?? When's the replay??” I smiled at Ryan as we both glanced towards the door as The Plough's third customer of the day walked through the door dressed in scruffy cemented covered jeans, Sun newspaper in his hand and ordered his scrumpy in a wide-boy loud confident cockney accent.

“Wednesday, you coming?? Missus might let you off the leash, just tell her you're with me, she'll be fine” Ryan smiled at me. We both knew there was no chance of any of that happening. Ever. The missus didn't think much of Ryan. Nor of football now we mention it.

Ignoring the unique brand of Ryan's humour beyond my jealous grimace I moved it on again,

“You going to tell me about some of your players then?? About time, me being a fan and all now.” He'd told me about, or moaned about the fact, the players Sasha had signed without his input pre-season already but I was I have to admit intrigued as I was interested in moving the conversation away to what it was Ryan had to work with.

I need say no more, Ryan was off, talking on something he could talk all day on.

“Keeper. Ray Stroud, been there since year dot, bit gobby but hey ain't all keepers mad as ship's cats. 23 years old but seems good enough. Missus not half bad either.

“Two RB's. Richard Batchelor I told you about and as well as him I have myself a kid not half bad. Jake Radcliffe. Started every game for me so far, all three of them, but hey least he's not Sasha's choice signing. Think he's single, but he's 16 so probably not our cup of tea even if he has”.

This women confidence judgement panel from Ryan was something else and raised an inward eyebrow. If Ryan was a tart before last night's hot tub fun with the delightful Sasha he was taking the mick now going all studley on me.

As Ryan rattled them off and before he'd got on to the Centre Back's I noticed The Plough's third customer, the cockney young 20something, spin round to face us. He'd obviously overheard our chat which wasn't hard when you're drinking in a bar impersonating a terraced house living room and with one skip had stepped over to our table.

“You alright mate? Couldn't help banging in but you ain't Ryan Hull are you?? Manager of “The Town??”

As Ryan nodded more surprised than I was shocked anyone knew him as such, the young cocky builder cum cockney market trader had sat down with us uninvited and without a pause carried on,

“Got some phots from last night's FA Cup game, don't want a quick butchers do you?”

I didn't like the way he had emphasised the word “game” but his obvious “I don't care intruding” seemed to bother Ryan more and can't say I blamed him. As Ryan went to say “Look mate, not really...” the Cockney had a small digital camera out with the back screen facing Ryan and was carrying on bamboozling us both with in your face cockney-ness talk.

As Ryan nonchalantly glanced down at the camera's back screen I tried to crane my neck to at least look half interested but the screen was out of line of my sight and I sat back to watch Ryan as he cringed with boredom wondering how he'd get himself out of this one without ******* off this new fanboy.

“See my mates at Vauxhall took them, really need to see them for yourself. Blinding mate, watersports the lot...”

As Ryan looked down at the camera his face went from shock and a blurted out “What the F**k” to clean sheet white as our new cockney mate spoke. Knowing Ryan's flip switch from boredom to blunt aggression I instantly become as worried, as knowing what I know now, I had every right to be but couldn't help myself out of protection to my old mate,

I jumped in trying in my own ham-fisted way, “Look son, we're just having a quiet pint...”

Up to that point the lad had ignored me completely, but as I spoke he looked over at me with a smile said calm as you like,

“There's your cue to F**k off mate. Run along Jibby. There's a good boy. Me and Ryan here want a chat. Seeya”

As my fist clenched I went from anger, via sudden gut wrenching worry that he knew my name, to concern as I caught Ryan looking at me from the corner of the table we were all sat at.

“Just go, wait for me over in the Crown and Sceptre, will catch up, yeah??”. Ryan almost pleaded. I now know he was moving me out of there for my own sake as much anything else.

I glanced over to the bar, weighing up whether to say any more and risk the barman had heard anything or would call the police if it went off, but he had gone and obviously out the back somewhere. With my jaw clenched I really had no choice, Ryan was almost begging me.

I slowly got up, leaving Ryan's white face and the cockney builder's big smile and walked away across the road to the pub opposite Ryan had asked me to move on to.

As I crossed the road head spinning, still not sure whether I was in some surreal football crew's throwback one thing dawned. The third customer in the bar wasn't talking Vauxhall and his mates there that had taken the pictures as in the car dealer's as I'd first thought; Vauxhall was a district of London. Home of MI6.

[tenthreeleader]

Another sharp post. Observations: you only need one question mark at the end of a sentence. Adding another doesn't make the question doubly pertinent. You have a good style about you. You make me think about cockney rhyming slang, which as a Yank can be a challenge, and that's good too. Mind your punctuation ("As I crossed the road, head spinning...") and you're on to something. Keep it going!

[Jibby123]

You should have seen the punctuation before I edited! Way worse. Even I couldn't follow it and I wrote it!

But seriously and joking aside, thank you (again), and points noted and always genuinely welcome good or constructive or even bluntly abusive observations. I am seriously thinking of doing an online basic English 'comma-when to' module because even now struggle with it. The double "??" are a habit that crept in to my 'type speak' without me realising how much and needs sorting.

[Jibby123]

Later that day....across Town

“Bolje spriječiti nego liječiti”.

The words resonated in Eva's mind; “Prevention is better than cure....sure....so easy to say; especially if you were the one giving the orders, and weren't the one expected to do the prevention and any cure”, thought Eva frustratingly as she hit the 'end call' button on her pay as you go disposable mobile phone. The latest call from home just added complication fillings in to a sandwich already oozing far too much of that kind of filling as each day passed.

It wasn't Eva's job to know how, or from where, the buffoons back home got their information but she often wondered if they'd be so flippant if it were them at the sharp end. Probably not, but orders are orders in any language....even when dressed up in smart-arse proverbs.

How those pulling her strings knew that the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, were now poking around or how they knew Ryan was in serious trouble with the owner of the club Eva had no idea. But she certainly did care, and cared more than her handlers would ever know. This was personal; from the Drina Valley as a child to Veendam in Holland not so long ago, what none of us knew at the time was that this plucky and some might say crazy operative certainly cared. Alot.

