ManUtd1

This thread smells vaguely of sulfur and jelly beans. Let's go. We'll see if we can work miracles this time around...as you'll see soon enough, it's going to be a heavy lift at the outset!

You Don't Come To Georgia For The Snow, You Come For The Heat Georgia -- a breathtakingly beautiful country lying at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, a country with a rich history. An unlikely setting for a footballing revolution. Yet another footballing revolution. But before we dive into Jaba's journey, let's look at where we've been. During the FM20 cycle, in need of a break from the Nearly Men, I was struck with a burning desire to manage Duruji Kvareli -- a Georgian club from Kvareli, a town of less than 8,000 residents nestled in the foothills of the Greater Caucasus. On the FM20 version of this save, my manager was Giorgi Amirani -- named for the mythical Georgian hero who defied the Gods. Over a 22-year stretch, Amirani did the impossible (improbable?). By the time Duruji Kvareli were eliminated from the Champions League semifinals in May 2044 (at which point the save went on hiatus), they had claimed 3 Champions League titles, while the Georgians had claimed the 2042 World Cup title. It was an epic journey -- easily one of my favorite saves of all time. So, when FM 21 rolled around, I had no choice. I had to return to Georgia and once again try to conquer the world, this time under the leadership of Levan "Goose" Akhobadze and his trusted lieutenant, Luke Shaw. This time around, we claimed no less than 7 Champions League titles in a 28-year run that culminated with the 2050 World Cup title. Unfortunately, however, one long-term goal eluded Goose. While Duruji Kvareli became the best club in the world over the course of the save, the Erovnuli Liga's reputation did not rise above that of the "big 5" European leagues. Mission? Not accomplished. (*Sad Tom Cruise noises*) So, there really was only one thing to do during the FM 22 cycle... That time around, however, I resisted the temptation to return to Duruji Kvareli. Instead, we went to Gareji Sagarejo -- the closest thing to a real-life version of my in-game Duruji Kvareli -- a club that once graced the heights of the Georgian regional championship in the Soviet pyramid, but found themselves in the 5th tier as recently as 2018. That year, however, everything changed when they won promotion to Liga 4. In 2019, Gareji they finished a highly credible 3rd in Liga 4 -- much more than had been expected of them. They also made a fairy-tale run to the semifinals of the Davit Kipiani Cup, even taking an early lead against Lokomotivi before losing, 3-2 -- the furthest any team from the 4th tier has ever gotten. The fates continued to look kindly on Gareji, with FC Tskhinvali unable to meet their financial obligations to compete in Liga 3 for the 2020 campaign -- Tskhinvali were expelled, and Gareji were promoted to take their place. Again, little was expected of them in the rarified air of Liga 3. Yet, again, Gareji did not disappoint. They conquered, winning the league outright. And, as the end of the 2023 Erovnuli Liga 2 campaign draws near, they find themselves odds-on for promotion to the land of milk and honey, the Erovnuli Liga. A brilliant rise to the 2nd tier. But there is much more to be done... So much more. During the FM 22 cycle, we did not manage to conquer Europe, and the save went on hiatus after an epic, extra-time loss to Roberto Martinez's Liverpool in the 2042 Champions League final. All of which boils down to one simple, inescapable conclusion. I have unfinished business in Georgia. We're going back to Duruji Kvareli -- the club where it all began. The club whose home pitch lies inside the walls of an 18th century fortress, the Kvarlis Tsentraluri Stadioni, which are said to have repelled the attacks of Nursal Bek of the Avar Khanate in 1755, although I may need to play several hundred hours of Europa Universalis IV to confirm. From this literal fortress, we will march forth with one mission. Nothing less than to turn this literal fortress into an metaphorical one. To conquer Georgia, Europe and the world with Duruji Kvareli and (eventually) the Georgian national team. My Georgian saves have been serialized under the moniker, “The Fourth Glass,” a name I took from a Georgian legend related to the country’s claim to be the birthplace of wine. Specifically, Georgian legend tells of how God created wine to remind the world of Heaven. After creating wine, God invited His angels and the Devil to taste it, with all agreeing that it transcended the divine, such that it returned anyone who drank it to Heaven, if only for a short period of time. This, the Devil could not tolerate. He created his own alcoholic beverage from the remains of crushed wine grapes — chacha, a potent, fiery drink. Returning the courtesy, the Devil invited God to sample chacha. God drank one glass of chacha. Then a second. A third. A fourth. Finally, God leaned over to the Devil, drew him close and declared that “those who will drink three glasses of chacha may be on my side. After that, they are yours.” There will be no no hard-and-fast rules beyond the general concept of the save. I will not adhere to any particular transfer policy, beyond my standard preference for developing youth. I am using my personal FM23 Georgian 5-tier file, which I made (and updated) despite my utter and complete dislike of that edition of the game (easily my least favorite of all-time, going back more than 25 years). The overall league structure is close to realistic, but not entirely accurate due to: (1) the limitations of my skills with the FM23 pre-game editor; and (2) the ever-changing nature of the Georgian footballing structure. I also incorporated a reduced injuries file to cut down on injuries across the board, without giving myself an “advantage” over the AI. Finally, to ensure a unique playing environment and vibrant in-game world, I will: (1) holiday out a few years with the top leagues in England, France, Germany, Italy and Spain active (alongside numerous view only leagues); and (2) utilize a large database/pool of potential players, including all internationals worldwide and all players from clubs in European, African and South American continental competitions. Up next: We meet our hero, Jaba Roflkopter, and take stock of the footballing world as he takes his first steps into management.

