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Apologies to Leicester fans (especially me) that their club will be cast as the bad guys in this story. The real Leicester board are a noble group of people.

Across the grass lay streams of litter, coloured tape, two football nets and mud, the remnants of a long-departed party. The men moved, swiftly and silently in the moonlight, clearing the mounds of trash to more appropriate locations. I, their boss (well technically, its handled by a different department, but I still view them as my employees), sat, high above them staring boredly through a window. The cleaners continued their duties as I watched from Brown Tower, the hideous skyscraper built in my honour.

I moved back to my desk and continued reading my book, even though it was so dull I had started gnawing my lip. I had been here for three hours with nothing to do, desperately waiting for my phone to ring. He’d called me here, the chairman of Leicester, saying that, ‘I have to tell me something of such immense proportions that, well, I can’t think of anything, but you get the idea.’

‘Can’t you tell me now?’ I had pleaded.

‘No, not till its confirmed. Now get back to Leicester and go to your office, like I’m paying you to.’

That was twenty-four hours ago, in France. Just hours before, my team and I had been climbing the steps up to the European Cup. I’d been given my medal and then James Lloyd, our brilliant, young captain lifted the European Cup. Meanwhile, the Juventus team scowled at us, a firey hatred in their eyes. They had led for 87 minutes, and then to be robbed in injury time – it was sickening, at least to them. But I was on the winning side; I didn’t care what they thought. They’d had all extra time to get the lead; they hadn’t, while we had. It was just hours later I was woken, half-drunk, by the incessant ringing of my mobile phone.

Having replayed that for the twelth time in my mind, I thought about once again checking the phone was plugged in (it was 10 minutes ago, but you never know). Suddenly, there was the creak of my door opening. I sat up in my chair, banging my knee on the desk as I did. ‘That you, sir?’

‘You’ve never called me sir before, Brown,’ said a voice that sounded vaugley familier, but I didn’t have a clue where.

‘That’s Sir. Mathew Brown to you, whoever you are.’

‘Ah, you don’t remember me, Matty boy.’

He came into the dim light of my lamp and I instantly recognised him (Note: truth has been altered to make author look good). ‘You’re that thug of a player who tried to punch me when I joined Leicester. I already sacked you; remember? You upset we won Europe without you?’

‘Won Europe? Do you think before you speak.’

‘No, and anyway – I’m tired. So, what is it that you want? Your job back? A new soul?’

‘Ah, the famed Brown arrogance-wit, demonstrating once more its gift for being humourless. Anyways, I came to discuss this.’

‘Ow,’ I said as he punched me. I let myself fall backwards with my chair, then rolled away and stood up. He leapt over my desk and advanced on me. Standing by the open window, I kicked him swiftly and tried to dodge his counter of a punch. I failed and fell backwards, through the open window and landed on the balcony. He advanced on me, and with one swift kick, knocked me over the side through the railings. My survival instincts took over and I reached my hand out, trying to grab something. I grabbed his foot. My instinct’s stupidity was shown as he span over the railings and crashed into me as we fell towards the ground together...

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‘The deal through?’

‘Yeah, we own Leicester now. I told the old owner to phone Brown and tell him he’s fired. We can’t have anyone we don’t know, and trust, around. We get announced as the new owners tomorrow. We’ll look like saviours after he madly sacks the man who brought them success.’

‘How much more did you have to pay him?’

‘£10million to look stupid and-’

Suddenly the door burst open. ‘I can’t do it,’ said the new entrant, ‘Mathew’s done too much to fire. I don’t even need the damn money. Fire him yourself.’

‘He said you had a big nose.’

‘That’s just childish,’ the man replied, and slammed the door as he left.

‘It was worth a try,’ the man said, as the others stared at him.

Right, Brown’s staying,’ said the one in charge ‘If we sack him, it’ll cost us. Fans don’t like managers being sacked the day after they win everything. Activate Plan B.’

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There is grass in my mouth, I thought and spat it out. Opening my eyes, I found grass poking me in them. I pushed myself to my feet and realised that I was standing in a football stadium and not that of the mighty Leicester. That was a little weird, since I was working under the theory I was dead. Either heaven was deeply disappointing, I’d completely misunderstood reincarnation or I was wrong. The first seemed most likely.

‘Oi, standing guy,’ called a voice.

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘You here over the manager’s job?’

‘Yes,’ I answered. It seemed like I might be accused of trespassing otherwise. If this was heaven, it wouldn't look good on my first day.

‘Well, take this CV, fill in your name and take it to the chairman.’ He handed me some papers. ‘He’ll give you the job on the spot.’

‘What?’ I asked bluntly, confused. Maybe this was the afterlife and designed to bewilder.

‘I said I’d take the job, but I got a better offer.’

‘This still makes very little sense. Won’t he know I’m not you?

‘Nope, he’s never seen or heard me. He doesn’t even know my name.’

‘How the-‘

‘Internet. I got to go.’ And he ran off, away from me, leaving me standing still, bewildered. I moved eventually, hoping to find the exit. Instead, I just walked into an empty room, where someone had left the TV blaring away.

‘-was appointed as the new manager of Leicester City today. He is the first manager under the new chairman, 19-year-old James Lloyd.’

I stared flabbergasted at the television. My captain was sitting there; had he really become chairman? Then my mind registered the rest of the sentence and I looked at the new manager. The screen changed to another shot a moment later, giving me only a brisk look at him. But that was all I needed: the man in question I had seen barely a week before, at my monthly ranting with the board. He had been there: someone I had never seen before at the ranting. Generally, I was introduced to any new board members. Weird though I had found it, I was unsure of the proper etiquette for saying ‘who on earth is that!?’

The TV was continuing as I thought, ‘last season was disappointing for the foxes and saw them finish below expectations. It remains to be seen whether Lloyd has made the right choice in hiring an unknown.’ The TV suddenly turned off, as I was left thinking we won the quadruple! What did the board expect?

‘Oi, standing guy’ was said to me again, this time by a man with a remote control.

‘Er- I’m here for the manager’s job.’ Well, when you’ve got a lie, stick with it. I'd lived my whole life on that principle.

‘Let’s see your CV.’ I complied, then wondered why.

‘You’ve got the job. You are the new Worcester City manager. I’m the chairman, Jimmy Seiyaryu. Let me show you around the club,’ He spoke quickly, leaving me no time to interrupt and we went off into the sunrise, as I noticed it was starting to rain.

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‘Did it work?’

‘Yes, Mr. Lloyd. We gave Brown the job of manager. He knows what we’ve done, or at least, most of it – he’ll stay there one he figures it out. He’s going to want revenge on us.’

‘Don’t worry; he’s not good enough to do anything other than hope he draws us in the FA Cup. He’ll be sacked by the end of the year and he’ll slink off into nothing. This’ll teach him to mess with my family.’

HD

How about: She jumped of her own free will, nobody Worcester. ??

Apols.

gil

Interesting start :thup:

Saxonator

:kris102:

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The problem now is that I was going to take any good puns and replace my title with them. I now realise I don't know if I can actually do that. Plus, anyone who actually read through this would see that I didn't come up with it. I probably should've put more thought into it. Anyway, thanks for the praise.


Keeping up the pretence, at least until I could run away, I was walking through the stadium with this man (was he even the chairman?) wondering what I’d do when they figured I’m not who I claim to be (and even I wasn’t sure who that was). I was half listening to him as we passed what seemed to be a barn. ‘This goat is our groundskeeper; his name is Goatee. And here are the players and staff – I’ll leave you to wonder around aimlessly and try and work out whose who.’ The chairman turned from me to the crowd gathered in the locker room we had just entered. ‘Right, you lot. This is our new manager, Mark Black.’

I decided not to antagonise my new boss – he had got my initials correct. Instead I waited for him to leave, then addressed the assembled mass, ‘good afternoon. I am Mathew Brown–’

‘I thought your name was Mark Black,’ shouted a voice from the crowd. An anger swept through me; if I found out who they were, they were going to be sacked as my first order of business.

‘I saw no need to correct him.’

