London Irish...Lords Of The Dance

[irishregan]

I just didn't see what the problem was. Ok, I didn't have the UEFA Pro Licence, or whatever they called it, so the Premiership wasn't an option. However, I did have winners medals in Spain and Italy, and the European Footballer of The Year Award for 1997 (although I couldn't remember where the hell the trophy was). At the very least, I thought I could get a decent sized club with potential. I knew I could manage. I was qualified in my own way. And being a drunken, philandering bum, I was probably a bit over qualified. Three months into the search, I was sitting with my agent, Avi Weitzmann, in his run down office not far from Soho Square, headquarters of the FA. Initially, I had thought that was ironic, then realised it wasn't in the slightest.

Avi had perhaps been an eccentric choice of representative. He claimed to have "widespread connections" within the game, but seemed to be more involved in showbusiness. The first day I went down there, he was deep in conversation with Lionel Blair, who seemed to be having the same career problems as I was. In the middle of the discussion, the entertainer suddenly broke into a hot shoe shuffle, and panted a little desperately, "You see Avi! I've still got it! I've still got it!". Good grief, I thought to myself. I've made a big mistake.

Three months of nothing had gone by, and the only evidence of Avi's widespread connections came when his brother, Leonard, got me tickets to a Spurs game against Chelsea. I didn't even like Spurs, or for that matter Chelsea. It just so happened I didn't have anything else to do that afternoon. Fair enough, Avi had got me some work on BBC Radio Five Live, and a couple of pundit spots on Match of The Day and Football Focus. But he was also offering me nonsensical jobs in every "celebrity" show you could think of, from cooking, to dancing, to jungle survival. The new football season was fast approaching, and I needed something quick, otherwise I might possibly drink and shag myself into an early grave.

"I don't think it helps that you're more involved in showbusiness than football," I suggested, after wheeling round from a pub in Covent Garden that Saturday afternoon.

He frowned. "I don't think your lifestyle and reputation helps either. Or that drink driving conviction."

I was irritable. "Wait a minute. I've served my punishment. I've even re-done my test. I can drive any time I like."

"Yes. And the way you drive, that's a source of constant worry to me every time I head on to the M25."

"Listen. How about the search. Anything?"

"I've a few irons in the fire."

"That's what you always tell me. And I keep telling you. All I want is a nice sized club in the London area."

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to get away from London. You're easily distracted."

"Well for God's sake just get me something then!"

[Liam =D]

Good start

Just out of intrest, was it you who wrote the story about Inter Milan (or Juventus, I forget) a few years ago?

Cos if it was, that story was fackin fantastic

[stoehrst]

The first day I went down there, he was deep in conversation with Lionel Blair, who seemed to be having the same career problems as I was. In the middle of the discussion, the entertainer suddenly broke into a hot shoe shuffle, and panted a little desperately, "You see Avi! I've still got it! I've still got it!". Good grief, I thought to myself. I've made a big mistake.

I think that's the first time I've really broken down laughing when reading a story on this forum.

[irishregan]

I was entertaining a young lady friend when Avi called the next Wednesday, about 3 o'clock I think it was. You can imagine my reaction when I discovered that he had interrupted my love in the afternoon to announce, "I've just been talking to Michael Flatley."

"Well you must be going up in the world then," I countered. "The last dancer I saw you chatting to was Lionel Blair."

"You haven't been watching Sky Sports News have you?" he smirked.

"I try not to at any time. Besides which, I've...got a friend visiting."

"Well put your trousers back on and watch it," he snorted dismissively.

As the TV blazed into life and I fiddled my way through the programme guide till it reached Sky Sports News, the story began to unravel. There was a press conference. Ok, I thought. There was Barry Hearn. Eh? And Steve Davis. And some poofy looking bloke with big hair and a red silk shirt. Wait a minute! That was Michael Flatley. Or at least I thought it was. I knew he had big gay hair and dressed like John Travolta in "Saturday Night Fever", so I deduced that it was him. They were talking about a new era, a great opportunity, blah blah blah.

"Ok Avi. I've got Leyton Orient, Michael Flatley, and you telling me you've been talking to him. Do I put two and two together here or what?"

"Umm, well...in a manner of speaking. It isn't Leyton Orient."

"I'm confused."

"Well it's like this. Flatley has bought Leyton Orient. And now Leyton Orient no longer exists. He's changing the name of the club to London Irish."

"I'm sure that's going to go down well with the locals."

"Do you think he gives a f**k?"

"No. Pardon me for being selfish, but where do I come in?"

"Flatley has fired Martin Ling, because he wants a 'big name' manager. He wants to talk to you. Because you're Irish, and you're one of the few ex-players that he's actually heard of."

"That's a deeply moving vote of confidence."

"He's got big plans Regan. He's super rich as well. You might sound more enthusiastic."

"Well, am I going to get rotten fruit thrown at me if I go there?"

"That I don't know. But Flatley will throw a fat pile of cash at you."

"Where does he want to meet?"

"The Dorchester. Six o'clock. You can bang that tart later. Get yourself over there now. I'll meet you so we can prep for the interview."

I told Sharon to get her stuff together and I'd get her a taxi home.

"My name's not Sharon!" she protested. "It's Susan."

[irishregan]

Thanks Liam and stoehrst, much appreciated.

Yes it was me that wrote the Inter Milan story, it won an award, and robbed me of all interest in writing FM stories for a long time.