At the height of the long, hot summer of 2010, the priest of the Gergeti Trinity Church near Stepantsminda paid a sudden and unannounced visit to the eyeless scout sitting on the steps outside the Givi Chokheli stadium in Telavi. “Have I got a deal for you!” the priest began, perhaps inauspiciously. “Another deal like Koba and Bakar?” said the scout. “I’ve still got my hands full training those giggling idiots out of every bad habit they picked up from you and replacing them with the bad habits I need.” “Now, Giorgi,” the priest shrugged. “I told you they were ****-flinging little footballers when we made the deal, and it was good enough for you at the—” “Or maybe another deal like Beka, yeah? The scout’s rich, deep voice chased the priest’s objection right back down his throat. “I’m sure you recall charging me everything but my dead mother’s kneecaps for him.” “Ahhhhh, but he was special, and this boy, he’s special, too,” said the priest. “Not quite seven years old, but everything you asked me to look for after I sold you Koba and Bakar. Everything you like so much about Beka! He’s got football in his heart, sure as the sea’s full of fish ****. And I can let you have him at a…a discount.” The scout spent a long moment mulling this. “You’ll pardon me,” he finally said, “if the suggestion that the miniscule black turnip you call a heart is suddenly overflowing with generosity leaves me wanting to arm myself and put my back against a wall.” The priest tried to let a vaguely sincere expression scurry onto his face, where it froze in evidence discomfort. His shrug was theatrically casual. “There are…problems with the boy, yes. But the problems unique to his situation in my care. Were he yours, I’m sure they would…vanish.” “Oh, you have a magic boy! Why didn’t you say so?” The scout scratched his forehead beneath the white silk blindfold that covered his eyes. “Magnificent. I’ll plant him in the ****ing ground and grow a vine to an enchanted land beyond the clouds.” “Ahhh…I’ve tasted that flavor of sarcasm before.” The priest gave an arthritic mock bow. “That’s the sort you spit out as a bargaining posture. Is it really so hard to say that you’re interested?” The scout shrugged. “I suppose Koba, Bakar and Beka could use a new teammate…or at least a new punching bag. Suppose I’m willing to spend about 3 Euros and a bowl of **** for a mystery boy. But you’ll still need to convince me that you deserve the bowl, filled to the brim, as it were. Where are his parents?” “His parents are in the wind. Never seen hide nor hair of them. He just showed up at the pitch one day next to the church, eager to play.” “So, what’s the boy’s problem?” “His problem,” said the priest, “is that if I can’t sell him to you, I’m going to have to slit his throat and throw him in the Terek. And I’m going to have to do it tonight.” The scout scratched his gray-stubbled throat. “No ****?” “None whatsoever.” The priest reached down the front of a robe that was several years past merely shabby and pulled out an envelope, dyed dark blue with accents the rust red of dried blood. “Already went to the big man at the GFF and got permission. I’ll do the boy ear to ear and send him for teeth lessons.” “Gods, it’s a sob story after all.” For an eyeless scout, the fingers he jabbed into the priest’s sternum struck swift and sure. “Find some other lackwit to shackle with the chains of your conscience.” “Conscience can go **** up a chimney, old friend. I’m talking football. I can’t keep the boy. Dinamo have already scouted him, they’re sniffing around, trying to find his parents to sign him up, all official-like. I’m offering you a unique opportunity. A genuine bargain.” “If the boy’s too good for you to keep, why can’t you just pound some wisdom into him and let him ripen to a proper age of sale to those ****s from Tbilisi, like all the rest?” “Out of the question. And, I can’t just slap him around, because I can’t risk stunting the audacity that flows through his veins or discourage his love for the game. If any of the other lads had the slightest inclination to even attempt what he pulls off on the pitch… We’d never lose a match. I won’t let him go to Tbilisi -- of all clubs, not those ****s. Which means I have 2 options. Kill him quick or sell him quicker, so that he can be hidden away in the hinterlands, far from prying eyes. No profit versus a paltry sum, and perhaps delaying the inevitable. So, guess which one I prefer?” The scout leaned forward, massaging his forehead above the blindfold. “****. This sounds like something I might actually be interested in hearing. What if I told you there was a third option?” And so the story of Jaba Roflkopter begins -- as a youth footballing prodigy makes an unceremonious departure for Telavi under the cover of night...a child with the football world at his feet. Only for the scout's third option to send him down a different, albeit adjacent path, further in the Georgian countryside. A child who never knew his parents. All that he has to remember them by is his name -- and a vague memory of his mother's dark, blood-red hair, backlit by the roaring fire that was soon to consume her.

