SaC

The Pilot Part 1. A Welcome Return? Not on my life!

Once upon a time there lived a man, a man that went by the pseudonym of SaC. He was a manager, a fellow of standing, a damn good guy who was generally liked by the well meaning but frustratingly inferior population. He did dodgy deals with dwarfs, knocked off elite sportsmen, knocked up elite sportswomen, sat at the table with the devil and god and did all sorts of wonderful everyday normal boring things. Then he went and died, or went away on holiday, he certainly disappeared off the face of this great round thing that we call earth. The reason being, the enormously important reason being...no wait...this bits a bit worn...wait...Hush. HUSH I said back there...yes you Sir Blue...its says...no...no...damn...its worn off...

There is a slight bit of grumbling from the amassed ranks of knights. Sir Blue leads the way at the back with the shout that Sir Rotpar was an idiot but for the most part the grumbling was about how the story would never end, that the words of the prophet Beckham would never come to pass. That generally the life and times of SaC would never, ever grace these pages of history.

Not all the knights thought this way though. A man who would not give his name for contractual reasons as EA have bought the rights, sat a little away, he had a large moustache that bristled and was very impressive though slightly let down by the price tag that hung on a piece of string from it. Sat beside him was a 1980s style pink boom box with a picture of princess on, he pressed the lovable play button and epic, so epic music, classical, from the Bach collection, BOOMED as booming can out of the box startling the knights to cracking there metallic pants and generally proclaiming that it was indeed the end of the world in this year of 1145.

SaC

The Pilot Part 2. The Madness Continues.

In the general confusion of mad knights the one who was not a knight but a buyer of moustaches took his generally shifty self to coffin that Sir Rotpar had been reading the engravings from. With the epic music reaching a satisfying crescendo the mustachio man said these prophetic words ‘OPEN...damn my moustache...come back here, sorry, sorry...’ but in Russian.

And while the Russian went after his escaping moustache and the knights fell about themselves battling the satanic noises of the air, lopping each others legs and arms and heads off, by accident of course, a hand arose through the coffins roof. A hand well manicured but not in anyway feminine, it clutched a cane of suppleness that was a beauty to the eye of the lucky knight that was the only one to notice, before his luck ran out and a sword ran through his eye.

Anyway that hand with the cane was graced soon by the head of the man and then with a bit of a let down the rest of his body, all present and correct. The music then stopped.

‘Excuse me but where am I?’

The man minus a moustache stopped and turned. He says something in Russian. I don’t speak Russian so lets make it up. He said. ‘I am a Russian, and you are a god to me, I would bear your children if I so had the parts.’

The recently risen man, who will become to be known as Sac waved his arms at the mad knights who were bathed in blood and missing many appendages. They had stopped fighting having defeated the demonic noise and now witnessed the rising of a god and so they all knelt.

And that is the start, the beginning of this tale, I witnessed it, I was there, the chronicler, the man from the future who wanted to cash in on the story of the greatest Football Manager 07 of all time, or certainly that year. It would be a fascinating story, a brilliant one, a thing not to miss, a masterpiece, a gods graced work of art...

...and all for 9.99 per word…

The Chronicler.

NEXT ON:

It is revealed that this is in fact a story about FM...its in there somewhere…

gino

heh, did someone say blast from the past?

Peacemaker7

Feck me I thought I'd gone totally mad for a minute there

SaC

Episode 2: There are things to say but I’d rather just sing...

We’d left it at a vital juncture in the story, on a cliff-hanger as they say in the business, you know the one where you jump off a cliff wanting to commit suicide but change your mind and well you hang there…

Anyway it turns out that the Russian moustache is a man from the present who has travelled back to the past where Sac has been trapped for an eternity after swindling the Red Devil out of Man Utd and giving it to some hip trouser wearing American who does double glazing.

Anyways this Russian, we’ll call him Russ, is here now in the present, no it’s the past, well because he was told by a small dwarf bartender that a man named Sac was the darn best manager the world had ever seen. Seven baby shams and four packets of prawn cocktails later found Russ agreeing and off he was time travelling. How? Well that’s one of those plot holes that is, fall down it and you’ll never resurface from trying to explain why what has happened, to who where and when and why he never did this and so on and so forth and the reasons being…

Anyways, if you were wondering, I know I was, the knights really had no purpose to the overall arc of the story but hell they are fun.

Anyways back to the critical juncture. Russ the fellow from the future that is actually my past, who is in fact in his past and my past but not Sac’s past because he is in fact at his present moment in the past, gets into his phone box, not the Dr Who style contraption but the Bill and Ted style one and they whiz off back to the future with no sight of Michael J Fox at all. I hop along being as I mentioned before from further in the future where you reader will be surprised to find that we have developed the watch as a hip mode of time travel as well as telling the time in all countries apart from France.

Oh, oh and Sac takes along a number of knights, you know, because what the hell they are fun.

