Red Cards & Clay Shards: A Manager’s Last Stand

[JB@Norwich]

The old portable TV flicks off with a loud ping as the lights of the Elbenwald Nonsense Pottery Emporium cast their glow over the knick-knacks, vases, and an assortment of heavily glazed, utterly nonsensical pots.

Footballing manager Jon Banks is sat at the counter of the shop, head in hands, looking around at shattered pots behind the desk. Clay is strewn everywhere, and he can be heard mumbling to himself.
“Why, why me, 9 years, bastards, ill never get my grip now”.



That is where our saga starts.

*INSERT DRAMATIC MUSIC HERE*

The door of the shop swings open and the old-fashioned bell rings with such a noise that it stings the air and makes Banks shoot upright from his hunched position. Looking over to the doorway, Banks sees no one.
He shouts “Who is it? Some sort of moron looking to come and kick me while I am down? Do you not know who I am?”

Two hooded figures enter the shop and stroll up to the counter. Banks started to shrink back into his seat as the two “men” got closer and closer. The hands of the figures move closer to their heads as if to signal the impending doom of our hero Banks…

Tune in next time to see the fate of your favourite FFO manager…

[JB@Norwich]

The hooded figures draw closer still, raising their hands closer and closer to their heads… until. In unison the men flick back their hoods… Its Arsenal manager Darren Humphris and his star striker Timo Werner.
“Awight Jonbo, you fat bald northern wanka”

Taken aback, Banks rose from his chair, red faced. Standing as tall as he could, he burst into life
“What do you two pair of idiots want? A nice vase? This triple glazed replica of Kate Lawler’s fanny? Hmm? What do you ACTUALLY want?”

At this point, Banks looked towards Werner, spotting a blue bucket with the word “shit” written on it. Going redder still, Banks fumed
“And what the fuck is that?!? There better not be shit in that bucket, get it out of my shop you stupid kruat prick”



Werner and Humphris nodded at each other and pounced. The world went black for Banks and his dreams were filled with images of having a full hairline, a flat stomach and a EFL1 trophy within his grasp.

Waking with a splash of unclean clay water, Banks was now tied to his kiln door, faced with his two adversaries.
“Let go of me you half-wits, remember who I am. My cousin owns a sword shop, and I once broke a cricket bat over the back of Martin from Homes Under The Hammer”

Smiling, Humphries moved closer and whispered
“You know what I want you tart… I have come for Adam”

[JB@Norwich]

Banks changed his expression from scared to confused…
“Adam? Adam Wharton? Has your mind folded in on itself? Did you not check the news or see the press conference that just aired? I CANT give you Adam you cockney knuckle dragger…ahhh”

With that, a sock was thrust into the mouth of our hero and Humphris started to collect the most expensive vases from the shelves. Muffled cries came from Banks as his craftmanship was being placed on the counter in front of him

“Right, you dickhead. Give me Adam or Timo here is going to throw these expensive nonsense vases right at your head, you slaaaag”

Shaking his head furiously, the distressed Banks was pouring with sweat. Werner reached for the first pot, lifted it above his head and threw it towards the kiln… Banks closed his eyes and he couldn’t bare to see his work be destroyed. The shop fell silent as Banks managed to spit the sock out and open his eyes.
All 15 pots were safe and secure on a table at the side of the kiln, nothing broken, no injuries to Banks.

“Ha fucking Ha, this is why I sold you, all you do is fucking miss you Schnitzel eating, goosestepping mong.”

Once more the bell rang on the shop door and before the person could enter, he was heard…

“Now then Banksky lad ya bastard, as tha got any of them daft pots left?”

It was Barnsley born managerial legend Mick McCarthy.

“Who are these two bastards? Why are you bastarding tied up? Whats in that bastarding bucket? Do you need some help Banksy, ill un-bastard-tie ya”



With that, the two Arsenal employees ran out of the shop door, not before Humphris could be heard saying
“Quick Timo, get the shit bucket and get back in the van, lets get to a layby and fill the facker up”

Untied from the kiln, his vases in tact and his shop no longer filled with the smell of Arsenal turds, Banks thanked McCarthy for his assistance and locked up for the day

“That was a bit too close for my liking but once again I am Jon Banks and I am loving my life”
…
The phone rang, Banks answered, and 3 words were spoken
“Where are you?”