In this one, I am using CM 01/02 with the Tapani 08 update. Leyton Orient has been changed to London Irish, with Flatley as the new wealthy owner. I'll give this a go for as long as I can and see how it pans out. I have a little bit of time on my hands before the New Year when I start studying for another Microsoft certification.

[Liam =D]

It was great

How come it robbed you of all intrest?

If it was me it would have spurred me on, but then again, I'm too lazy to start a story anyways

[irishregan]

It was great

How come it robbed you of all intrest?

If it was me it would have spurred me on, but then again, I'm too lazy to start a story anyways

Exactly, I'm too lazy and easily satisfied. Plus I can't abide FM08/09 with all that endless media, press conference, and team talk stuff. It bores me to tears.

[Liam =D]

I kind of get what you mean about FM09, but I thought '08 was great tbh.

Anyways, sorry to make you get so off topic, just KUTGW

[Kewell08]

Top stuff.

[Spav]

I've enjoyed what you've done so far, lazybones. Keep on dancing.

[irishregan]

Thanks lads, good to hear.

I never tired of the elegant Dorchester Hotel, and felt relaxed as I strolled into the lobby to meet Avi. He complained that he'd been there for a while. Hardly surprising, since his office was within walking distance. And not that he walked either. Being an agent, he took a taxi and charged it to his client.

We adjourned upstairs to a suite on the 8th floor, that Avi informed me was next door to the room in which we'd be meeting Flatley.

"I suppose I'm paying for this as well," I grumbled sourly.

"You have so little faith in me don't you?" Avi tutted. "They're paying for this. I suggested that if the negotiations go on late we might need an extra room."

"All right. So what's the idea then? I'm assuming we're in the position where he is thinking of offering me the job, otherwise we wouldn't be here."

"I think so. But you don't know with him. He lives a very opulent life. Two rooms at the Dorchester is chump change to him. In any case, you've got the inside track. You know how to talk to these people. You haven't been drinking have you?"

"Of course I f***ing haven't!"

"Well you should be fine then, shouldn't you?!"

[irishregan]

The appointed hour came, and we entered the room to meet Flatley. He had changed clothes from the press conference on the telly, and was now wearing a cream suit which made him look like the "The Great Gatsby". He was accompanied by his business manager, and the omnipresent personal assistant, whom we were introduced to, but who would go on to say almost nothing the whole time we were there.

"Come in m'boy," he enthused in his fake Irish accent. "How are you? How are you?"

"Fine thanks. How are you? Must be pleased to be the new owner of London Irish Football Club."

"Wonderful it is. Magic. Me old Dad would have been proud of me, coming all this way from Ireland and look at me now."

I knew he was talking balix. I'd heard he was really from Chicago or somewhere, and was about as Irish as Avi, yet I didn't feel like bursting any bubbles at this precise moment.

After the pleasantries we talked more about business. First, he mentioned confidentiality. This was an entirely secret meeting. The dancer had manged to negotiate with Hearn and acquire the club without anybody leaking anything. His managerial negotiations were to be of the same order. I agreed.

Flatley certainly had plenty of ideas, the headline being that he would turn London Irish into a Premiership club within five years. Or rather I would, backed by his cash. Five million was to be the initial transfer budget, staggering by League One standards, with a vision of a new stadium down the road. As far as future transfer funding, there was, apparently, plenty more where that came from.

I asked him about the reaction of the Orient fans. I had heard that there had already been one or two demos. I was wondering about the controversy of it all. I was certainly no stranger to controversy, but that didn't mean I enjoyed it. I just attracted it for some reason. When I mentioned this, his face hardened somewhat, and I saw the steel behind the jolly Irishman persona.

"Listen," he said. "I've bought this club now. And if these horny handed Cockneys don't want to come anymore, then they don't have to. With me backing it, and you as the front man, we'll have no shortage of fans."

"Well, as long as you've got the balls Michael, then so have I."

"That's what I want to hear. The job's almost yours. However, I do have one or two questions to ask you about your...history."

"I'll never drink and drive again Mr Flatley. That was a one-off mistake that I learned my lesson from."

"No I don't mean that. I mean the Mandy Leighton incident."

Flatley had completely taken me by surprise. I looked at Avi, who had been taken by surprise even more, since he probably didn't have a clue what we were talking about.

"That's nearly ten years ago Michael," I said defensively.

"I'm touchy about these things though," he said seriously. "You may have heard that something similar happened to me a few years back. Very unpleasant, and I don't want that coming back to bite you. Or me."

"How would it?"

"Well, because we were doing some background on you, and we found out she'd been released six weeks ago."

"What the f-?" I began involuntarily, stopping myself before fully enunciating the swear word. "Nobody told me she was out."

"But it's all over and done with right? All forgotten about?"

"By me yes. And by everybody I think. No-one has mentioned it for years."

"Good," he nodded. "Very good."

We chatted a little more, and then helped ourselves to some fine cuisine and champagne that the millionaire entertainer had laid on for us. Avi briefly talked financial terms with Flatley and his business manager, though many of the parameters seemed to be already negotiated. I was happy to let Avi handle things, since I didn't really need the money, and I knew Avi was the ultimate grinder who would screw every last penny for himself and his client. It was his spectacular success in negotiating that had led me to the unusual decision to retain him. Like many before, I had succumbed to the lure of an agent who was known as the man who would always get top dollar.

It was close to 11pm when we walked out of there. I could have stayed at the Dorchester, but I wanted time on my own, at my own place, to think about the prospect of becoming the first manager in the history of London Irish. The job was mine, all I had to do was say yes. Avi, however, wasn't about to leave me on my own. Not until he had the answer to one very pertinent question. As we exited the lift and marched across the lobby, his smile faded, and he grasped my arm.

"Tell me this," he began. "Who the F**K is Mandy Leighton?!"

[Wegason]

Fantastic start! A great set-up, super idea, and brilliant writing. I'll be following this one closely.

[george94]

Grat story Irish, finally you're writing again! You have a lot of eager fans you know (me included )

[SCIAG]

I like the start, Irish.

[irishregan]

Thanks Wegason, I enjoy your writing too. George, you've been a great encouragement to me in the past, good to see you back. Sciag, welcome aboard and I hope I can keep up the enjoyment level for you. And thanks again to all the other lads who have been encouraging so far. It's the only thing that keeps it going.

Authors note: I promise the football action joins the story soon. In the meantime, just another loose end to tie up.

[irishregan]

It was wonderfully warm that late evening, as we strolled through Knightsbridge. One of those slightly intoxicating late Summer nights. Everything seemed calm, even the usually angry traffic seemed to moan contentedly through the dark city streets. Only in such comfortable surroundings could I ever repeat such an uncomfortable story, that of my disastrous relationship with a certain Mandy Leighton, one of the very few people in my life that I truly wish I'd never met.

She was the archetypal Page Three Stunner, though I don't think she ever did appear on the hallowed pages of "The Sun". Many years later, I found out the reason why, when it emerged that she had done a couple of pornos in Holland, thereby breaking the hypocritical code of morality that governed who was permitted to bare their bosom in Britain's most famous tabloid. She had to be content with getting them off in carparts calendars, and the odd issue of "Razzle" or "Men Only". (Yes I know what you're thinking, and you'd be right. If you're a highly paid footballer you should be aiming higher than that, but I was young and very foolish.)

Even the circumstances around how I met her were unfortunate. I was enjoying a terrific season at Inter Milan, until I was informed that a nagging knee injury would require some minor surgery. That, and the rehabilitation would see me miss the last three months of the season. The surgery and rehabilitation both took place at a specialist clinic in Surrey, so I was on the loose in and around London for the best part of six months. At that time in my life, it would have taken two Devils to make enough work for my idle hands.

I really should have known better, though I thought she was just another nightclub floozie. Mandy had other ideas. Before really knowing it, she had conned her way somewhat into my life, and most assuredly into my wallet. Perhaps the latter was the trigger mechanism that made me decide to get shot of her after a month or so. I duly issued her marching orders, and she didn't seem too bothered at the time. Then a few days later, the police turned up at my door with a wild allegation that I had beaten her up. The coppers, of course, relished the whole scenario, and by the time I was bailed I had to run the gauntlet of a nice little crowd of journalists, who already had me condemned as a woman beater.

Later in the week, my then agent received a demand for "compensation", from some shady publicist, in the amount of 100,000 quid, otherwise she'd be "forced to take up an offer from a national newspaper". We went straight to the police. By the end of the week, she was the one getting bailed, under suspicion of perjury and extortion. The scheme unravelled quickly from there, with some other shady bloke coming forward to say that he had thumped her as part of a plot to squeeze me for money.

I was in the clear, at least legally. On a lovely morning shortly after, I was wandering contentedly out of my front door, when the crazy b***h rushed me with a knife and tried to stick me. This time there would be no bail. I was finally shot of her, if not the media attention, which was embarrassing to say the least. I took the first plane back to Italy, only having to return for the equally embarrassing aftermath, when I had to give evidence at the trial. She got five years for the wide variety of offences against me, but I later heard she was taken out of the prison system and detained indefinitely in a mental hospital. In time I almost forgot. It made me paranoid about letting women get too close to me. Apart from that I had put it pretty much behind me, until the news that the nut was walking the streets again brought it all uncomfortably to the fore.

"So that's the story of Mandy Leighton. I'm not sure why you didn't hear about it at the time. Everybody else was having a good laugh at my expense. You missed out."

"Now I know why. I was in America at the time. That was before Leonard and I decided to come back to London and start our own agency."

"Well, now you know just about everything."

"That would have put me off women for life. Didn't have that effect on you obviously."

"Well, as a wise man once said, can't live with them, can't live without them."

We had strolled a long way while I recounted the whole sordid tale. I felt a gentle sense of catharsis, that rather outweighed the discomfort of retelling. Avi and I parted in separate taxis, agreeing that the next order of business was to tie up the London Irish deal the next morning, and for me to get to work on turning it into something special. In my mind one dark chapter closed, and another one opened. Funny how things don't always work out the way they do in your mind...

[Kewell08]

I don't know why people apologise for not getting into the football. These are the best ones!

Great stuff irish.

[nette000]

I can echo that sentiment. Great start and appetizer. Bring on the main course!

[sherm]

Good to see you back writing Irish, and good start to the story

Lets see award number 2 eh?

[irishregan]

Great to know that you've enjoyed it enough to comment lads. To be honest Sherm, I don't know if I should be saying this, but I decided to write again to see if I could win another award. Don't give a s***e if I do or not, since it's only a popularity contest after all, but I just thought it would be an amusing experiment to challenge myself:D

Oh and nette, I'm the worst cook in the entire world. So the main course will probably be overdone and revolting.

In the meantime, here's some more.

[tenthreeleader]

A bow to your style, sir. Smooth, smooth, smooth!