So, this week it was then. Ryan would be travelling to Leicestershire mid week for the FA Cup replay his team would be playing in after their draw with Kirby Muxloe. Eva knew Ryan would be back in Somerset late that night and be walking in to a storm he and I were unaware of. One which Eva would now be there to witness and carry out her new orders fresh in from the Balkans.

And to make matters worse for me as it turned out, after seeing Ryan's “Hello, nice to meet you” introduction with our new cockney builder mate from Vauxhall beside the Thames I'd changed my mind on going up on the coach to the game with my old mate. I was worried for him, more worried than I was about my wife's reaction when I told her I was going to Taunton Town's FA Cup replay after all...it's what mates do. And fans for that matter.

[tenthreeleader]

I came across this URL which has some thoughts for you here.

http://www.getitwriteonline.com/archive/020204whencommabfand.htm

[Jibby123]

Genuine thanks 10-3, I've honestly struggled with this and it was beginning to do my head in not just here. That's a hoofing link in language I can follow.

[Jibby123]

MI6 Headquarters. London. Same time.

Steve Hyland didn't much like working on a Saturday, but then he didn't much like having Serbian intelligence operatives turning up unannounced with motives yet to be established in the UK either. Needs must, so Saturday working it would be. Especially as it was Hyland, as MI6's head of the Balkans' section, who would have to be the one explaining to his bosses if things went pear-shaped over the weekend.

Hyland's phone rang and he had answered it before the second ring,

“How did it go?” snapped Hyland in to the handset. No time for pleasantries.

“Not great boss, he didn't want to know. F***ed me off”.

“Yeah, thought he might. Right, bring the hubby in. Show him the pics. I'll get GCHQ on to it for his real time location. The guy is Somerset's own Pablo Escobar, bit unstable by all accounts, so might be worth getting him in to the local police plod shop down there. I'll get on to Avon and Somerset police to come with you to bring him in. When you've finished, send him on his way and then get back to me”.

“No worries boss. Speak later”.

The plan to use Ryan, Taunton Town's football manager, to lure out the Serbian spooks was based on the assumption that it was him they had come over to the UK to speak to. That Ryan had refused to co-operate did not surprise Hyland in the least, MI6 wasn't exactly top of Ryan's christmas card list after the Holland op.

Hyland's motives to bring in Kev, owner of Taunton Town Football Club, to show him what his manager had been up to wasn't borne out of petty spite towards Ryan for giving Hyland the middle finger. Despite what some might think MI6 didn't play such games or by those rules, it was never personal. Hyland had made the judgement call that when Ryan was sacked as the football manager, the only thing he did seem to care about, Ryan might re-assess his own willingness to co-operate in finding out what the hell this Eva and her Serb handlers were up to.

If Ryan got fed to the pigs by this unstable coke importing nut job for banging the guy's wife Hyland didn't much care. If his assessment was correct and it was Ryan the Serbs were so keen to take interest in it might send those very Serbs packing back to Belgrade if Ryan was out of the game. And that was nearly as good an outcome as to discovering what the hell they were doing in the UK as far as Hyland was concerned.

As for the wife in all this, Sasha, Hyland cared even less of. If she ended up sharing a pig trough with Ryan's remains then it wasn't the Secret Intelligence Service's concern.

Big Boy's games, Big Boy's rules. To Hyland and his bosses, 'collateral damage' was just that and no more.

It took seconds for GCHQ, the British Government's communications centre, to locate Kev's phone and start sending down his real time lat and long to our cockney builder mate's own phone. Within 30 minutes the wide boy from The Plough Inn earlier that day tapped the uniformed police officer's shoulder and two police cars gunned out of the station car compound to bring Kev in for that chat.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To anyone following, not to be giving any plot away, normal football management service will be resumed shortly.

[Jibby123]

The Quantock Hills. Overlooking Taunton. 2am the next day

Sasha awoke with a start unsure whether it was the cold or the effects of what had happened earlier that evening wearing off that had woken her. Instinctively she went to hug the dressing gown closer round her body to stave off the cold, but her hands stopped with a jerk after just an inch of movement. It didn't matter anyway, the dressing gown had long gone.

The stone floor of the outbuilding in the grounds of their grand house in the hills above Taunton was so cold to her naked skin that it hurt. Her arms and wrists also hurt with a gnawing tingling dull ache caused by the cable ties biting in to her wrists that spread eagled her arms out as tight as they could go in some kind of perverse 'Jesus on the cross' pose.

Her face and ribs did not hurt yet. That would come later she was sure. As she tried to shuffle in to a position that might even slightly alleviate the chilling cold on her skin and the aching in both arms her efforts made no difference to the pain or shivers now racking her body so she gave up trying and let her head fall, chin resting on her own chest.

It was pitch black in the huge disused barn but even if it had not been Sasha would not have been able to see much anyway. One eye had already completely closed over, her other was well on it's way to doing so. As she ran her swollen and bleeding tongue around her mouth she realised any front teeth that remained were now just splintered stumps. Patches of her skull felt colder than others and she remembered seeing Kev's hand come away from her head with clumps of hair just before she had blacked out for the first time that night. She was sure her jaw, nose, cheek bone and eye sockets were badly broken because it all felt numb, heavy and 'soft'. Opening her mouth wide did not hurt, simply because she was unable to open her mouth wide or at all very much. The hinges from jaw to skull were no longer able to do their job.

How Kev had found out about Friday's 'happier than she had been in a long time' end to the night she had no idea, but he was able to calmly tell her frame by frame exactly what he had discovered, so found out he had from somewhere. That hardly mattered to Sasha now.

What had been the most terrifying part of Kev's treatment of her as he explained to Sasha what was now going to happen was that he had been so calm, almost as if he they were discussing their next holiday destination. He had not even got that physical until she was unable to tell him where Ryan was living. Sasha simply did not know where Ryan lived, which Kev seemed to take as Sasha not wanting to say out of wanting to protect Ryan. That's when his irrational and cold calmness evaporated like the ignition of a violent bomb blast all over Sasha.