‘Kissass, why are you bothering? He’s quitting at the end of the day, selling the club after having it for a month,'

What the-? Then why’d he bother to hire a new manager. I thought but wasn’t (quite) stupid enough to say aloud. Instead I said, ‘Er, I was just – being polite. Yes, that’s viable. Anyway, there may be no Rooneys, Gerrards or Lampards at this club but-‘

‘Who?’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake.’

‘Who’s Pete?’

It got better after that and I set about analysing the players’ abilities once my rousing speech ended (and it never quite seemed to).

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When taking notes on players, I like to use the assistant manager as a scribe. There wasn’t one at this club, so I was forced to do it myself. Apologies in advance over the inevitable poor spelling and grammar.

The squad contains just two goalkeepers: Simon Gould who's young and inexperienced but good for this level and Mike Cross, who will act as Gould's backup. It's also apparent that there is a need to purchase another goalkeeper since only having two will always cause both of them to get injured in the first game of the season.

On the right side of defence there’s Gareth King, Chris Holt and Mark Marshall. King will most likley be sold within a week. Holt and Marshall are very good right backs (at this level) and are sure to be fighting out for the role. Holt will probably have the edge since Marshall is young and inexperianced. Cakir Tayfun will play on the left side of defence, with Neil Davis filling in whenever he can't be bothered. The other two defenders, Steve Lee and Steve McDonald, will be the first choice centre-back partnership. With only Marshall able to provide cover for them, this is a role witch I'll need to buy some alternatives for. (Speaking of which, will I actually get any transfer money?)

A total of four players claim to play in right midfield at this club. Firstly, Gary Grant, a mediocre player who'll probably be sold within a week. Secondly, Ben Clark, who despite having next to no passing and heading ability is otherwise a very good player (as I am, if you ignore dribbling, tackling, heading and basically anything difficult). Steve Rigby looks likely to become a promising player, though at present only his physical attributes are above awful. Finally, there's Darren Morgan, who's fast and can play as a striker but otherwise is just above avarage. He’s got a chance of getting a good amount of games.

On the left there are three players: the old and overpaid (David Harding), the young and promising (Neil Foster) and the even younger and brilliant (Daniel Edgar). Harding was to be sold off before we had to pay his wages. Foster would be tossed in the reserves before being loaned out. Meanwhile, the grat Edgar would be given a lot of first team matches before signing on a non-youth contract as soon as possible (in about twelve months). The central midfield roles had only a few applicants: Darren Baker, who's not yet good enough; Stylianos Bouzis, who is already good enough to play at the age of 17 and Tom Lee, this club's best player bar Edgar. Getting a couple more players in this position looked like being the plan.

Up-front there were three contracted strikers. The best of these Michael Atkinson, who I sensed would make a great captain. His likely backup was the mediocre Steve Sullivan, who'll be sold if I can find some half-decent strikers. There's also David Gallagher, who may prove to be a good player in the future, but for the moment he'll be put on the loan list.

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As part of my Worcester contract, I was given a house close to the stadium. To be slightly more exact, it was that barn located within the stadium, which I was expected to share with Goatee. It wasn’t that bad, though: there was a television, fridge, oven, table (no chairs but I could steal some), bed and some hay.

Unsure of what to do, I picked up a newspaper that lay on the table and turned to the sports pages, in hope the entire England side had quit en mass and were on their way to Worcester (speaking of which, I wasn’t sure where it was). Instead I read:

WELCH MAY LEAVE LIVERPOOL
Barry Welch, the world’s highest-valued player, today stated that he would be willing to leave the Reds if they fail to win any trophies this season.

I stopped reading there. Who on Earth was Barry Welch? What kind of newspaper wrote like that? And then I saw something horrific:

July 20, 2005

It had to be wrong. This was 2012, or at least it had been when I’d died (or whatever). Even if I’d imagined the whole Leicester thing, that would still make it July 2004, when I’d taken over. Just what was going on? I decided to visit Leicester as soon as possible, but until then I supposed I should show some loyalty to Worcester, even though I didn’t have a clue why. All I had done was to wake up (or whatever had happened) on their pitch then get offered a job by two weirdos. I'm just too nice.