[irishregan]

I never thought they'd be dancing in the streets when my appointment was announced, and the slight feeling of trepidation was well founded. Driving to the ground to start work, I was met by a small crowd of protestors, with banners such as "Save Our Orient", "Flatley Out", and even banners calling for my removal. Jesus Christ, I thought. I must be the first manager in history to have a campaign for my removal before I'd even started work.

With only an elderly gateman to protect me from this workshy mob, a few were able to reach my car. Banging on the windows as I drove through the main gate, one shouted "F**k off you Irish w****r!", which charmed me. Another was so slavveringly inarticulate that I had no idea what he said. The hatred in his face sent the message adequately.

After that enchanting experience came the tiresome process of meeting all the staff. I had decided to keep the coaching team en bloc for now. I was friendly and positive, whilst at the same time making them aware that if they were pining for Martin Ling, then they'd soon be joining him in the unemployment line. The players seemed like a decent lot, though they gave the impression that they were totally bemused by the developments of the last week, and who could blame them. The whole exchange with them seemed a bit like pupils in the headmaster's office, and I did what I could to try and lighten the atmosphere. It was unsettling for them, especially since many of them were pretty young lads.

I suppose at a basic level they were fearing for their jobs. And they'd have been right. With 5 million quid available, I wasn't going to fart around with unknown quantities. In addition, the raised profile of the club meant that I had a pile of faxes on my desk from agents representing out of contract players that poor old Leyton Orient could never have dreamed of signing. It was amazing what a name change, some media attention, and a fat pile of cash could do for the desirability of a club.

For someone not given easily to hard work, I spent an enormous amount of time holed up in my office over the first few days, looking at free agent lists, scouting reports, and video packages on a mind numbing number of players who might be available to us. Translating that into anything solid was to be a frustrating business however. By the time I enquired, or arranged to have them scouted, they had signed for someone else. I suppose I could have just gone on name recognition alone (they included major players such as Hernan Crespo). But that was never my style. I have never believed in signing any old hobble-de-hoy just because I knew they used to be good. Sure we'd sell some shirts, but these guys might have nothing left in the tank, and be no better than what we had.

It was also in my mind to sign Englishmen, or British players. This was a recent fetish of mine, developed through my growing annoyance at seeing ordinary foreign players flood into English football, while local youngsters with tremendous upside were left rotting in the reserves. I knew I had to break my own rule this season though. We had to get out of League One with no messing. So a few foreign re-treads would be brought in, because this was the advantage I had over the other teams - I could attract these guys to our club. That was the way we could blow the other clubs in the division out of the water.

As it turned out, I was unable to make a signing before the first friendly on the 21st July, away at Stoke, so we went in with what we had, and I was pleasantly surprised to see us come away with a 2-0win. If I'm being honest, it was nice to have my first game in charge away from home.

I'd expected to receive hate mail, and I wasn't disappointed. It was so vitriolic though, that it upset my secretary, a middle aged sweetie named Madelaine Proops, to the point where I told her just to bring all my mail to me without reading it first. She was not only upset, but embarrassed. As a Leyton Orient fan herself, she felt she should apologise for the morons that were writing this garbage. Despite her sadness at Orient ceasing to exist, she knew it would improve our chances of success, and was reluctantly willing to move forward. I gave her a big hug and told her not to be so silly. She didn't have to apologise for anything.

The content of the hate mail was water off a duck's back to me. Like most people in the public eye, I had received mountains of it in my life. However, on the day before we left for a short tour of Greece, I opened one that struck me as different. Written on a piece of scrap paper, in pen, was my address. Nothing more, just my address. No, it couldn't be, I thought. It's football related, nothing more sinister than that. I was just being paranoid. Sure, I still owned the same mews house in Chelsea that I did all those years ago, but anyone could have found out my address if they really wanted to. It was just from an Orient fan trying to be clever, I was sure of it.

I put it out of my mind, and it had retreated further by the next morning, when we flew out to Greece.

[george94]

Very spooky Irish, I wonder who it's from..... Keep up the good work mate, it's a wonderfully crafted story

[irishregan]

Thanks a lot tenthree, I have been lurking in your stories and enjoying your little side plots involving wives, ex-wives, jilted lovers...and Reading. All good fun.

Thanks George. Yes our hero is in for an interesting and slightly unnerving time ahead. That's all I'll say...

The way I saw it, a pre-season tour of Greece had no value other than to give me a free holiday. I was able to watch the lads in training, though I had never believed that told anybody anything much anyway. I suppose I'd learn something from watching the matches, although it would have been more beneficial to be playing English clubs. At least it got me away from the furore at home.

I didn't think club loyalty ran that deep at a relative no-mark outfit like Leyton Orient, yet on reflection, I wasn't surprised. Among the reasons for me spending almost my entire playing career in Italy and Spain was my disgust for the whole Sky TV hooplah surrounding the Premiership. Seeing people blubbering after a loss, or phoning in to say how devastated they were that this player was leaving or this team had been relegated, made me think the world had gone mad. No wonder the UK was falling apart when Murdoch and Sky had managed to convince some people that football was more important than life itself. And available for only 30 quid a month, including free installation. Just let us take over the world while you're busy throwing your life into some football club who wouldn't p**s on you if you were on fire.

I had to admit I was pleasantly surprised by the performances on the pitch, against theoretically superior opposition. On the 25th we went down 3-2 to Asteras Tripolis, largely due to crap goalkeeping from our incumbent, Glenn Morris. I have precious little tolerance for shoddy goalkeeping at the best of times, and I more or less decided then and there to replace him. The problem would be, with whom. One signing we did finally complete was a loan deal for young Leeds left winger, Brad Johnson. This was imperative, because we didn't have a left winger.