Sums up my thoughts, as well.

I'm ready for this. #FrodoLives

There has to be a twist. How is he at pinball?

Lovely club and city -- best of luck, man! Will be following along!

Thrilled to see this, fellas -- thank you for all the hard, often thankless, work.

****ing Linfield. Snide club. Smell like cabbage. Small hands, like a carnie.

After that title...Super Nova? That's clearly going to end well.

Hey! Apologies for the extremely long delay in responding -- I haven't been logged in her (or on Twitter/etc) for a few months, given work and family obligations. I did use PM Draugrson through the end of 22 -- these should be the final versions, though I'm not sure if the set pieces are up-to-date: the original PM Draugrson, and the more defensively-stable version with BPDs. Fun fact: since this was my favorite tactic on both 21 and 22, I am updating it for the FM23 beta. Needs final testing/tweaking, but it's ~95% done. Once done, I'll post on my new new Nearly Men thread:

[Muffled grunting.]

October 2042 - International Friendlies. Mat would be proud of me. I know it. I didn't schedule friendlies against countries I'd like to travel to. No, that's been done. Instead, I invited the United States and Iran to Yaounde. And I booked them in the same 1,000 square foot AirBnB, with no running water. It did not pay off in terms of results on the pitch. But we funded the Netflix documentary (dropping in 2043 Q2), so I've got that going for me. Got to keep an eye on the bigger picture, mind.

September 2042. On the heels of a triumphant 3-2 win away to Thomas "the Tank Engine" Tuchel's Inter Milan, we claim our 15th straight Erovnuli Liga title with a 7-2 curb-stomping of Saburtalo. The Fabrika class is a let down...although, perhaps I'm judging too quickly. Goga Khantadze is the obvious candidate to make the senior squad -- he'll retrain as a left inverted winger, Adam "Irish" McWilliams has potential, even if his pace isn't good enough to play in our front 3 -- he will train to play in our central midfield, alongside Otar Bregvadze, another intriguing prospect. Beyond that? Crap. Utter crap.

I had something to say. But then in my search for a gif I lost it. 1 guess as to why.

This is the kind of moment that makes me deliriously happy in FM -- our aggression on the counter is a sight to behold. (When the right CB steps to Mchedlishvili, he slots in Anibal who fires home our 2nd.)

Oh, yeah... That's the stuff. Right in my mouth...

That group is tres horny, as the French say.

September 2042 - Cup of Nations Qualifying. It's a triumphant return for the Indomitable Lions. And Nolla, who hits Liberia for 5 upon his return from suspension. But I would give it all back for another crack at Portugal.

July/August 2042. The post-World Cup hangover is real. Only, I haven't touched a drop of alcohol. I can't sleep. Which both scares and excites me. Mat is lurking, always lurking. At times I think I can hear his voice, or catch a glimpse of him in a crowd.

In the locker room after the match...

Russia 2042 - World Cup Review. Years of building towards this moment. A favorable draw. A squad primed and ready. Unbeaten in years. We learn very little in the pre-tournament friendlies against Scotland and Australia, beyond confirming that Duval Nolla is in rare form -- the first player on the substitutes' bench for both Gareji and the Indomitable Lions, his presence is invaluable. With 25 goals in 23 appearances (1.86 goals per 90 minutes) it is clear that he will play a vital role in whatever success we can find over the course of the tournament, even if his performances are somewhat overshadowed by Awoa claiming his 100th cap against the kangaroo-****ers. We open the group campaign with a 3-nil win over UAE, somewhat disappointing but enough to all-but guarantee passage through to the knockout rounds. Following that up? A draw against the Czechs. Certainly cause for concern. We are through...but when the Czechs perform against UAE, we fall to 2nd in the Group. Meaning we draw Bo Henriksen's Belgium in the Second Round. ****. Doubleplus****. Undaunted, we step onto the pitch in the city of St. Vladdinghamville (formerly St. Petersburg) and play the match of our lives. A comprehensive 3-nil win. Triumphant. Our reward is a tie against Leonardo Jardim's Portugal -- another big ask. Another opportunity. With Kameni's tired legs slowing him down, there is an obvious choice as we prepare -- Nolla will replace him. He's earned this moment. A chance in the spotlight. To claim immortality. And claim it he does. In the 19th minute. A straight red card. Which utterly and completely ****s us. We crash out, 1-nil. It's the only goal we've conceded in 4 matches in Russia. In the end, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's Italy claims the title. You read that correctly. **** my life.

June 2042. While the world's attention is focused on the World Cup, life rumbles on in rural Georgia. There is some suggestion that Fabrika is turning a corner after several years of mediocrity...but Lasha is a liar. And not to be trusted. I've been led down this primrose path before.