Holding roll
My tough-tackling midfield enforcer Aaron Horgrooves had mysteriously been pushed down a hill, hence the clever title of this book, suffering a fatal metertarsal fracture. This was all I needed, I rued, what with my reserve keeper having been hit by sniper fire during a recent match ('he always has been vulnerable to shots from range', I'd quipped to Peter Penrice), not to mention the ongoing roadworks on the M62. Suddenly, there was a loud, repetitive thumping noise. There was no mistaking that sound, one I knew all too well. Someone was knocking on the door. I opened it. 'Who are you?' I asked, knowing all too well who this idiot was. 'Gary Pallister from the Mulcaster Morning Sport,' the idiot replied. 'Steve Barnes, Mulcaster United and England?' he asked, like an idiot. 'I was never capped,' I retorted, 'despite having won the Champions League - and scoring a hat-trick in the final. 'I hear your teutonically-trained holding player has been murdered,' he said. 'The German retriever?' I replied. I used this gag on a near-daily basis, always getting big laughs, but Pallister wasn’t to know that. But how could he know? The only person I'd told about the attack was my PA, who I trusted to a tea (no milk, five sugars). 'You're really grinding my gears,' I said casually, 'unlike my Jag, where the handling is beyond reproach - I wish I could say the same about my now very ex-reserve keeper.' 'I've seen your clutch control,' laughed Pallister. I bet he'd been a student and never done a hard day's work in his life. Unlike me, who one season played in excess of 40 football matches. He'd fallen right into my trap. 'The Jag's performance has only dipped below its normally flawless performance level since this morning's car chase; so that's you who has been pursuing me in the far inferior Mercedes,' I shouted. Pallister pulled a sawn-off M16 assault rifle from his sock (Umbro). There was only one thing for it. Recreating my famous header against Showfowled Tuesday, I ran, jumped and nutted him squarely in the face. It may not have been a title-winner but it was twice as satisfying. Then, using my old penalty-taking technique, I prioritised precision over power and side-footed him straight in the Adidas Tangos. That 114 pages where I went on a wild goose chase, accidentally joining the foreign legion, had been a complete waste of time after all, I reflected... The endRead full review »
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