Two days later, we beat Paniliakos 3-2, despite being pretty well outplayed. In the background, more players were finally starting to arrive. I brought in Gareth O'Connor and Tommy Black, both midfielders, on trial. Hardly the sort of moves that would set pulses racing. However, I followed that up with a permanent deal...finally. Ghanaian central defender Kofi Amponsah arrived on a freebie, at 5 grand a week till 2012. On the same day, we tied up a three month loan deal for prolific striker Freddy Eastwood, who I was sure would score bucketloads of goals in our division. I wanted him for the whole season, but Coventry were being awkward and wouldn't allow it.

Upon returning home, I brought in Malcolm Christie on trial, and tied up the free transfer of Romanian playmaker Alin Stoica. He was a class above our level, and so were his wages, 8 grand a week till 2014.

Our final friendly on the 30th was loaded with trialists, and the lads did well to secure a 0-0 draw with Middlesborough. The Teesiders deserved to win, but that was hardly relevant in pre-season. It was a useful exercise, and things were coming together from a team point of view. I was optimistic we could do some damage before our first league game, a week hence.

[Spav]

Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking,

But I sent you away, oh Mandy.

...not!!

Looking very promising, slacker-boy.

[irishregan]

Loved that one Spav, gave me a right good laugh. Thanks:D

I slumped somewhat back into my lazy ways in the week before the first game. I was staring into space at training, and the coaching staff were saying stuff like, "don't you want to pull him up for that?" or "shouldn't we stop the session and talk about that?". I dismissed them with a wave of a hand and a world weary "nah, be all right". I don't think they thought I was doing my job properly. That was none of their business. I'd told them we were playing 4-4-2 pass and move, and I expected professional footballers to be able to take it from there. If they couldn't, I made it clear there'd be hell to pay.

As a coach, I could sit and talk for hours about tactics, and go into minute details over everything. Yet when I was playing in Italy that used to drive me nuts. And by the time we got onto the field, I'd forgotten half of what they told us anyway, and just did whatever came instinctively. That used to drive them nuts. I preferred to trust the players, and let them get on with it. If they weren't up to the job, I'd get some who were.

The 6th of August came around, and we engaged Oldham at Brisbane Road. Flatley had jetted in from America to see his new toy, which in retrospect wasn't a good idea. A new club, new logo, a few new players, yet there was still simmering resentment amongst some sections of the fans. He got a mixed reception at best, though I could still see his pearly whites beaming down from the directors' box, like some mischief-making fan shining the sun off a mirror onto the field.

We rewarded our fans and chairman with a rubbishy display. Despite dominating the exchanges, we went behind twice. We recovered through goals from Demetriou (our right back), and Thornton (one of our midfielders). It took an injury time penalty from Eastwood to give us the win. I didn't mind because we deserved it. There were back slaps all round, but I instantly reminded the players that we were crap, and would have to get better.

With a view to improvement, I signed Seth Johnson, on a free transfer, at 8 grand a week till 2011. He was nowhere near fit enough to take part in our midweek tilt away to Bristol Rovers. In the event, we hardly needed him. Alin Stoica was a class apart during the game, scoring two goals. Eastwood potted another penalty. Though they had a man sent off, we were full value for our win. A much better performance than Saturday.

There was no way I was resting on my laurels however, and on the 12th I moved to fulfill my main team building ambition: replacing Glenn Morris in goal. Alex Manninger was on the outs at Siena, and I swooped with indecent haste to sign him for 1M quid. I felt sure he'd want to go elsewhere, yet he was delighted to come to a club on the up, and his 12 and a half grand a week pay deal till 2014 was probably not the least satisfying part of the move for him either.

Things were looking good. Two wins, some excellent new signings (at this level anyway), and no disturbing hate mail for about three weeks. There seemed to be absolutely nothing to worry about...

[Kewell08]

Can I read that tactics stuff as being related to FM? Seems eerily similar...

Keep it up!

[irishregan]

You might be right there Kewell. It reflects both FM, and the way I think in real life. FM has sought out some vain notion of "reality", and in the process become pretty unrealistic, as far as tactics go anyway. It became a right shambles.

I don't know if my comfort zone spread out around the players, but we came back down to Earth with a bump at Carlisle on the 16th of August. On the face of it, it was an even game. However, we just didn't have it, and the 2-1 win was pretty much deserved by Carlisle. It wasn't petulance or over-reaction when I signed two players a couple of days later. Dani Guillen was a talented youngster who had met a roadblock at Real Madrid, and I thought the young left back was reasonably priced at 375k. Danny Granville was performing well in that role, yet he was 33. And expensive. It was succession planning, with an eye towards cost cutting later if necessary. On the same day, Mexican international left winger Daniel Osorno arrived on a free transfer, after a quite ridiculously protracted wait for a work permit that was eventually granted. Quite why it took them upwards of a month I don't know. In that time he could have written his autobiography and sent it to them, and probably still got a decision quicker. At least we had him, and in him a clearly defined number one left winger, something Martin Ling apparently hadn't considered important before I arrived.

Both men played in our home League Cup game against Cardiff in midweek. I viewed the competition in much the same way as Alex Ferguson did, and thought we would lose anyway. We did, 2-0, slightly unluckily. I'd got the two new boys some match practice, so I wasn't too bothered with the outcome. Granville came back in for the visit of Huddersfield the following Saturday, and we squeezed out an unneccesarily jumpy 1-0 win. Eastwood had scored after 41, and we dominated. The goals wouldn't come, and we had to endure some sweaty palms towards the end. Still, mission accomplished.