[JB@Norwich]

Episode 2

Banks, still reddened from the attack, suddenly went as white as a sheet. He knew the voice. He knew what would come next, he struggled to speak
“no, but, yeah, but” he fumbled

“you made a promise” the ominous voice stated…

Banks turned his back to the glow of the shop lights and headed into his office, scrambling to find the words that would release him from this torture

“I am retired, you never said I had to do it if I had already retired. Its time for me to rest, I have a shop to run don’t you know”

The line went silent before 4 words were uttered and the line went dead. Those 4 words were…
“lets be having you”

[JB@Norwich]

“Hello? Hello? I said hello. Shes put the bloody phone down on me”
Banks slammed his phone onto the counter, grabbed his coat and headed for the train station.
Speaking to no one for the whole journey to the airport, Banks seems to appear whiter and whiter. The train rolled into the station, into the airport terminal. The queue for security moving slowly, Banks help his head down so not to draw attention to himself but it didn’t work…

“Haud ya wheest, look who it isnea”
A flash looking man with a golden chain that had the letters “G.O.A.T” dangled around his neck.
“I was a bawhair away from walking past ye, ya wee bastard”
Looking up, Banks seemed delighted to see a familiar and friendly face. After the ordeal in his shop and the phone call, it seemed that he was in need of something positive before his flight…

Speaking again, the Scotsman asked
“Wit ye doing in the airport? Off on some mad wee holiday ya junkie?”

Banks smiled and said very little, but what he did say was telling...
“Hello Livi, no holiday for me. She has called me. I am going home”

[JB@Norwich]

Flight 2008 thundered down the runway as Banks too one last look at Germany. He had sent a number of emails in his wait for the flight to board. His shop was for sale, his house lease was ended and all his personal belongings were to be boxed and sent to a storage facility in London.

The land got smaller and smaller, the plane louder and louder as it roared north, over the English Channel before landing as a small airport. With no luggage to collect and nothing to declare, the retired old manager headed to the taxi rank but not before stopping to look at the sign at the exit

“Welcome to Norwich”

[JB@Norwich]

The news had broken, the press conference had been called and Banks had put pen to paper. The promise had to be kept and it was time to come home. Norwich City was whole again…

As Banks reached the taxi rank he had second thoughts about this whole ordeal. Maybe he had dreamt the phone call, maybe he was still out cold and tied to his kiln. Surely after all this time they would still hold him to his promise. Its been 16 years, they must have forgotten.

But something drew him in, the taxi sped its way to Carrow Road. As the car pulled into the car park, there she was. The woman. The boss. The guvnor. DELIA SMITH!!

[JB@Norwich]

“Now you listen here you daft old witch, there is absolutely no way I am giving up my shop to come and work here again. No chance. I wont have it. Release me from this sea of shit farms and cancel my promise”

Banks was now redder than ever but Smith just stood there, unfazed by the rantings of this mental case

“AND another thing, who the fucking lord gave my you number? I bet it was that spooky clown Clark wasn’t it. Had a good old laugh with “Ed” or “Simon” or whatever he likes to call himself these days. Or was it Talbot? Hey, you listen to me. Whoever it was I want that fucking number deleted right now, you hear me?”

Smith once again looked back with calmness, grace and the look of seeing a Yorkshire Pudding that had failed to rise

“Speak to me woman, I demand that you speak to me!!!”

Banks now looked like he was about to pass out. Smith raised her hand and outstretched one fingers and placed it one the lips of Banks midsentence…

The noise of the road died down and all that could be heard was the pants of a tired, sweaty and red middle aged faded managers. This “silence” was broken by Smith at last

“3 year deal. Full control. Academy. Premier League”

[JB@Norwich]

The last time Norwich City were promoted to the Premier League, Pete Robertson was at the helm. A few seasons later he achieved the clubs highest ever position of 5^th and won the WM Cup. Just a few short seasons later, the decline had set in. A bottom placed finish under Mike Bridge (now at Stockport County) was the last time the club set foot in the Premier League.

Its been 6 long years since that day and the club have struggled since. Bouncing between new manager and caretakers, Norwich have been in need of salvation for a long time… Smiths eyes narrowed on the slack open jawed Banks

“But but, my shop, please I beg of you. Don’t tempt me.”

Smith stretched out a bony hand containing a pen. From the other hand she produced a contract and spoke
“You sign it and you make us whole again”

Banks took a deep breath, signed and said.

“Lets get to work”