OMDave

Foreword


A week ago, if anyone had suggested I write a story based on the life of a CM manager, as viewed from within the game, I would have taken this to be a ‘smart alec’-type of remark, the kind of oh-so-subtle ****-take of another person’s habits or opinions that Fergie would be proud of –in short, it would have seemed a student w***er’s way of saying there were more constructive ways to spend one’s time than to sit for hours in front of a machine, apparently stupefied yet prone to sudden and shocking outbursts of psychotic fury, hurling torrents of abuse at an inanimate object that eighty percent of the planet’s population cannot afford…All right, forget the initial premise, that would have been the student w***er’s way of saying it…

But then, a little under a week ago, I joined the Community. The main reason it took me so long is probably the fact that outside of e-mail use, I’ve tended to nurse an unfair prejudice towards the Internet, in that I lived under the delusion that it was a territory best left to geeks and other techno-boffins, a superficial and deliberately esoteric arena, which had little or no chance of resisting the tsunami of mercantilism, conformity and overall mediocrity which eventually ground all other media to the ocean floor –at least, it can be hoped that it is really the floor, and not the edge of another, deeper marine precipice…A word of warning is in order here: there will be many digressions along the way…Anyway, since I’ve become a regular member I’ve found myself spending more and more of my ‘Community time’ reading CMS threads –I mean, who really gives a s*** who the best striker is?- or Clan Game threads. The quality of writing of the average post is very good, and some of the narrative sequences are brilliant –and I’m not just trying to make some new friends here, which I’m told all ‘noobs’ (took me a while to figure that one out…) are supposed to do. My current favourite –of those I’ve read, which is less than I would have liked, but real life has a way of butting in at the most inappropriate moments- is “The Sleeping & The Dead Are But In Pictures”, a great title, hilarious player descriptions and a fine flowing style throughout. Eldritch7, I’m sure I’m not the only one awaiting the next instalment of the Daggers’ odyssey so please don’t let it lie for too long …

And so, at a time when I was finding it all but impossible to muster up any enthusiasm for a ‘solo’ game, I am now readying myself to begin a new one. Not to conquer the world, nor even to grind Paris SG into the dirt at any given opportunity –not this time…But instead for the sole purpose of providing an ‘objective’ context to a story, that of a young(ish) manager called David Le Spliff, a Marseille fan at heart though obviously he is not even close to good enough to manage them. Though I was tempted to take Libourne (in real life my mother, who is Irish, lives just outside this small, provincial town of the South-West), I ended up deciding for Cannes because it was just too good an opportunity to pass over, in terms of the narrative possibilities provided by the location. Anyone who’s ever been there will agree, I think, that the place is beyond ‘weird’, and in a way which anyone retaining an ounce of the quality known as ‘soul’ will find vaguely obscene and disquieting. Except perhaps for the loonies who live there, or the inane muppets who dream of doing so…Ideally it would have been nice to be able to start below ‘National’, the French equivalent of the Second Division, but saying that the game is limited in this respect would be like saying there isn’t that much energy produced in a nuclear fission reaction –if your basic unit of measurement is the amount generated by a solar flare, then no, there isn’t really that much at all…At this point in the text, there will be a CM fan who passed his/her A-level Physics –surely there must be a few- who will suddenly feel it is his/her (well, it is admittedly less likely that a woman should react in this way) mission in life to put up a message in this thread, pointing out the factual inaccuracy of the previous example and exposing me to the Community for being the fraud I never claimed not to be. Desist now! Fight back the prideful urge, and if all else fails simply create your own story, thereby giving yourself plenty of opportunities to show other people how ‘sorted’ and fascinating and hard (errr…sorry, wrong forum..) you really are. Should you find yourself unable to overcome your excessive regard for ‘truth’ (That Rather Unlikely Theoretical Humbug –hands up those who would have spotted it without the capitals…), be prepared for a retaliatory wave of the swiftest and most violent nature. I’m not kidding; I’ve worked for the UN and I know how these things work. First I’ll set Paddy Ashdown loose upon you, and while he distracts you with his special SAS-trained ‘lateral hypnotism’ techniques, I’ll get Kofi Annan to denounce you to the world in the strongest possible terms. In the unlikely event that you still cannot be deterred from your fiendish and malevolent course, I shall apply the ultimate death blow and send in USAid to coordinate the rebuilding of your infrastructure in accordance with sound principles of liberal economic practice –i.e. to subcontract the job to the highest bidders, and/or to the parties from whom the greatest financial or political ‘reciprocities’ might then be elicited without fear of denunciation…If that still doesn’t scare you, please leave me alone –I don’t have much but I’ll pay anything you want, just don’t hurt me!!!

There is even the chance the story might serve as a palliative for my insomnia, though I think it rather more likely it will become an excuse to indulge it instead. Despite what was threatened above, all feedback is of course very welcome and it’ll be nice to have an excuse to exchange banter with people, as the only other members of the Community I ‘know’ are the lively bunch of pirates with whom I’ve been playing online for a few months now. Hi there lads –no doubt you’ll be the brunt of my audience, but the way I see it there’s more reward in getting one person to grin than there is in getting millions to chew…

Hope you enjoy the trip –I know I will!


PS: Don’t listen to anything my brother Alex says about me…It’s all lies! I swear it! I’ve been off the neuroleptics for years now…

OMDave

PROLOGUE


Diary entry (Source: David Le Spliff's personal diary) - Dated 11th June 2003.

A weird thing happened today. I’d just walked in the door -looking forward to a nice cup of tea, a big fat joint and a good long read- when the phone rang. The shock this caused was much greater than the average person might expect, for I only had the dastardly thing in order to be able to pretend to the occasional visitor (people like the plumber, or that c*** of a landlord) that I, too, am a purposeful and well-adjusted citizen of the Republic, with the skills to contribute to the overall health of the nation, when in fact I am incapable of making the slightest difference in this ‘democratic’ society’s frantic efforts to treat the spreading and multiplying tumours which it has itself caused, even as it broadcasts the delusional and self-justifying cultural myths of its own legitimacy, and of its assured eventual triumph over the forces of evil –whatever the ‘accepted’ description of this evil happens to be, and regardless of any factual evidence pointing to the contrary…

So that was why I jumped when the phone rang, dropped the groceries and tripped on a crack in the floorboards on my first forward step, narrowly avoiding the removal of my left eye by a rusty nail sticking out from the cheap wood of the wall panel. I picked up the satanic contraption, placed it to my ear and turned to witness the spillage seeping out of one of the plastic bags, which I immediately identified as the contents of the bottled Guinness, which I’d had to spend weeks pestering a dozen different shopkeepers to obtain by special order…

It was therefore not in a receptive frame of mind that I spoke into the mouthpiece. In fact, I didn’t speak at all –I hissed. This was greeted by a startled exclamation at the other end of the line, and I recognized Uncle Albert’s characteristic and somewhat dated use of expletives. In the family he is known as ‘Bébert’, except this is misleading in the sense that no-one in the family ever mentions him, or very rarely, and never at all when talking to people outside the circle of relatives. The reasons for this are quite vague, though it was Bébert himself who cut himself off from the rest of the family, after a terrible row during a Christmas dinner some twenty-odd years ago. I wasn’t even going to school yet, so I never really got a chance to know him, but every few months or so I’d find a postcard from him in my school locker, usually accompanied by a small present or a couple of ten-franc coins. I never told my parents about this, as I feared they might take away the presents, and those beautiful little model cars were definitely not something that adults were capable of appreciating (except maybe uncle Albert –and in my mind the fact my parents refused to speak of him, and acted as though he no longer existed, seemed obviously and inextricably linked with this). When I became a so-called adult and left home to study elsewhere, it was not long before Bébert contacted me and we began to meet, every two or three months he’d call me to say he was in town and we’d go for a few pints, a feast-like meal, and then more pints. Tall, heavyset and gruff, his appearance seemed a caricature of the ageing strong-arm, an impression reinforced by the first of the many rules he laid down:

“Rule number one:” he’d decreed in his low, gravelly voice, raising a forefinger as thick as a frankfurter. “You never ask me what I do for a living.” And I never have, though I must admit at times I can barely repress the urge to find out. The main reason for this, I suppose, is that although I am entirely certain (well, almost) that he will never inflict any physical violence upon me, part of me is still scared to death of what I might learn about him. Now that I am back living in France, we see each other more regularly and I’ve sensed a slight shift in the barrier –he is quite voluble about the many travels he embarked upon as a young man, and his supply of humorous, tragic or plain weird anecdotes (whether authentic or fictional) is seemingly endless…And so back to Oncle Bébert calling me names on the phone:

- “Sorry, Oncle Bébert” I said, “I very nearly lost an eye trying to get to the phone. It never rings normally.”
- “Yes, so you said when you gave me the number. It’s your life son, though that could change.” My knees wobbled, and an instant sheen of cold sweat ran the length of my spine.
- “Ummm…what…what was that, Bébert?…”
- “Get a grip, lad. What I mean is I have a job for you.” Oh dear. This was even worse.
- “A….a job?…”
- “You remember those –don’t pretend otherwise. In most cases, a pointless activity through which cash and other benefits are given, in return for the kind of fealty and dependence that most serfs in twelfth-century Bohemia would have found objectionable.”
- “Good one.”
- “Not really –it’s a question of relative standards.” Touché. I was beginning to think he was enjoying this preamble, which was very unlike his usual directness.
- “So what’s this job then?” I asked, as it had been over a minute already, and I am not keen on lengthy phone conversations unless a woman is on the other end of the line –well, not any woman, obviously: if you consider the number of women who would rather face a lifelong abstention of all chocolate products than go through a few minutes of one-on-one conversation with me, there aren’t really that many left who are under sixty years old or under sixteen stone….
- “That’s more like it, sonny! Remember how you told me you’d passed this coaching exam, last time we went for a drink?” Now I was well and truly stumped, and more than a little interested.
- “Sure I do. You told me it would be as useful to me in today’s world as a Fil-o-Fax would have been to Genghis Khan as he ravaged his way across the Asian steppes.”
- “I see. Don’t pay any attention to what your old Oncle Bébert says when under the influence.”
- “We’d only just got to the pub.”
- “If you say one more word I will come round and break both your legs, and this threat also applies any word you might proffer to indicate your agreement, so just keep that trap shut. Now that I have your full and undivided attention, let me announce that you are going to be the new manager of A.S. Cannes –it isn’t official yet, but the club expects you to show up on the fourteenth. In the morning. That means before twelve, so you may want to prepare yourself for that, starting right now. I’ll be in touch after you get there. Do not try to contact me.” And then he hung up, which is just as well because I had an urgent and overwhelming desire to ask a thousand questions, and to utter as many protestations pointing out the absurdity of the very notion that I should manage any club above the level of the five-a-side corporate leagues. And whatever way I was going to try and shed some light on this thing, I was definitely going to need my legs. Both of them…

In the end I forgot all about the nice cup of tea and the good long read. I went straight for the big fat joint instead...

Doctor Who

OK. I'll go first. You're a fraud

Quite a salvo to start your first story with, but I for one look forward to it. :thup:

OMDave

Why thank you Doc... Couldn't think of a suitable or witty prize for the first comment, at least not in time - you were just too damn quick for me, I'd barely posted it

Perhaps someone can help me out, as this may preserve raptor's e-mail account from my contribution to further clogging, and I couldn't find a suitable thread (at least, one that wasn't closed ):

I'd like to know what the CMS policy is on foul language within the stories themselves (I've used the ***s but to be honest I find that a bit naff, not to mention hypocritical)

Obviously I would never dream of using foul language when directly addressing another member of the Community

BobBev

Hello OMDave. Foul language eh! Well any naughty words are automatically detected and replaced by *'s by some clever filtering software. This can be worked around by using accented characters or by subtle changes in the spelling. But please bear in mind that many members of CMS are mere babes in arms and may be shocked by such language (or may just giggle in a schoolboy sort of way).

Good start BTW.

OMDave

Thanks BobBev, ***s it is, then.

From now on I'll write all my non-story posts in italics, which might help provide greater visual coherence, and allows people to skip flippant and/or ill-advised responses to feedback. Obviously I don't expect anyone posting a comment to do the same thing (i.e. write in italics -if you did not find this parenthesis superfluous, then you need more caffeine...) However, this would be viewed as a welcome gesture of consideration and attentiveness, and earn bagfuls of points in 'OMDave's Constant and Unconscious Assessment of the Relative Qualitative Merits of External Phenomena and/or Entities'...

spurzgrrl

Welcome to CMS, Dave. Hope you don't mind if I call you Dave for short.

French stories are always fun. I wrote one last year from Romorantin, and Faramir had a fun one with Trelissac for a long time. I started one recently with Cannes, but got sacked in my second season, and packed it in.

Good luck! Good start.

OMDave

Cheers spurzgrrl, and yes it's quite ok to call me 'Dave for short' -weirdly enough, only women ever call me that...

Hopefully I can escape the sack, and being immersed in French football will hopefully be an advantage here, both for the narrative and for the results...

OMDave

Security Camera Footage (Source: Hotel Formule 1 ‘Le Bertalou’, rear parking area tape B407-03)
Dated as starting at 01:42:17 A.M., 14th June 2003.
Length: 01m51s – Note: there is no sound accompanying the images.

The view is of a concrete parking block. It is filtered through so-called ‘night vision’ filters, and the outlines are vague, wreathed in the odd greenish tinges which are often associated with today's images of armed conflicts. The only source of light is a lamp-post in the lower left corner of the frame. In the background, facing the camera, is the wall of the main hotel structure, and at its base are a row of parking spaces which have all been filled. The inside light is on in one of the cars, and it winks out a few seconds after the person behind the wheel has opened the door, exited the vehicle, closed the door and locked it manually. The figure is apparently a man in his twenties, of medium height and slight build, with close-cropped lightish hair and a sharp nose, but the outlines are too vague to allow the features to be made out in any greater detail.

The man goes to the back of the car, which appears to be a late 80s Fiat Uno model, opens the boot and spends ten to fifteen seconds bent over it, moving though it is impossible to tell exactly what he is doing. During this interval, which starts at 01:42:40 A.M., a car drives down the right side of the frame and parks in a free space in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame. At 01:42:52 A.M., two tall and heavyset individuals get out of this car, a recent dark-coloured BMW of the ‘7-series’, and shut the doors. They seem to be wearing dark leather trench-coats and woollen skullcaps, and could be twins for all the camera image reveals of their appearance. They exchange a glance and head in the direction of the hotel at the same moment the other man closes and locks the boot of his car. The latter is now carrying a small rucksack, and has almost reached the angle of the hotel wall when his head turns towards the two approaching men, who are still about ten paces away from him and whose backs are now to the camera, at a three-quarter angle. He stops and reaches into his trouser pocket, and the two men close the gap between him and them, walking no faster than they had been before. From his trouser pocket the man extracts a lighter, which he offers to one of them, who has meanwhile placed a cigarette in his own mouth. At that moment the time is 01:43:12.

The man with the cigarette in his mouth lights it, exhaling smoke as he hands the lighter back. He then gestures as if to hand the cigarette to the man who just lent him the lighter, and for a second or two the three of them are suddenly still and tense, as though coiled to spring. Which is exactly what the two larger men do, grabbing the man with the rucksack before swiftly and easily dragging him in the direction of their car. They do not stop when they reach the level of the car they arrived him, and disappear beyond the edge of the image’s frame at 01:43:34. They reappear in the same place at 01:43:56, without the man they were dragging, and do not seem to be carrying his rucksack. They both get in the car without exchanging a word and leave immediately. The BMW disappears out of the top of the frame at 01:44:08.

Martin Buchan

A very interesting turn of events Dave.

You should be a writer for 24 as this is very dramatic and now...

I WANT MORE!!!!!!!!!!!



Hopefully you will be as crap as you are with Blackburn