The day after I moved smartly to bring Eastwood in permanently for 1M quid. He'd mentioned that he had been told he had no future at Coventry, which was news to me. I had previously been told he could only go for three months and they wanted him back. Perhaps they just decided they wanted the money instead. I was happy to pay it, and personal terms were worked out. 5.5k/week for him, plus 150k signing on fee. His agent had asked for 375K, and I told him to get lost. He was back on the phone about two minutes later asking for 150, which I thought was reasonable.

We went up to Tranmere the following Friday night, and lost 1-0. I hated us having to play on a Friday. It was a tradition up there, so I suppose we just had to lump it. We were never at the races, again losing a close game but never looking in it.

I didn't know what to do with myself the next day, so I went into work around lunchtime. Madelaine Proops was there, because she often came in on Saturdays. That wasn't surprising. What did surprise me was that she was standing in my office crying her eyes out.

[irishregan]

"I'm sorry!" she kept warbling through her tears.

"Sorry about what?"

She pointed towards my desk, to a torn open envelope, and my heart sank.

"Now come on. I told you that wasn't your fault. Or any Orient supporters fault."

"This one's bad," she snivelled, wiping her nose surprisingly gracefully.

I sighed and sat down at my desk while she continued to compose herself. I approached the envelope as though it was germ laden, picking it up by the corner and tipping out the contents. As though the filth that wrote it could somehow touch me.

It was a photograph. Of a graveyard. One of those Eastern European style graves with a picture of the deceased on it as well as the inscription. Someone had Photoshopped it, and replaced the picture and inscription with a picture of me, together with my name. I'm sure they thought they were being very creative. On a piece of card accompanying the picture was printed, "Your new home. You're going to die you motherf***er. The Orient Avenger." I shrugged.

"Doesn't it bother you?" she asked.

"If every piece of hate mail I'd ever had bothered me, I'd be a nervous wreck."

"But it's disgusting."

"Aren't they all?" I said quietly.

I popped the offending mail in the desk and locked it, then sent Madelaine home to her husband. In future she was to open only the things that came from reputable sources. Anything that looked like personal mail was to be taken straight to me. She then told me if I ever needed to talk about it, or that if her or her husband could do anything, they'd be glad to help. That was genuinely nice of her, even though she couldn't do anything of course. And she just didn't realise that inside, I didn't feel bad. I felt fantastic. Because if this latest installment came from "The Orient Avenger", that could mean only one thing. It surely wasn't from that crazy bitch who had almost ruined my life all those years ago. Relief swept through every outpost of my being.

"It can't be from her!" I thrilled to myself. "It can't be from her!"

[Kewell08]

Keep it up.

[irishregan]

Thanks mate, though I think people have stopped reading this in large numbers in protest at my laziness

Having put one worry to the back of my mind, I was now facing another, albeit only a professional one. On the 6th we entertained Leeds, re-igniting a years old feud that I'd had with their chairman, the one and only Ken Bates. Or rather, a feud that he had with me. It all went back to my early playing days at Nottingham Forest. After winning an ill-tempered cup tie at Chelsea when he was still chairman there, he confronted a few of us in the tunnel, calling us "a f***ing disgwace". Me being young and impetuous, I shouted back "f**k off Santa Claus". He didn't take it well. I can only assume he was proud of his beard.

A couple of years later, I was in Italy, and had completely forgotten about the whole incident, and about Bates. Then after winning European Footballer of the Year, as it was still called then, Bates resurfaced with a nasty article that was brought to my attention. He once again called me "a disgrace", said I was "over rated" and "the worst player ever to win the award". Quite how he was qualified to say that I wasn't sure. He also bizzarely accused me of "deserting English football for mercenary reasons". I was making 5 grand a week at Forest, and was offered 45 grand a week to go to Italy. As if I was going to turn that down.

I didn't go near the bar before the game. It turned out to be a cracker, Eastwood twice giving us the lead, only for the visitors to twice claw us back. Eastwood completed his hat-trick before half-time. Despite excitement galore, we held onto the deserved win. At the end I was expecting to look in the mirror and be as white as Bates. It was an excruciating game for managers.

I saw their chairman briefly upstairs later. He was furious, a mood not improved by seeing me with a big smile on my face I'm sure. I avoided him and he avoided me, although I overheard him swearing loudly at one point, and assumed it was addressed in my direction.

It was a lot more pleasant going up to Leicester the following week. Milan Mandaric was a very welcoming and friendly chairman. I doubt he was feeling quite so friendly after our 4-3 win, though he kept up appearances. We were always in charge, yet coughed up two late goals, which was a blemish.

The following day, I tied up the signing of Djimi Traore from Portsmouth for 825k. It went down like a lead balloon, but to my mind he had played at a much higher level, and would surely upgrade us in League One. To leverage the impact on our finances, I flogged Paul Terry to Peterborough for 550k. He had been moaning about a new contract, wasn't a world beater, so he was a goner.

Our next game was at home to Hereford, who were all over the shop in the league. I was expecting an easy touch, especially when Stoica slammed in a great shot after 7 minutes. It took until the 90th for Eastwood to seal it, however it would have been a joke if Hereford had shared the honours.

After training on Monday, I was forced to call a team meeting and give half the squad a real dressing down. All the players who were at the club when I arrived wanted new contracts, regardless of the fact that none deserved them. Their idea was that since I had brought in high priced foreigners, they were entitled to a piece of pie too. I was absolutely furious, and gave the offenders both barrels on the training ground. No-one fronted up after I had thrown my tantrum, so I was satisfied that my harsh words had quelled the mutiny in no uncertain terms.

