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“For ****’s sake, Terk.” Peacemaker7 was not happy. “Just leave it to the professionals, right. Me and my three million awards are writing the FMS team story.”
“But I’ve already edited the database and everything.”
“You can barely keep a story going as it is, just leave it to me and my awards. You’ll just get everyone involved and then disappoint when it grinds to a halt after five posts.”
“Just like the last three times you’ve tried this.”
“**** off, Raptor. I’ve got a thirty-five page thread going.”
“That’s the Mod Requests Thread, you twat.” It didn’t matter what they said; however, I had indeed already edited the database and nothing – save my own apathy – could stop me now.
Unfortunately, only twenty-three of the twenty-five strong squad I wanted had turned up. Most attention was being paid to a short lad, cowering in the corner, whom nobody recognised.
“Who the ****’s that” Subtlety was an art form that had passed PM7 by.
“Chilliconcarnie.”
“Who”
“No idea, but he’s got an eight page story going, so he’s already better than me.” The truth hurts sometimes.
Naturally, it was the two Americans who were late. No doubt expecting to arrive late and ‘save the day’, then make a factually incorrect movie about the whole experience.
As I settled the lads down over a quiet pint to explain that, far from the bright lights of the Premiership that PM had taken us to, we’d be plying our trade in the harsh world of the Scottish third division, two horses were spotted moseying along in the distance.
The horses made their way closer, and soon identifiable as their riders were the Americans we had been unfortunate enough to include; Amaroq and Faramir. Amaroq jumped down from his steed and struck a pose.
“Ah love the smell of England in the morning.”
“We’re in Scotland, ya ****ing ****.”
“Well, no matter where Edinboro is, we’ll have this soccer thang figured out before y’all can call us redneck, Bush-lovin’, I-raqi bombin’ basturds.”
And so the scene was set for FMS to once again (actually for the first time, seeing as my last attempt died on its arse) to rule the roost, north of the border.
Yep, me again. Sorry. Thought about doing this a few months back and PM’s story brought it back to mind. So blame him. I’ve picked twenty-five of you lot for the squad, if you didn’t make it then I obviously don’t like you enough. We start (obviously) in the Scottish third division, played on FM05 (because I suck at FM07). Oh, and if I didn’t know your nationality, it got stuck down as English.
I couldn’t quite understand why someone had arranged for a friendly against Sochaux. Not only did it mean travelling all the way to France, but we would also, undoubtedly, get absolutely battered. However, play the game we did, and we even managed to score twice. Unfortunately they were both own goals (from Raptor and attjen) and Sochaux added another four from their own players to ramp up a clear win, but it was less than I had expected.
Peacemaker7 declared himself club captain before our first game at the newly opened Dave Green Memorial Arena, a lovely 25,000 seater stadium situated where Edinburgh Castle had once stood. We had picked much easier opposition this time in Penicuik Athletic, and were expecting a resounding win, but had to settle merely for a goal each from Raptor and WLKRAS to see us home.
Aaberdeenn took PM’s place for the game against Whitehill Welfare, and BobBev took the captain’s armband. It was another game we should have won easily, and Panpardus’ seventeenth minute strike suggested we would, but Donners had a ***** time in goal and two second half strikes from John Scott gave Whitehill the victory.
Our final pre-season game was again at home with Buckie Thistle travelling to meet us. A win was absolutely vital for the squad’s morale, and it duly arrived – in less than spectacular style – thanks to two goals from Chilliconcarne.
Originally posted by Peacemaker7:
<BLOCKQUOTE>Originally posted by Spav:
Spaz
I believe I copyrighted that nickname for Spav. My lawyer will be in touch Simon :p </BLOCKQUOTE>
Yay, PM7 to the rescue!! Have has guts for garters, Stuart.
Don't Bother, It'll be Dead by Next Week 
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