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The big man opened his eyes. Rolling onto his side, he spat out the chewing gum he’d been chewing on vigorously, even as he slept, reached over to his bedside table, picked up another stick of Wrigley’s, and inserted it into his mouth. After a few chews, he attempted to lift his body off the mattress, but, held down by the sheer weight of his own genius, was unable to do so. He reached over to the bedside table again and pressed the buzzer marked ‘Sammy’. Within seconds a small, perfectly rounded ball of human literally rolled into the room, coming to a stop at the side of the bed. From this rotund creature emerged a head, two hands and two feet. “Lift me up will you, Sammy? I’m stuck again.” “Yes, Sam.” “It’s Mr Allardyce to you, you little scouse prick! That or Boss. Or Gaffer. You hear me?” “Yes Boss. Sorry Boss.” “Right, now fucking lift me up, will you?” Sammy used the hoist to lift his lord and master up from the silk sheets of his four-poster bed and carried him through to the bathroom. Carefully, he lowered him onto the reinforced, gold-plated toilet, to perform his morning bowel evacuation, a process which, given the impacted state of his colon, usually took upwards of an hour. As he strained to squeeze out the first monstrous log, a small jet of urine erupted from his penis, still in a state of morning semi-erectness, and landed on his thick inner thigh. As always, Sammy found this intensely erotic but averted his eyes respectfully. When he raised them again, his master was looking at him, his face reddened and focused, until there was a heavy, tell-tale ‘sploosh’ sound from the bowl. “You too, Sammy,” he said, pointing to the miniature version of his own toilet, positioned just a few feet away. “But boss,” Sammy said, “I don’t need to go.” “YOU’LL FUCKING SHIT WHEN I SAY YOU SHIT! NOW SIT DOWN!” “Yes boss.” Downstairs, at an enormous dining table of glass three inches thick, Allardyce finished his breakfast, comprising of the meat of various rare and exotic animals, and gazed out of the window of his castle. He had acquired this castle with severance pay received after his dismissal from his most recent post as Azerbaijani national coach. The breadth of his domain was vast and beautiful. And yet, there was disquiet in the heart of Allardyce. Disquiet not caused by the Herculean consumption of red meat. Once again, he summoned his loyal, rounded man servant. “What is it, boss?” “Sammy, lad. It’s time. Assemble the team.” Descending into the bowels of the castle, Sammy Lee tapped the security code into the control panel, and waited for the screen to flicker to life. When it did, he was greeted, as expected, by the face of Ray Parlour, standing beside a giant floatation tank “Sammy me old son, is it time?” “It is, Ray. It is. Time to drain the fluid.” Parlour nodded solemnly, and performed the duty with which he had been tasked. Sammy watched as he stepped back towards the tank, and entered his own security code. Instantly, the tank was illuminated, to reveal the gargantuan, naked form of Alan Brazil, suspended in a thick, translucent brine, an oxygen tank attached to his nose and mouth. Parlour entered another code, and the thick brine began to slowly drain away. He opened a door at the side of the chamber and entered, removing the oxygen. “Is it time?” Brazil asked, gasping for breath. “It is, Alan. It is.” He turned back to the screen. “Tell the Big Man we’ll be there. You just tell us when.” Meanwhile, in a Doha penthouse, Richard Keys stood in his bath, as Andy Gray sprayed his body with the shower head. “You’ll need to get the scouring brush again, Andy. The feces has become even more matted in my chest hair than usual.” “Jesus Christ, son. I wish you’d find yourself a more wholesome hobby. Wait while I get the brush.” But he was stopped in his tracks by the alarm. The alarm that meant only one thing. “You hear that, ya big hairy, shitty chested bastard?” “I hear it you Scotch twat. Answer it before he disciplines us.” Gray turned off the alarm and activated the communication console, to be met by the site of an empty room on the screen. Gray and Keys looked at each other in confusion. “Hello?” Came a disembodied voice from the screen. “Are you there?” “Sammy, we cannae see ya fer focks sake!” “Oh right, hang on a sec, lads.” Sammy clambered up onto a chair, where he could be seen. “That’s better,” Keys said. “We can see that lovely, chubby little face of yours now. Tell, Samuel. What tidings do you bring from our master.” “He needs us, lads. He wants the whole gang at his castle, first thing tomorrow morning. Can you be there in time?” Keys was already holding up his hand before Lee had finished speaking. “If the big man needs us, then he knows we’ll be there. If we have to move heaven, earth and hell, we’ll be there for him. Tell him I said that.” “Aye, tell him I said that too. Tell him, say ‘Andy said, whatever the big man needs, the big man gets.’ You tell him I said that, alright Sammy?” “Just be there, lads. I don’t know what he’s got brewing, but I think it’s something big. Something special.” “Whatever the Big Man has planned, it’s always something special. You tell him I said that, right? Tell him Richard said-” “Oh dinnae be such a fucking kiss-arse, Richard. The big man has nae fucking time fae kiss-arses, does he Sammy? Tell him I said that, wee man, tell him-“ “Look, just fucking be there, ok?” Back at the castle, Allardyce was out on the lawn doing his morning exercises, his velour trackie stretched tight over his rhino-like frame. Sammy came rolling down the steps excitedly, to be greeted by the site of the boss doing his final hamstring stretches, further constricting his trackie bottoms across his colossal arse, the word ‘BIG’ spread across one bulbous arse cheek, and ‘SAM’ across the other. “Boss!” He yelled out as he reached him. Allardyce turned around and slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t interrupt my morning exercises you little left-wing bastard!” “Sorry, Boss. I thought you’d finished,” he said, rubbing his face. “I had, but that’s not the fucking point, is it?” “And I’m not left-wing, Boss. Honest.” Allardyce narrowed his eyes. “Good. Just testing. Now, is everything in place?” “Yes, Boss. They’ll all be here, as ordered.” “Good,” he said. “Good.” The next morning, preparations were made for the arrivals. A banquet was laid on, steaks made from one each of every animal on the endangered species list, eggs stolen from the nests of rare birds, and, as each chauffeur driven car pulled into the drive way, scantily clad women handed out pints of white wine spritzer, and led the visiting dignitaries into the main hall. Seated at the head of the table was the man they’d all come to see. The man who had never been relegated in his career, who was revered by each of them. The man who inspired unquestioning devotion from all present. “Gentlemen,” he said, standing as they were each guided to their seats. “Welcome. You’re probably all wondering why I’ve called you here today. Well, chaps, I’ll get right to the point. It’s because there is a pestilence upon this land, this once-great nation of ours. And this pestilence presents itself in many forms.” Already, those assembled were nodding their heads in agreement, mumbles of approval spreading through the room. “Just look around you, lads. What do you see? Feminist Remoaner TV presenters. Transgender newsreaders, Foreign coaches treated like royalty.” He began circling the table as he spoke, patting the shoulders of his guests for emphasis, as he began to slowly work the room up into a frenzy. The low mumbles of approval were now building up into something more potent. Alan Brazil had begun to swell with rage, to the point that Parlour had to open the tap in Brazil’s flank and drain off some of his fluid into several pint glasses. “Can I have a bit of that?” Asked Neil Warnock, as the last of the fluid drained. “Of course,” Brazil said, and Parlour handed one of the glasses across to him, and watched as he took a big swig of it. “Mmm, nectar,” Warnock said, handing the rest of the fluid to Tony Pulis. Allardyce continued. “You can’t say a bloody thing without being accused of being racist, homophobic, misogynistic and God-knows-what-else. Poor Andy and Richard here lost their bloody jobs just because some uppity tart of a make-up girl didn’t like being sexually harassed while doing her job. And you know what now? BLOODY FEMALE PRESENTERS ON SKY SPORTS, AND EVEN ON OUR SACRED MATCH OF THE DAY!” “THE HORROR!” Richard Keys said, clutching his heart, doubled over in pain. “Disgusting!” He managed to shout, as his heart threatened to give out on him. “I know, Keysie, lad,” Allardyce said, resting a firm hand on the shoulder of his stricken friend. The touch was enough to alleviate Keys’ suffering in an instant, and he straightened back up in his chair, as much as his body shape allowed. “I feel it too, Keysie. You see that, gents?” he asked, turning back to the rest of the room and gesturing at Keys. “This is the fate that awaits us all. These lefties, liberals, Muslims, gays and women won’t be happy until they’ve killed every one of us off. Buried us and danced on our graves. Our very future is at stake, and with it, the future of this nation. With us gone, who will defend the honour and integrity of Great Britain? Gary Lineker? Pep fucking Guardiola? No, lads. It’s down to us, and us alone. Only we can arrest this slide into madness, and you have all taken a blood oath to do so. Now, the only question is, can I count on you?” “YES! YES!” Came the chorus of replies. He already knew the answer, of course. These were a cracking set of lads, good men and true. Honest, decent, old-school football men. He had chosen them all for a reason, and he had chosen well. “Good, that’s good to know, lads. Now, finish your feast, and then go back to your lairs, and rest, for I am formulating a plan, a plan to bring an end to all this insanity, and I need you all at the very top of your game. There is much work to be done.” To be continued… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=839FCTcUoKw https://twitter.com/NathanOHagan
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