I was just as furious after our next game, a sickening 3-2 loss away at Northampton. Eastwood had twice levelled it, and we threw away a point with practically the last kick.

Fortunately we were able to finish the month on a high note, on the 30th at home to Swindon. Stoica had done ankle ligaments, to be replaced by J.J. Melligan, and Traore debuted for the increasingly underwhelming Amponsah. Eastwood got us a 76th minute winner in a relatively even game, and I had to wonder where we'd be without him. However, three points has a wonderful way of casting all doubts aside.

[Almondo]

nice one mate. will keep an eye out for more updates

[irishregan]

Thanks mate, good to see a new recruit to the story

Due to internationals, we found ourselves with an 18 day break before our next fixture. As per usual, I intended to have a scandalously long holiday. I decided I didn't want to completely take the Arthur Bliss, so I was at my desk on the 2nd October. As a manager, it wasn't often that I was at work when the players had a day off.

I wasn't doing anything particularly much, so it was something of a relief when Madelaine brought in a largish Jiffy bag. I thanked her and quickly opened it, without even looking at who it was from. I heard the noise before I saw it...a loud metallic clank on the fine, polished wood of my desk.

It was a long, narrow blade, almost like a letter opener, but fiercely sharp and with a serrated edge. I had to admit that this time I was worried. As I sat there with my heart pounding, something suddenly shot into my mind. Jiffy bag. No stamp. It was a courier! Hand delivered!

I shot out from behind my desk, and raced into the outer office. Madelaine was shocked by my furious entry.

"Who brought that package?!" I demanded furiously. Madelaine was upset and flustered. I was too hyped up to notice.

"Uhh...umm someone with...umm...a motorcyclist! A...umm...a motorcycle courier."

"Man or woman?!"

"I...I don't know. They had a helmet on."

"What?! What the f**k are we doing letting people come in here with motorcycle helmets on?! It could be anybody!"

"I...I'm sorry," Madelaine stammered tearfully.

Had I not been so hyper, I'd have stopped to apologise. Instead, something else had occured to me. The route down from my office was a narrow stairway, then a corridor, then a lift (or stairs) to the car park behind the main gate. Whoever delivered the package could still be intercepted!

I dashed out, leaping the stairs, slamming my way down the corridor, and again negotiating the stairs with a series of massive adrenaline-fuelled leaps. As I reached the door leading to the car park, I could hear a motorcycle revving. I was that close.

As I blasted through the doors, the powerful motorbike was heading towards the main gate, driven by a slim figure in tight black leathers, with a jet black helmet to match. I screamed out "stop that courier!", but the doddery old fool manning the gate was never going to hear me over the din of the bike, and probably wouldn't have heard me even if it had been as quiet as the grave.

The bike swung gently around the corner into the street, with me in hot pursuit. I came close before it rocketed into anonymity. The figure seemed almost robotic, as people do when they are on a motorcycle, and androgynous, as people often are when they are in tight motorcycle leathers. My view of the rider disappearing into the distance was maddeningly imprecise. It could have been a slim man, or a tall, model-figured lady. But I could have sworn I saw a shock of silky, blond hair rippling limply from beneath the helmet as the bike sped away.

[irishregan]

I spent much of the rest of the day in a daze. So much so that an email from Flatley's business manager alerting me that we had already lost 2.5M quid seemed trivial in comparison. I was thinking of doing some alerting myself - letting the police know that I was being stalked by some maniac who was threatening to kill me. In the end I took the easy way out. I apologised to Madelaine for my ill temper earlier, then went online and booked a ten day holiday in California. Running away from trouble was never my style, but in this case I thought it was for the best. Eventually convincing myself that this was still just a crank, and that the police would not only laugh at me but also leak the information into the public domain, it seemed sensible to kick it into the long grass for now.

The holiday passed in a blur of booze, sunny beaches, and bunk-ups with any woman who seemed inclined. Which, in the case of California, seemed a much easier proposition than England. I arrived back 4 days before our next game, and having deliberately avoided tanning, nobody really guessed what I had been up to. Flatley and the powers-that-be were probably just pleased I hadn't slung away more of their money, so no inquiries came from that direction either.

Our return to action at home to Cheltenham provided us with a handy 3-0 win, courtesy of goals from Johnson, Eastwood, and Jarvis. We were two up within 25 minutes, and never looked in much strife. Three days later we were in action again away to Scunthorpe. Osorno salvaged a draw for us with a late equaliser. It was a tight and even game, and neither side deserved to lose.

Saturday the 25th saw us home again, this time to Yeovil. Stoica returned to the team, but did nothing to prevent a woeful performance from our lot, that was fortunate to add up to only a 1-0 loss. I was livid afterwards, and petulantly transfer listed Mkandawire, who until that moment had been our captain. He was one of the contract rebels who had so antagonised me earlier in the season. His idea of how to win a more lucrative deal was to produce a series of rubbish performances. So he was out. Out of the team, out of the captaincy, out of the plans of this club.

Four days later we took off for Brighton and produced quite the most ridiculous performance of my reign. Outshot 15-2, outclassed, and with a poor attitude. Somehow we got a point, courtesy of a ripper from Stoica. The hammer blow was that Eastwood did a groin and the prognosis was not good. Two months the loss, and with the shambolic way we had been playing, there was certainly an ill wind blowing through the team at the wrong time.

[irishregan]

Come the end of the month, I was sitting on eggs, waiting for the next move from whoever it was that was taunting and threatening me by mail. I still had no idea if it was a disgruntled football fan, or the other, scarier possibility. After all the anticipation, nothing came. No letter, no mysterious motorcycle deliveries, nothing. With a team in flux, I had something to take my mind off it. I made changes to the last eleven, bringing in Alton Thelwell and Brian Saah for Demetriou and the dog-housed Mkandawire. A clinical 3-0 win at home to Stockport seemed to have rewarded my intuition. Stoica, Osorno, and Jarvis had put us three up after just 36 minutes, and we looked defensively sound. How much of that was down to the visitors being rubbish was anyone's guess. Flatley sent me an email saying he was delighted with the win. I don't know whether he had confused Stockport with Manchester United, but if that result was the height of his ambitions, I thought I might well have a job for life.

On the 3rd I made some moves. Amponsah had been a failure, and I sent him to Doncaster for 425k. At the same moment, Luton Shelton, the Jamaican international striker, arrived on loan from Sheffield United till the end of the season. Initially it was cover for the stricken Eastwood, but my mind was enthused by the possibility of the two teaming up together a few weeks hence.

Eastwood's immediate replacement, Ryan Jarvis, was doing all right in the meantime. On Saturday the 8th, his goal secured us a 1-0 win at Southend. Deserved it was too, however it was sweaty palms time throughout the game.

The following Saturday I took the opportunity to play Shelton in the FA Cup tie at home to Carlisle. I suppose it could be said to be a mistake, since we lost 2-1. But it was an absurd game, which we dominated, and then lost. Worse were injuries to Johnson and Jarvis, both 3 weeks, and with a squad as deep as a puddle, we were in difs. That was proven the following week with a 2-0 loss at Peterborough, yet we still deserved to win.

When I arrived home that night, something seemed strange. I knew I was angry, however something was not right when I walked in my front door. People were always surprised to find how tidy my house was. Given the indiscipline that infused the rest of my life, house pride was not something with which I could be readily associated. But as I stood there, I could tell that stuff had been moved in my house. Or at least I thought it had. I always set the remote controls under the TV. They were on top of the TV. I always had my favourite Eames chair tucked under the computer desk. It was lazily half-turned and two feet removed from the cutout into which it so snugly fitted. Was anger and paranoia combining to drive me round the twist? Maybe. I checked all around the house for intruders, my heart beating loudly as I entered each darkened room, and opened each gloomy cupboard. Nothing. I sighed, sat down with a bottle of Glenmorangie, and woke up the next morning in the same chair, startled awake by the choir from TV's "Morning Worship" bursting into song on that chilly and grey early Sunday.

[stoehrst]

Great stuff as always, Irish, loving it. I did want to alert you to a bit of a continuity error though:

Madelaine was shocked by my furious entry.

That in your post from the 25th.

I apologised to Marjorie for my ill temper earlier

And that from today. It would appear you've renamed your secretary! Couldn't resist pointing that one out . KUTGW!

[Spav]

Ah, nice to see some activity here - and it's bloody good as well.

[irishregan]

Thanks stoehrst and Spav. Yeah the continuity error is because Marjorie Proops was a real person, an agony aunt for the "Daily Mail". I've caught myself doing it before, but that one slipped through the net. Sharp eyes from you.

The following Saturday's game was an exercise in the ridiculous, a 2-2 home draw with MK Dons. We bossed the whole thing, yet had to twice recover from a goal down, Shelton and Stoica the scorers for us. Thelwell picked up an injury which would keep him out three weeks.

Flatley's monthly email expressed his continuing satisfaction, and his faith was rewarded with a win the next week, away to Hartlepool. Shelton did the job again, scoring 2 in 8 minutes to bring us back from one down. There was a two week break, during which Traore returned, only for Osorno to get injured on the same day, out for a month. That didn't affect us too badly in our next fixture, away to Walsall. A 3-2 win looks tight, yet they scored two on three shots.

As a replacement for Osorno, I signed Stephen Gleeson from Wolves, a loaner till the end of the season. He made his bow on the 30th, at home to Bristol Rovers, whom we polished off 3-0. Eastwood got two and Thornton chipped in to make it comfortable.

As usual, I was sitting on eggs at the end of the month, waiting for some contact from my tormentor. None came. The poison pen had a peculiarly strong force. Once the seed was planted, it was a constant in the back of the mind, whether there was contact or not.

[irishregan]

Flatley was ecstatic with our recent run, and lady luck smiled on us in the next game. We were being stuffed 3-0 away at Oldham when the weather intervened and the match was abandoned. Disappointment followed, a turgid 0-0 draw at home to Carlisle that felt like two points dropped. Our luck had definitely run out when we visited Huddersfield, drawing 0-0 against 10 men and wasting chance after chance.

I wasn't too bothered when we lost 2-1 at Millwall in the Vans Trophy midweek. A run to Wembley would be nice cashflow, however it would likely detract from our league aspirations.

Worrying developments came on Saturday, with an unacceptable 2-0 loss at home to Leicester. The malaise was starting to run deep. It continued with a poor 1-1 draw at Hereford the following Saturday. The missed chances were endless.

In a desperation move, I signed Kris Commons for 800k from Derby. It seemed like a good deal, but it smacked of panic, and I think the team sensed it. 10.25k/week was his wages, which would further weaken a financial position that was already being hammered by heavy losses.

[SCIAG]

Bump at Regan's request.