When he had finished and dragged a half conscious Sasha to the barn by her hair he had knelt down with his mouth next to Sasha's ear and said chillingly through the sound of the waterfall roaring in her hearing bought on by the shock her body had gone into,

“Oh I'll find him Sasha, and when I do he will be joining you in this barn. And when we've finished with both of you, then you will both be dead....simple as....but it's fine sweetie because by then you will be begging me to finish you off. I have always wanted to try my hand at being a sculptor with a hammer and chisel”, Kev had gently told her as he had cable tied her limp broken body in it's current position.

Sasha had known for a while that Kev had been going slowly insane, but not this insane. The more insane he seemed to become over the recent months the more cocaine he appeared to be taking, which in turn seemed to send him that bit more paranoid insane each time he indulged in the white powder poison. The most vicious of vicious circles. That is part why since the previous Spring Sasha had secretly been putting plans in to place to be getting out of this insane marriage with this insane 'man'....or maybe part why she had cheated on him for the first time on Friday after the Awards dinner.

“I know where he will be just by looking at your poxy football team's fixture list and then your new bed mate can join you. Until I do find him, I have some extremely unsavoury business partners coming down to Somerset in the morning and staying over for a few days. You want to cheat? You get to cheat on me all you want until I do find him and really get to work on you both. Give them a little fun if nothing else Sasha.....you *****”

Now finished with her for now, Kev had stroked her cheek with another smile, stood up to draw his foot back and Sasha's world had gone black with yet another explosion of stars in her brain as she lost consciousness for the umpteenth that night.

One thing she did know now she was awake again....she believed every word Kev had said to her before he'd left. Added to that, with not being expected in to work during the next week, no chance of any screams being heard out here in the countryside at their isolated home and the fact that Taunton's next game was four days away....she already wanted to die there and then.

[Jibby123]

The Coal Orchard pub. Taunton, Somerset. Sunday 4th September 2011. 9pm

We grabbed our pints from the bar and moved ourselves over to an empty table at the large shop-front type windows.

“So then mate, you finally going to give me the full brief on your players then? Been waiting long enough”, I joked with my mate Ryan Hull, manager of Taunton Town Football Club.

“Yes, yes, sheesh you go on more than my ex-missus” Ryan smiled with teasing impatience as we both sat down.

I didn't ask which ex-missus, there were a few, but studied my old mate's smile closer. If Ryan was worried or concerned about his chat with the young cockney MI6 operative the previous day he wasn't showing it. I wasn't sure if it should worry me more that he didn't appear to worry, but to be honest I was worried.

Ryan hadn't wanted to speak much about what was said between the two, but had told me MI6 had threatened to go to Sasha's husband, Kev the owner of Taunton Town FC with video and photos of them together in the hot tub with their tongue down each other's throats amongst other places on Friday night. When I'd tentatively asked Ryan why MI6 were making such a threat, he'd just grunted with a dismissive wave of the hand and a “F**k 'em”.

Pushing a little harder I'd mentioned to him that they might well do what they said and it would cost Ryan the only job he'd ever truly cared about, but Ryan just said “Nah, they won't, they were just exploring a possible, like I said; f**k 'em”. I wasn't so sure, but Ryan would say no more on the matter and we moved on to what was sure about; football and the team he was managing.

“Right, players, let's hear about them....”

Ryan didn't even pause for breath as he looked up, rubbing his hands with excitement;

“Okey dokey, the players Sasha bought in over the summer you know about...”

I butted in, “Come on mate, slept since then, forgotten, remind me”

Ryan didn't hesitate and was off....“Leon Gierke – A 31 year old Striker with nearly 100 games in these level leagues at a career total of 22 goals. Boundless energy, with the experience of how to make those not-quite Lineker runs off the ball, he looked to add some experience alongside his football brain and great engine.

Craig Bentham – A 26 year old defensive central midfielder who as a youngster had had 4 seasons at League One and Two side Bradford, playing nearly 30 games for them. Admittedly some years ago, but at a club like Taunton Town that was FIFA World Cup level. What he was doing living in Somerset I have no idea.

Richard Batchelor – A young 22 year old who looked fairly promising. Adept at either right back or as a deep lying midfielder, the boy had muscles on muscles and a not too shoddy brain on the defensive arts of the game.

Steve Campbell – Former Royal Marine, recently having left the Corps and 40 Commando who were based in Taunton at the age of 33, this was to be Ryan's Club Captain. His leadership qualities and mental toughness were clear to see, probably honed on the battlefields of Helmand and Southern Iraq, but straight from the off the players seemed to take their lead from Steve. An attacking central midfielder, who though had never played outside of the military, could do a job for Taunton just nicely.

Graham Cheeseman – Very experienced, 34 years old Striker, who could have and should have played at a far higher level with indisputable flair, dribbling and finishing but with a suspect temperament to match. Ryan got the impression he'd punch his own mother if she looked at him wrong, which was probably the reason his career had never gone anywhere. Aggressive as a bag of cobra's, age had not mellowed Graham.

Chris Chapman – Probably the most exciting prospect of the new signings; Sasha had done really well here. 18 years young, strong beyond his years and towering centre back at 6' 4” already (and still growing) just what might be needed in this division with the route one tactic employed by many. Only recently released by League 2 side Hereford who had been with since he was 9 years old, this boy might not be around long when bigger clubs had a look and like Craig Bentham I had no idea how he had ended up in the area.”

“Oh yeah, remember now”, I smiled, “Let's hear who was already there then”.

Ryan was off again....

“Tom Nicholson – Back up keeper, 23 years old, other players seem to look up to him, might be captain if he actually started and we didn't have Steve Campbell.

Abdullah Yahaya – 27 year old right back, pretty all round solid and reliable, and played brilliantly the one game he's started so far. Very happy with him. Bit of a comedian as well, always handy on long coach journeys.

Owen Irish – 21 year old centre back who can play at left back. Bit of a local favourite with the fans, but not with me. Being a Somerset boy he started at Yeovil Town but fell through the cracks there and has been here ever since. Don't think that much of him to be honest and he's had a nightmare in both the games he's played.

Jonjo Murray – Or “Shorty” as the lads call him. 25 year old centre back, and he's built like Arnie, and 6ft 7 inches of Arnie at that. Bit worried about him, heard a rumour he's in to his bare-knuckle cage fighting, and from his determination and Irish traveller background would not be surprised. He's out for a month anyway, gashed leg...and yeah lads have been taking the p*ss out of him claiming he got it in the ring. The lads are braver than me.

Antony Corbisiero – 20 year old centre or left back. Will throw his head in to any tackle, brave as a lion, very determined guy and always wants to do well for the team. Quiet lad, but just my type of player.

Elliot Rutter – Another centre back who can also play at left back, 24 years old, been at the club since his dad played there. Nothing spectacular, but just all round half-decent at what he does and no more.

Paul Todd – Only aged 16, gobby; as in lot to say for himself, already played twice and got two yellow's and a red. He has a ridiculous haircut as well that the kids seem to like these days but can hold his own out there. The skipper, Ex-Marine Steve Campbell will drop him soon, literally on his ass, but he needs to learn I guess.

Liam Bull – Nickname “No”....as in Liam “No” Bull I think. Aged 17 doing his A-Levels, looks like a student anyway, never washes much and trying to grow a beard, but he's probably my most improved in training. Couple of substitute appearances in defence, so happy with him. Works hard to improve and wants to learn.

Marc Woodley – Part of the double act “Ickie and Thickie” or “Marky Marc” as they like to call themselves down-town sharing Taunton's finest. Plays at the rock of my holding midfield. This one's “Ickie”, no fear in this boy. Only 16, happy to put the foot in, but not silly with it. Apart from when he got a straight red in our 2nd league game for taking out their striker. Waist high. Will be suspended for Wednesday's game.

Mark Buck – The other part of the double act at defensive midfield and in Taunton's bars. This one is “Thickie” by name and nature, but lovely lad. A year older than his best mate, but looking really promising to be honest. Already set up two decent goals for us. Reads the game well for somebody so young.

Jake Goddard – 23 year old right-sided winger. He's crap. Lazy in training, skinny and no physical strength. Couldn't finish an egg, let alone put the ball in the net either. Wouldn't care less if he stopped turning up to be honest.

Rudi Rothwell – Another kid just out of school that can play on either wing. Chuffed to have him, can dribble and cross and is as fit as a triathlon man. Think he's going to do well for us.

Zak Handley – Can play anywhere on the wing or tucked behind the strikers. Not the best technical player, but makes up for it in my eyes with being able to run for 90 minutes...and run....and run. Determined and brave as well so stands a chance with me.

Stuart Monks – Central attacking midfielder. You have to see this lad, he's married with 4 kids and he's only 21 or 22 and he's even more under the thumb than you are Jibby. Misses training occasionally because his missus literally locks him in the house and cuts the laces out of his football boots. You wouldn't know it from seeing him on the pitch. Character completely changes once he crosses that white line. Brave, determined, but with decent flair as well. I like the guy, but bloody hell. Wouldn't want to live his life.

Mitchell Cousins – Really promising midfielder who can play in the centre or out on the left. Another one who's only 16, but you wouldn't know it. Good technical player, composed under pressure with some flair for seeing the pass and doing something different.

Richard Stevens – 20 year old striker. He's the 5 foot 2 inch dwarf who was there waiting for me on that first training session. Shy and meek, but best finisher in the squad. That's all he's got by the looks of it though, has been disappointing in training and in matches. Needs to come out of his shell. And sleep in a grow bag.

Lee Carr – 17 year old winger or striker. Another lad I'm impressed with. He's ginger, but don't hold that against him, and is quick. Very quick.

And then there is those I told you about yesterday before that cockney builder barged in giving me the good news....

Goalkeeper Ray Stroud, been there since year dot, bit gobby but hey ain't all keepers mad as ship's cats? 23 years old but seems good enough. Missus not half bad either.

Jake Radcliffe. Started every game for me so far, all three of them, but hey least he's not Sasha's choice signing. Think he's single, but he's 16 so probably not our cup of tea even if he has.

That's your lot, not bad eh?” Ryan finished and stretched back in his chair with a grin.

“Yeah, big squad as well. Bit young though aren't they? Ryan's Rookies”, I smiled back at him.

Before Ryan could answer his new, given to him by the club, mobile phone rang out and I saw the name “Sasha” flash up on the screen. Ryan eagerly grabbed for it with a look of joy, picked it up and placed it on his ear. Lucky sod. One of us would be getting a bit tonight it seems.

I watched Ryan with envy and as the conversation started he looked over to me and mouthed silently “It's Kev”.

A few nods, “yeah” “in the coal orchard mate”, “yeah no worries, see you in 5” and the call ended.

I looked over, “What was that all about?”

“Him and Sasha are on the way in to town. Sasha's driving apparently so couldn't talk, but they want to meet up with me in Morrison's car park to chat about Wednesday's game or something. You coming? Then we can get back before closing time”, Ryan said to me as he sank the rest of his half full pint in one and stood up.

“Ryan, you don't think it could be a set up? Those MI6 guys have shown the pics to Kev and he's got the hump?”, I asked him sounding as worried as I suddenly felt.

“Nah you muppet. Kev was fine. Come on, you old mother hen, it's your round when we get back”.

I sighed, got up and followed Ryan to the door of the pub....

[Jibby123]

As I upped my pace to catch up with Ryan in the back lane linking The Coal Orchard pub to the supermarket car park I noticed out of the corner of my vision very quick movement a split second before I heard a massive 'BANG'. A dull heavy bang that seemed to come from within my own head, but an all-consuming of my senses bang nonetheless. I had a strange feeling of weightlessness, quickly followed by lighter, though more than heavy enough, impact on my back and the strange thought of,

“Why am I looking up at the sky?”

Getting hit hurts, everyone knows that, but what always surprised me about the few times I had been hit or punched is for the second or two that your brain seems to have 'heard' the impact before you've felt it. The pain is felt over the minutes, hours and in some cases days after, but shock and adrenaline seems to block out any immediate pain.

“Flight or fight” they call it I think. I could do neither.

Too soon after I'd hit the floor I felt a great weight on top of me pinning my arms down and more bangs and impacts to my head and face as I instinctively tried to buck and roll the punches raining in.

I hadn't realised Ryan was so close when I fell but as my senses began to re-enter orbit to land back on Planet Earth, and despite the beating I was taking, I noticed Ryan not more than three or four yards away and it was immediately clear his circumstances were no better. Ryan was also being given the good news, pinned to the floor by a hulking great lump as big as the one sat astride of me.

At least his assailant was talking to him though, mine didn't seem interested in any chat and was just carrying on trying to turn my face inside out.

Now I could hear Ryan's own attacker's words.

“I warned you. I f*****g warned you. Couldn't listen, could you? Enjoy it did you? Well she's waiting exactly where you're about to go....hell on earth”....

[Jibby123]

The beating stopped as suddenly as it had started and both of our attackers stood up, mine with one final kick to my midriff. Dazed and in shock as I was; I noticed Ryan's assailant, who I now guessed had to be Kev, climb off Ryan and I watched through blurred eyes as Kev and his mate started to drag Ryan towards a black 4x4 vehicle parked closer than I'd noticed before.

Something else I noticed as I tried to haul myself up, to do what I had no idea, were three figures approaching from out of the darkness. Crouching slightly, walking determinedly and silently towards us; two of them closed the distance between themselves and the two nutters about to start trying to bundle Ryan in to the 4x4, whilst one of the three new guests to the party veered off and headed my way.

“Great,” I thought, “Kev's brought half of Taunton to do us over”.

I instinctively raised my hands in some pathetic attempt to defend myself, but for the second time in a minute I was knocked down to the floor and this time it did hurt. A lot. Before I had time to think I felt two little indentations press in to my neck and what followed at least made me realise that any pain I'd felt up to now was a tap on the wrist in comparison.

I think I screamed or I might have imagined the screaming. What I definitely did not imagine was the 50,000 volts suddenly using my body as the final piece of the jigsaw of an insane electrical circuit the hand-held taser had kicked off. The pain was like nothing else I had ever experienced and, as if it was needed, left me completely unable to fight back or resist what came next. It left me unable to do absolutely anything apart from scream and I'm not even sure I managed that.

I felt something get pushed past my lips scraping the roof of my mouth on it's way to being rammed hard and firm down in to the back of my throat on past my tonsils. And it carried on pressing down until it seemed like it was trying to drill the spinal cord going up the back of my neck in to the concrete I was again lying prone upon. If the cold metal blocking my airway and strong smell of gun oil wasn't enough to confirm what it was, the trigger guard now biting my lips into my teeth hard enough to draw blood certainly did.

As I desperately tried to get some oxygen in to my lungs through flaring nostrils, I looked up with sheer terror at the second person to sit astride me in as many minutes. And what I saw came as as much a surprise as any of the other severely horrific surprises I'd had so far this evening. My second attacker was certainly better looking than the first. And about half the size. There was no panic or anger in her dark, almond-shaped eyes as they looked down in to mine; just a steely calm determination.

“It's ok, it's ok, stay calm, don't move, stay quiet, it's all ok,” the women's heavily Eastern European accented, almost soothing voice ordered me.

As if. Nothing at all appeared ok to me, nor calm and I didn't have much choice or chance in moving or making any kind of noise. With the weapon held firmly in place I could barely breathe let alone do anything else she might think I had in the way of tricks up my sleeve. Her eyes never moved from mine the whole time and we must have stayed locked in that eye to eye stare-off for about twenty seconds, a twenty seconds that at the time felt like twenty minutes, until I heard car doors slam and a shout from over her shoulders in a language I didn't recognise.

I swear she almost silently whispered the word “sorry” to me as she withdrew the weapon from my mouth at the same time as she pressed the two prongs of her taser back in to my neck to light me up for a second time with however many 10s of 1000s volts worth of bad news that paralysed me in absolute agony all over again.

And with one further final slamming of a car door and the sound of a vehicle speeding off I realised that she was gone.

As I choked on bile, snot and blood; through the pain I managed to slightly lift and turn my head to look over to where I had last seen Ryan being dragged towards the 4x4 vehicle by Kev and his nutcase accomplice. The bodies of Kev and his mate were both now lying beside their vehicle face down seemingly unconscious or dead, which of the two I could not tell.

But what horrified me more was that there was no sign of Ryan. Whoever the calm, efficiently clinical Eastern European woman was, and who just seconds ago was using my throat as a holster for her gun; she and her two friends had swept Ryan off with them when they'd left as suddenly as they had appeared.

I let my head fall back to the concrete path and let out a long, exhausted, painful groan.

[Jibby123]

Laser microphones sound like they might belong in some far fetched 'what if' Star Trek script, but they don't. It's old very real-life technology, which makes it cheap technology, but like many things long ago invented that are now cheap it works.

And it works by shining a laser at your target, or rather an object close by to the target, an object that is being bombarded with vibrations of sound we all make when talking, walking, humming, singing, farting or breathing. Or getting beaten up and electrocuted as was the case for me.

Glass and paper, especially the paper coffee cups you get from Costa or Starbucks make for ideal reservoirs of sound vibrations we all make. Not that this mattered to me at the time; my mind was way too far being caned with other pressing concerns to notice the empty McDonalds cup littered beside my head throughout my ordeal. The Russian, Léon Theremin, had stumbled across the idea of laser microphones as far back as 1947, if not with lasers, and it had been developed and used extensively ever since as an eavesdropping device by many intelligence agencies. As such things are.

I found out later, much later, that every gasp, groan, gargle and pant I made; not to mention every squelch of my flesh being pounded was being heard spring water clear by the British SIS (MI6) not 200 yards away from where I was being giving the good news first by Kev's ape side kick and then whoever had carted my mate off.

They, MI6, weren't interested in my strife though. Nor Ryan's for that matter. I often wonder whose interests it is they do serve, not us the taxpayer methinks.

Our Cockney MI6 mate from the day before killed the comms back to Vauxhall, MI6 HQ, and leaned back in the car seat. Ever aware of third party awareness he let Ryan and his new hosts go. It's not like they were going far. Their car was tagged with enough listening and tracking devices to keep the now extinct News of the World tabloid gutter press full on orgasms for a year, not to mention the 9mm Browning tickling my tonsils just minutes previously that had already been given it's own miniature "here I am" beacon weeks before.

For their kind as in the MI6 kind, everything that had happened tonight was great. They might now get to find out what the hell was going on sooner than they could have hoped in their cat and mouse game of patience. Serbian intelligence operatives on UK soil had played their hand at last. Win/win for the boys at MI6.

The FA Cup replay in three days time seemed a long way off. For me and Ryan. Especially for Ryan.

[tenthreeleader]

Very nice piece of writing, Jibby. Really an impressive job of characterization with a great arc. Good stuff!

[Jibby123]

Thank you 10-3, always appreciate your input.

----------------------------------------------------------

Ryan, a veteran of Brian Clough, Bosnia and Iraq, had always wondered how people appeared to meet their inevitable sudden violent demise with such seemingly meek compliance when the end was seconds away. They just seemed to kneel down, give up and take the shot.

He had always claimed he would never go down so ‘weakly’. He was wrong.

Later Ryan might have claimed that he’d hardly much choice, his hands were cable tied behind his back, he was blindfolded and had just taken a kicking then to be ‘handed over’ to three Serbian heavies….all within two minutes of leaving the pub; so he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly or rationally.

Fair enough.

The small, empty and quiet of traffic raised road from Taunton to Glastonbury runs across an area of marshy, flat land, prone to flooding over the centuries. Some might say one explanation for the county of Somerset's name is that, in prehistory, because of winter flooding people restricted their use of the area to the summer, leading to a derivation from Sumorsaete, meaning land of the summer people.

According to legend Joseph of Arimathea had once bought a drop of Jesus’ blood in a cup, the Holy Grail, to the marshes and it was also claimed to be the location of Avalon, King Arthur’s castle.

Known as the Somerset Levels, clearly visible from the transport arteries of the M5 motorway and the main train line out of the south west of England, it’s not the prettiest part of Somerset, and not exactly an area that one might wish to see as the last thing they ever clap eye’s on.

Not that Ryan was aware that this was where he’d leave this earth or indeed seeing anything much, he was blindfolded, but he was fairly sure why he had been bought to this apparently secluded spot. The Serb stamping down on to his head as he laid in the footwell of the vehicle kept telling him exactly why and what his fate was after all.

Death. It comes to us all and all most of us wish for when it does arrive is that it’s as quick and painless as possible. Being executed by gun shot direct to the head is pretty quick and painless as one can hope for I guess.

Ryan remained silent as he was dragged from the car still able to surprisingly calmly listen to a quick conversation in what he guessed was Serbo-Croat between his abductors. They seemed to be discussing who was going to take the shot, and with it his own life. One of them, a woman, seemed to be the one keener than the rest to finish him so he assumed it was her that roughly pulled him off the road with the barrel of a weapon pressed behind his ear, pushed him over a small berm, down in to one of the many drainage ditches in to freezing black peat-filled dirty stagnant water and jumped down in to the ditch with him in to knee deep goo.

The job at Veendam had cost him 8 months of his liberty. Now from the sounds of the Serb’s talking it was going to cost him his life. With an inward shrug he guessed why it was he had been bought here to be shot. Not everyone gets that luxury.

The woman whispered something to him before he was about to die,

“When I shoot, stay still. Stay here until we leave. I have no time….”

“F—k off bitch. Just do it”, Ryan was able to cut in; not really comprehending what it was the woman’s voice was telling him.

“Be calm Ryan, please. You owe me for pair of jeans and new boots also” she almost teasingly smiled as she pushed his face down in to the water and splashed around beside him.

Next thing Ryan knew he was knocked further down in to muddy, slimy water by a massive percussion of noise. The weapon had gone off.

“Weird”, Ryan thought as he laid there at peace at last, “The after-life is watery, and I guess you do hear the gun shot that kills you….no pain either….it’s not so bad….”.

[Jibby123]

Any national stereotyping or offence meant to anyone of any nationality is unintentional and not the views of the author.

Football will be back very soon…bear with me.

The following day, Monday 5th September 2011, Taunton, Somerset

Our Cockney MI6 ‘mate’ took the only available unoccupied table up against the wall that would give him full “eyes on” throughout the very long but narrow bar that was Wetherspoons.

“No wonder this country’s going to the dogs” he allowed himself one small distraction from today’s job as he settled down to wait with his latte coffee and copy of the Independent newspaper. Even at this mid-morning hour on a Monday the bar was busy enough of drinkers to have him wondering briefly why they weren’t at work or how the customers could afford to drink on benefits as the main source of their income.

Not that he cared, this job was almost over now and he would be soon re-assigned. Hopefully today, or at worst by Wednesday at the latest, he could leave this sleepy market town and move on to his next job.

As it turned out this current job had turned out to be much ado about nothing, but that’s what happens more often than not in his world of ‘spooking’ and ‘spying’. The Cockney’s bosses at MI6 HQ in London were just going in to mop up mode now.

The Serb Intelligence heavies had merely been over to offer some retribution of the final closure kind to the town’s football manager for something he’d done to p*ss them off in the past in a previous role managing some team the Cockney had never heard of in Holland.

They couldn’t even do something as simple as that right. Not that they were aware that they’d messed the job up; as MI6 well knew from eavesdropping in to their self-congratulation chats amongst themselves and “mission complete” communications back to their own bosses in Belgrade. Ryan Hull, their target, was still alive. He was in hospital along with his mate, Jibby, both suffering from no more than cuts and bruises and Ryan’s would-be assassins would never even find out they had cocked it up. MI6 would grab Ryan soon enough to find out exactly how and why they cocked it up, but that was for another time and just part of the tying up of loose ends ‘mop up’.

The Serbs had only hours to live, not that they knew that either. They were too busy on a pub crawl around Taunton getting more drunk and loud by the hour in some “end of mission” p*ss up crammed in before their flight left one way economy class Heathrow to Belgrade that evening.

Amateurs.