Anyway the phone box blasts down in the front of a dilapidated ground, complete with rusting metal bars, the half rotten sign, the dead dog, the bum with the beer can, the Chinese tourists, the advertisements for a U2 concert and the lone escaping red and white scarf that flutters in the wind like the plastic bag in America Beauty.

The half rotten, half hanging sign reads, something in Russian but seen as I’m from the future where we have developed the mode of translating through the nifty device known as 1001 nifty Russian words on paper, also known as a book, I will translate accordingly.

The sign said. ‘Clean Me.’

And so disguised as a man with no hair, a large briefcase filled with the latest in hi-tech gadgetry such as the portable camera that is really get this, the size of the briefcase, I follow Sac and Russ into the ground, past the bum and the dead dog which Sac pokes with his cane and into the offices, a wooden shack to be precise but who wants precision, it was a gigantic monolith, five hundred floors high, or...no it was a shack with three wooden walls, a corrugated metal roof for the fourth side and seeing as the roof was a wall, it didn’t have one. Inside I disguise myself as a potted plant and listen to the conversation.

It went a little like this.

Russ: English is not so good.
Sac: I can’t understand you.
Russ: English is not so good.
Sac: I can’t understand you.
Russ: English is not so good.
Sac: I can’t understand you.

It continues like this for sometime before Sac takes his cane and rams it...

The next day at the funeral of Russ, a new man from the board appears and thankfully he can speak English.

So disguised as a bereaved daughter I listen in on the conversation.

Russ2: Congratulations on your appointment at Metallurg Lipetsk We wish you many happy returns.
Sac: What’s the money like.
Russ2: Nonexistent, but its not all doom and gladness, you do now have a stake in the keyring manufacturer that sponsors us.
Sac: You woke me up from an eternity of sleep for this.

The coffin is lowered, I sniff into my handkerchief, an old woman pats my girly shoulder.

Sac: Why me.
The man Russ2 looks around conspirator like and leans in close. ‘Because, well you can handle yourself, you are wanted in England for thirteen murders, in Argentina for the decapitation of Maradona and in America for the indecent exposure to a number of penguins.
Sac: So, can’t hold a mans ideals against him, where would we be if penguins couldn’t sample the delights of…
Russ2: Right, right. Well, well...
Another shifty look. ‘...there’s been a murder...
Sac: I know I did it with my stick.

The Priest presses the pink princess boom box, Russ’s favourite possession in the whole wide world and coincidentally contracted into his will to be played at the event of his demise.

Russ2: No, no, other murders, murders before you got here. By someone else!

Epic music flows forth.

DUM DUM Da...dum...


Next:

Things are afoot. Maybe a footballing.
The manager meets his players.

Raptor

Feck me I thought I'd gone totally mad for a minute there </BLOCKQUOTE>

So did I!

Can't believe his original account survived, either! :eek:

Welcome back oh silent one

Spav

Mmm, something momentous has happened, methinks. I'll sit quietly here in the background and see what transpires whilst Raptor and PM7 gaze at this returned "god".

SaC

End of Part One

We’ll be right back after these messages...

A shaggy haired man appears, he wears a burgundy red jersey and stands in a bleak litter strewn alleyway.
“This is Teddy, he is old, his bones are not what they used to be, his parents no longer wanted him so they replaced him and threw him out onto the street.”
A blonde haired man with various tattoos crouches in a kennel, he looks lost and lonely.
“David was the one loved by everyone in his family, but that all changed when he stopped being able to run, cross a ball more than once and started urinating on all the couches. Now poor David is all alone, molested by his new family.
Please, please help by giving just twenty thousand pounds a month.

The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Footballers (RSPCF)

***

A Party Political Broadcast from your local FM Council Member

A man, majestic in supposed appearance, stands, only the shadow of his appearance seen. He stands before a plinth, microphones attached.

“I thank you my fellow FMmites for a hearty welcome back to this here forum. I have been many a year away, for very private reasons that I will probably go into in extreme depth sometime in the future.”
“I thank you the general reading public, who without having a gun held to your head have wasted your precious time, the little you have left on reading and even on commenting on this bunch of words. It warms my aching heart and makes the toil of five hundred Indian children chained away at the keyboard day and night truly thankful.”
“And now in more detail I see from some of the remarks that Peacemaker8or6somethinglikethatmaybe10or5 said that he thought he was going mad for a minute there well I would like to say that I feel satisfied that I’ve created madness somewhere in the world.”
“Also to create madness in Raptor is a momentous feat that should be written in the chronicles of the world and one of the reasons why the meltdown occurred. The inability to believe that my account has not survived, even though the proof is staring right at him from his screen has me concerned for the future of society.”
“Finally Spav’s comments are totally outrageous but curiously correct. Though I totally condone them I also agree with them, but the God thing is taking it all a bit to far, but actually now I think about it...
“Thank you.”

The Shadowy man lifts his hands for the applause...he waits...and waits...and waits some more…finally he puts his hands down and the broadcast ends.

gil

Interesting, to say the least :thup:

Brian of Nazareth

YAS! hes back :cool: