Nifty1Pound50

This is my only completed piece of story-writing, ever. It weighs in at about 1,800 words. Enjoy (with any luck). All feedback appreciated.

Chapter 1.

"What're you writing?" enquired my beloved, peering over my shoulder as I sat musing at the computer screen. "Another story?"

"Near enough," I replied. "I'm going for a new job, so the C.V.'s getting a rework."

My beloved treated me to one of her 'I'm-humouring-you-because-you've-plainly-lost-your-mind' smiles, if you know what I mean. And I'm sure you do.

"You've already got a job, love," she reminded me gently.

"I know." I responded, quick as a flash. "That's why I said NEW job. See how that works?"

I was treated to another of her meaningful mocking smiles. This time the theme was more of a 'Don't-get-snappy-with-me-because-I-think-you're-hopeless-at-anything-that-requires-skill.'

"Sorry, dear." There is no need for words to become intimidated by Jane.

"That's alright. So what job are you applying for?"

"Morecambe Football Club are looking for a new manager. I thought I'd give it a whirl. I like the seaside."

"I didn't even know Morecambe had a football team. Are they any good?"

"No, they're a load of rubbish," I said, cheerfully. "But to be honest, sweetheart, no decent side is going to look at me, are they?"

I received another somewhat doubtful look for my trouble. "If it's honest we're being, then no rubbish side is going to look at you either. What do you know about managing a football team?"

"The square root of sod all. But that's not really important."

Again with the doubtful looks. "It seems pretty important to me."

"Nah. What's important is what they think I know about managing a football team."

"Oh, I see. Very clever. So you're going to try and bluff it out, are you?"

"That's about the size of it. Hence the new C.V. That'll get my foot in the door, then I just blather a bit about focus and intensity and balls played into the channels and Bob's your uncle."

"You honestly think that'll work?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't. Dave Bassett's been doing it for years."

The light of my life peered once more at the text scattered about the monitor. "So, what do you plan to do if they ask you about the five years you spent coaching in Equatorial Guinea?"

I waved away such foolishness with a dismissive flick of my fingers. "Bah. If I'm cornered, I'll make some stuff up. No-one'll be any the wiser."

The look was, if anything, still more doubtful this time, but she read further. "So, how long have you been back from managing in Siberia?"

"I see you've spotted another delicate strand in my subtle web of misinformation."

"A lie, you mean."

"Everyone lies on their C.V., petal. Don't worry. They'll never know the difference."

"And how long, God forbid, have you been French?"

I settled back in my seat with a gleeful smile. "That's the deal-clincher. If you're French in the English game at the moment, everyone assumes that you're a tactical genius. I'll eat a lot of garlic, wear a black turtleneck and do my 'Allo 'Allo accent. No-one'll be any the wiser. Morceau de gateaux, as they say in Marseille."

"No, they don't." Singularly unconvinced was the expression. "You're out of your tiny mind. How long d'you think you'll get away with that?"

"Long enough to win a couple of games is the plan. Then it won't matter if I said I was from France, Western Samoa or Mars, they'll have to hang on to me."

"Madness."

"Maybe," quoted I, sending the document winging on its way through the marvel of e-mail. "Yet there is method in't!"

"And you know the rules. No finishing chapters with quotes from Shakespeare."

"Sorry, my love."

Chapter 2.

"So, what would you say was your greatest weakness?"

Somehow I'd known the question was coming. I mean, it always does in job interviews, doesn't it? You spend half an hour sitting in front of some self-important spotty middle-management twat who's clearly having the time of his life, quivering with barely-suppressed glee at the power he's wielding over the your life, then just as you feel you're going to get out of the office without punching the bloke or throwing up all over his 60% polyester suit, he pulls out the big one. I mean, why? He knows you're not going to answer it honestly, you know you're not going to answer it honestly - it's a charade, a complete waste of everyone's time and effort. There are, in fact, only three acceptable ways of responding;

a) The "I Work Too Hard" Gambit.
b) The "I'm A Bit Of A Perfectionist" Defence.
c) The slightly more aggressive "I Have A Tendancy To Throttle Crater-Faced Numbskulls Who Ask Ridiculous Questions In Job Interviews" Attack.

At least, there are only three ways of answering unless you're wearing a beret and squinting through a pair of thick black-framed glasses that are almost certainly damaging your sight for years to come while portraying the role of French Football Philosopher-Poet to the chairman of a small, semi-professional non-league team in Lancashire. And that's something to bear in mind, should you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

"For me," I said, leaning back and puffing on my pipe. "Weakness... is like a banana."

Chairman mightily impressed. "'Ow's that, then, lad?"

God. Good question. A bit more of the pipe-puffing to buy me some time to think, and I adjusted the onions around my neck in the slightly testy manner of a man slowing down his train of thought to let his audience jump aboard. Those were some expressive onions, I'm telling you.

"First Daniel Roi peels off the... 'ow you say, skin? That is tough and slippery and of use to no man, n'est-ce pas? Then Roi consumes the sweet flesh underneath, takes it into him, so that no-one knows where Daniel Roi ends and the banana begins. Ah, oui. Vive le difference."

An important part of the management guru routine, of course, is referring to yourself in the third person. As is the ability to spout complete and total rubbish at the drop of a hat. Mr. McGuigan, the white-haired and craggy-faced chap on the other side of the desk, still looked somewhat in awe of my French eccentricities. He locked on to me and stared into me.

"Well, Mister Roi, I don't think there's anything more t'discuss, like. Don't get us relegated an' I'll be happy as a pig in mud. Eee, by heck." Up stood Mr. McGuigan, a hand was offered and accepted gladly. "Welcome t'Christie Road."

"That's just brilliant. Top Stuff," I beamed, before suddenly remembering that I was supposed to be displaying a cool, calm exterior. I sniffed, and peered cautiously over my spectacles. "By which Daniel Roi means to say that regret is the evil child of failure, and that not winning is a rut in the road that is the season. Roi does not allow evil children in his dressing room. Nor ruts. Ah, bon."

"Aye, well, that's as maybe," said chairman a little doubtfully, and I realised that there is such a thing as pushing one's luck. "But I s'pose you'll be wanting t'meet the rest of the lads now?"

"Oui. Roi would like that very much."

"That's grand. Walk this way, then, our kid..."

And, with great courage and moral fortitude, I bit back the quip that rose to my lips, and followed the chairman to the players...

Chapter 3.

Football is a funny old game. I mused a little on this as I stood in the company of the chairman, gazing around a deserted Christie Park. Bounded on three sides by small but well-maintained stands, and on the fourth by a strip of raised concrete known to all and sundry as the Car Wash Terrace, the place had a spare, brutal kind of beauty, standing in silhouette before the sky. A sea breeze carved the early morning mist to the shape of angels, and roared through the stanchions and corrugated iron to summon the ghosts of thousands of men and women who had taken their places here in the last three quarters of a century, pouring their hearts and souls into the support of their champions on the field of play. If Morecambe Football Club had a ticking heart, then I was standing in the middle of it.

"Aye," said the chairman. "Bit of a dump, in't it?"

"Daniel Roi needs only grass. Roi... is like a cow."

"Oh, that's a good one, that is. Very deep, like. Oh, here come the lads..."

And, indeed, onto the pitch were pouring a motley gaggle of men dressed in an assortment of dodgy tracksuits and manky boots. We had tall players, short players, bald players and players with ridiculous mullets. There were old players and players barely old enough to shave, fat players and players who looked like Eastern Europeans. All in all, as a squad they resembled the sleek thoroughbreds of the Premiership to roughly the same extent that Westlife's Greatest Hits resembles a wise investment of fifteen pounds.

Glances of the slightly incredulous kind were being aimed in the direction of the chairman and myself, and a wave of muttered conversation rippled through the group before one of the coaches, a kind-faced, sad-eyed old gentleman, invited them politely to get themselves in gear, this being, as he rightly pointed out, a football club rather than a knitting circle. The lads dutifully set off around the perimeter of the pitch at a slow trot.

"So," I asked Chairman as casually as possible. "'Ow much does Roi have to spend on the team?"

"We've about a hundred grand in the kitty, if you need it, like."

"Daniel Roi will not spend any more than absolument necessaire..." I lied plainly. "For, as one once said, victory does not belong to the biggest battallions, but rather to the best shots, non?"

"Your man had his head screwed on, right enough," replied the chairman a little uneasily, raising suspicions that he had actually seen the team trying to shoot. "Like I say, lad, just keep us clear of the drop."

I had now overseen three training sessions and had a chance to really get to know the backroom staff that I was inheriting, and the weekend's experience had led me to one overwhelming conclusion. When a chairman has low expectations for a season, then he's probably got a reason for it. No, I'll expand further. He has, in fact, probably got several reasons for it. In this case, the reasons looked as if they might be a) all the staff, and b) all the players.

At the time I'd been so pleased with getting the job, and so busy adjusting my onions that I hadn't noticed. But now it was the Monday after the weekend before and the chairman's choices of words were haunting me like a recurring nightmare.

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Aevin

Very well. Here is the potentially signature-changing response you've been looking for. I read your story, and found it thoroughly amusing. It was funny all the way through due to the ridiculous subject matter and your tone and phrasing. The main character clearly appears to be a moron, but you've adopted the idea that everyone else in the story is a moron as well, (other than, perhaps, the character's wife).

Your use of dialog is excellent. You have a very good handle on all the dialog, and use it well for comic effect. Dialog is the "meat and potatoes" of this story, to use an old cliche.

Hilarious. The "blabbiness" in the last paragraph of this quote is clearly intentional, and worked well, and the list inserted in the middle could have been cumbersome, but you fit it in nicely.

Let's see . . . a minor flaw is with your use of dialects. While it seems to work well with the main character, who is ridiculously attempting to exaggerate an accent he doesn't have, some of the minor adjustments you made to the interviewer's dialog seemed a little odd. Is he Irish? Somehow, it seems a little forced and inconsistent, and at times distracting.

Also, there are a few points where I simply don't understand what's being said. For example,
Somehow, I can't quite understand how this means what context implies, that is, "You are correct, but you haven't seen how terrible this team is." And, this could just be me, but what's a "CV?"

Overall, I liked this. It's pretty funny, like a kid's story for adults, if that makes any sense. The comic tone is almost flawless, but at times your use of dialects and implied meaning in dialog make it difficult to understand. Keep revising, and I'm sure you'll make it more smooth and more hilarious.

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Nifty1Pound50

Interesting observation - I've never considered him from that angle before. Perhaps my meaning of moron is skewed from yours, but I believe the character I was "shrewd, on the point of extreme stupidity." If that makes sense.

Originally, I thought giving the interviewer/chairman some sort of regional accent (attempted the Scottish one, without making it too obviously Scottish) would add to the hilarity of the story, but, reading your comments and then re-reading my prose, I think perhaps the comical aspect of the main character's exaggeration is detracted from by having strong accents left, right and centre. Maybe the confusion of the accent would be eliminated if it was a complete extreme. There may be a moral in all of this - don't use accents unless you clearly identify them?

You've said you don't understand this, but then you went on to reiterate the sentiment exactly. Maybe the final piece of dialogue was unneeded, as the idea is implied in the sentence prior to it.

CV is an abbreviation for Curriculum Vitae, which is what prospective employers normally ask to see. It details all of your previous employment, and a bit about yourself. It's what they use to filter out candidates for a job, in most scenarios.

I'm glad you found it funny, as that was the idea. I was going for something that maintained hilarity throughout, as all-too-often I've read books/short stories which draw you in with the odd funny moment but then fritter out and become dull. Thank you for the comments, signature is changed. I think I'll work on it a bit more in the next week or so, I have to write an English Literature A-Level essay now. Oh, joy is me.

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Plitec

Any story that can make me laugh consistently shows very good potential. The main characters easy going nature and his buffoonery with his accent set the story off perfectly.
Also the way the chairman took the persos extravegances in, showing a very stereotypical 'englishness' towards foreigners and their way of doing things.

...anyway enough of my ramblings, to cut a long reply short. Nice work, keep it up

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