The Cockney had worked with and against a lot of different nation’s intelligence agencies in his time with MI6, some caused you more problems than others, and some required a lot more cunning and guile to play, whilst others definitely did not. If Israel’s Mossad, the American’s CIA and Pakistan’s ISI were the Barcelona’s and Real Madrid’s of the Cockney’s working world, then these clowns from Belgrade were Barnet FC. Or Luton Town.

The only slight complication in mopping up these thugs in big boots was that the female of their group had apparently disappeared and was not joining her companions on a whistle-stop tour of Taunton’s drinking holes. No big deal though, she would be found soon enough and “mopped up” with as little effort and minimum fuss as her heavies were going to be this afternoon.

The Cockney wouldn’t be carrying out the mopping up at the sharp end, he was just here as part of the surveillance team tracking them until it was job-done endex, not that that bothered him much either. Just another job.

MI6 had bought in cleaners from France’s own version of MI6 spook, Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or DGSE, to ‘disappear’ these Serbs as was the “let’s all scratch each other’s back” phoney pretend friend way of their world. The Cockney had done enough mop up jobs for the French in his time so fair’s fair. It was closure less messy this way; Intelligence Agencies like to avoid disappearing people on their own home patch if it could be possibly avoided, simply to save awkward questions needing answers, denials and accountability for home politicians or press.

The Serbs had to disappear. There was little to be gained by bringing them in for a “chat”, MI6 already knew all they needed to know about these goon’s world. They weren’t going to be vanished out of some romantic sense of rough justice or punishment for any crimes they had committed on UK soil, but dropped simply and clearly as a message from London back to Belgrade,

“I say old boy, we really would rather you don’t use our home land as a playground for your chaps. Please do not send anyone else ever again, we really don’t appreciate it”.

The Cockney might have said it in a more direct, less diplomatic way. He had gone to school in Walthamstow, not Eton,

“You’re well out of your league coming over here lads. Taking the p*ss mate”.

Same message bringing the same outcome nonetheless. Premier league nation intelligence agencies might be sent the message in a more subtle way that may not necessarily leave their operatives dead and vanished, but these small time cowboys had to be shown the folly of having ideas about their station.

As the Cockney’s covert ear piece crackled with static he switched back in to work-mode. The targets had gone ‘foxtrot’ (on foot) to his location; as in the Serbs were now walking towards the Weatherspoons pub he was sat in and it was his turn to take over the lead as “eyes on” reporting in every movement they made until it was time for them to be extinguished.

Time to work…

As the Cockney mentally straightened up a guy approached the table he was sat at and seemed to be reading the posters and pictures on the wall that the Cockney was sat with his back against.

For some reason pubs such as this one like to put framed pictures and information on centuries old local history all over their walls, and the Cockney’s new neighbour seemed to be the only one in the whole bar interested in actually reading them.

“Hi there my friend, that Judge Jeffries was some wacky guy hey?”

“Great”, thought the Cockney to himself, “A yank, and in here of all places” as he realised the American with the twangy, extremely loud voice and large ruddy, jolly looking face was talking and looking directly at him.

“What’s that mate?” the Cockney looked up with as an uninterested, vacant and bored response as he could muster.

“That Judge Jeffries, he sure hanged a lot of your guys, kind of wacky, love your history over here in England, goes back one helluva a long way, not like ours back home”, the American carried on as he went back to scanning the photographs and pictures on the walls.

Third party interference on the job was just one of those things that could happen at any time. A civilian, completely unconnected to the case, could quite easily and inadvertently “get in the way” to cause an extra obstacle or distraction to those doing their work in the Intelligence world. It wasn’t really a problem as such, just one of many situations one might have to face and overcome.

The trick was to keep calm, remain switched on to the target at the same time as acting as nonchalantly as you can towards them and just hope, as in this case, the third party would get bored and move on their way. If they won’t go on their merry way then you have to remove yourself from them as naturally and quickly as you can and get somebody else to take on the ‘eyes on target’ side of the job. That’s part why surveillance operators rarely work alone. Whilst remaining covert it was important not to give the third party innocent stranger any reason later to remember much about you or any conversation you might ‘have’ to have with them.

You can’t usually tell them to just “f*ck off” or blank out ignore them, it’s not quite as simple as that. People tend to remember being told to F off or being rudely ignored, and worst case scenario; they might take offence enough to start an argument, or worse want to start boxing or wrestling over tables. Both kinds of response get in the way of what you’re there to do and make you very memorable in their memory bank after all.

The Cockney just played the reserved, lacking in chattiness Brit with a grunting, “Yeah, s’pose so mate” and then turned his attention back to the newspaper opened in front of him on the pub table.

“My name’s Ron Trevelyan, I’m over here tracing my forefathers, come from Cornwall originally, you ever been to Cornwall buddy?”.

“What was it with Yanks”, the Cockney sighed inwardly, “especially tourist one’s. Always wanting to talk and talk and talk in their goofy, open ‘friend to the whole world’ way”.

“Yeah” he replied without looking up at his new mate at the same time as making a show of noticing the time on his watch. “Well good luck, its nice down there, I have to shoot mate, running later than I thought”, and with that the Cockney sank his coffee, gathered his newspaper and stood up. He was out of there without even a glance back at the American, and as he left the pub hit the pressel switch on his comms to report in he was temporarily off-target.

Not a problem on this job, the Cockney and the rest of his MI6 team merely just re-shuffled their individual locations like a well oiled machine. As he left the pub, one of his team mates came through the door and passed him without even a glance of recognition to take the Cockney’s previous place in the chain before Hank the Yank super tourist had rocked up…..

[Jibby123]

Wednesday, 7th September 2011. Kirby Muxloe, Leicestershire.

“Thugs. Clueless. Animals” Ryan Hull, manager of Taunton Town, spat to himself as he turned away in disgust as the final whistle blew and Taunton Town’s nine men left standing trudged off the field.

After the most insane weekend of my life I had not travelled up to Leicestershire for Taunton Town’s FA Cup Preliminary Round Replay with the quaintly named Kirby Muxloe FC. My wife wouldn’t let me travel and I wondered if she would allow me to travel anywhere with Ryan ever again. I wasn’t even sure I would complain that loudly at her latest thumbprint on my forehead.

Ryan shouldn’t really have travelled either; he’d only come out of hospital on the morning of the game after our UFC for beginner’s fun with Serbian intelligence service heavies and the owner of Taunton Town FC that weekend left me at laid up at home with my horlicks.

Ryan was made of sterner iron coffin nails than me though and despite a perforated ear drum leaving him 50% deaf from the gunshot in a ditch, a throat so sore he sounded like a 60 a day fag ash lil from his throat being used as a gun holster and bruised lumps covering his body and skull of course he had gone to the game. Ryan loved football and loved being a manager even more. Far, far more than me and he didn’t have a wife nagging in his one good ear.

On a fine late summer’s evening Taunton Town started well, showing their intent by short, sharp passing with some enthusiastic, intelligent, impressive off the ball movement and after 26 minute’s their pressure paid off. A first time early shot from the edge of the area by young redhead striker Lee Carr seemed to be heading wide until a slip by the Kirby Muxloe’s centre back left his foot dangling and looping the ball in to the opposite corner of the net to give Taunton Town the lead they deserved.

As so frustratingly often seems to happen in football the lead seemed to herald a change in effort and purpose in the team taking the lead and just as Ryan thought his side could make it to half time with a lead intact Kirby Muxloe were awarded a penalty that was as deserved as it was a fair decision.

All square at half time and that was the way it stayed until the 90th minute end of normal time whistle. From Taunton Town’s viewpoint the 2nd half was dire; they completely lost their shape not to mention their heads and were lucky to take the game to extra time. Six second half bookings and a sending off for the cocky, gobby young 16 year old defender Paul Todd showed just how much of their heads they had lost.

Ryan ripped in to his side at the end of 90 minutes and in hindsight calmer heads to prevail might have been needed; within 3 minutes of the kick off Taunton Town were down to 9 men with their second sending off of the night. Mark Buck, the thickie part of the young but talented double act of Ickie and Thickie in midfield received his 2nd yellow card for kicking one lump too many out of the opposition players.

Despite nine v eleven and now against the run of the play, two minutes later Taunton were 2-1 in the lead with a fine solo effort from the lightening quick Lee Carr as he ran at tired defender’s sending them one way and then the other before looping a curling shot around the Kirby Muxloe keeper.

It could never last though. Thanks to silly, niggly fouls and the red cards leaving nine unfit players to chase eleven equally unfit non-league, semi-pro or amateur players the odds of a win didn’t stack up.

The game ended 3-2 to Kirby Muxloe. Wembley and the FA Cup Final would have to wait another year for Ryan and Taunton. If Ryan lived that long.

FA Cup Prelim Round Replay

Taunton Town 2 (Darby OG 25, Carr 100)

Kirby Muxloe 3 (Swanton 42 Pen, Ian Barton 102, 115)

Att: 315

[Lenzar]

I take it from your knowledge of places such as the Coal Orchard (an excellent pub and much less busier than the Perkin) that you are a Taunton local?

[Jibby123]

Kind of. I only moved there when I was 13-14 because my dad got based there, then I left because I joined up, but have returned because of wife. I like Taunton a lot. And I would assume you live local if you know Coal Orchard trumps Perkin.

[Lenzar]

Kind of. I only moved there when I was 13-14 because my dad got based there, then I left because I joined up, but have returned because of wife. I like Taunton a lot. And I would assume you live local if you know Coal Orchard trumps Perkin.

I was born in the town, but grew up in Wellington. Now I live in Ipswich. But my mates when I was in my 20s lived in Taunton, which was and probably still is a better night out (though the Perkin gets stupidly crowded).

Great story, btw.

[Jibby123]

Thank you Lenzar, appreciated.

[Jibby123]

Thursday, 8th September 2011. Quantock Hills, Somerset.

The voice echoed down the mile long, pencil thin dusty pipe. Barely impersonating vague human speech from an alien, faraway galaxy in outer space this was a sound not carried on space dust or solar pulses of energy but instead riding in on ceaseless waves of a different kind crashing with a roar on to a shore that almost obliterated the human side of what could be heard. All was a distorted roar, far too distorted to make any real sense of human sound going up and down through the ranges of high and low notes around the deafening radio-like static of tons of water being smashed against something as hard as granite.

Delivered to a brain and ears that should have long since retired to the after life of no longer needing to work, something somewhere deep within Sasha was carrying on the good fight. A fight deeply interwoven in to all nature's creatures. A fight against all odds right up to the point when powers outside of our hands bring the curtain down.

The fight to survive.

As Sasha dug the tips of her fingers in to the granite face she was on so that even her wrists, elbows and shoulders started to tremble, not daring to even glance to the abyss below, she concentrated at the expense of all else on that open window to the outside world through the rushing waterfall sound coming from the pipe. Out of the blackness flat lining her as a boulder on her chest, a fight that even in her state she knew she was losing, technicolour pixel sized squares started to take shape.

“Sasha, Sasha, can you hear me?” joined the mini bomblet detonations of bright purples, pinks, blues and reds flashes as the pipe threw out something that morphed in to a face. A face in uniform.

“Yes, yes” she screamed outloud in an onrush of flooding joy like a dam burst. The relief of being heard lent itself to a weight being taken off her shoulders at life's second chance and with relief was able to ask “Ryan. Is he safe? You have to get to him! He's in danger...and Taunton Town. FA Cup?”.

From being pelted with new sounds, colours and sheer noise all of a sudden her lungs felt like they were in a race to jump through her throat and out of her cotton wool filled mouth. The pipe to survival had 180 degrees turned from blow to suck.

“No response. She's not responding. We have a very weak pulse, but....” the paramedic said to himself as much as the policeman who had got to Sasha only seconds before him and who he now assumed was looking over his shoulder.

As the vomit from the young policemen splashed back from it's landing site over Sasha and the paramedic without discriminating the victim and responder the paramedic sighed and carried on in his role.

The ambulance man of many shouts had seen a lot of sights during his career he wished he never had. But this was something else. 21 year old PC Dobbs wasn't even able to think that. Yet.