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JB sat at his desk, looking at the mountain of work that needed to be done before the season started. He’s had a lovely night’s sleeps, safely nestled in the arms of Delia Smith in the Canary Suite at Carrow road. “Oh Delia, i do love it back here with you” he said as his gazed into her saggy eyes. “ You’re a good lad Jon, I’ll let you have a go on me fronties and then get some eggs on the go” she sighed.
After a little fumbling JB became aware of noise outside. He looked through the curtains and there was a growing mass of people outside.
JB opened the doors of the balcony and stepped out, scratching his arse as he came around. It was like a president addressing the throng. As the noise died down he addressed the crowd
”What the fuck is going on with you lot?” He said, to murmurs of discontent? “ Right let’s have it - let’s meet down at the Discord warehouse and have this out.
Moments later he arrived at the Discord warehouse of doom and there was a group of managers waiting for him. You could cut the tension with a knife. The Dark Arts gang appeared from the shadows. “ Where is the code?” Said Banks. “ You’ll never find it, its buried deep” said Steve Talbot, with Ed Clark next to him grinning. Most of the other managers just talked amongst themselves as they didn’t have a clue what was going on. Darren Humphris piped up “The game is fucked man” he said as he glared at the rest.
”Why exactly? Retorted JB
Talbot handed him a piece of paper that had come from all of the other managers comments
” Ah i see, so the SHN is too low, oh no too high, or is it too low, you’re staggered by the 18 rated youth players coming through that could allow a second tier team to improve, oh and i have moved to Norwich in order to take advantage of it all”
Rumours of behind the scenes activity had been rife for several seasons - clearly Banks had manipulated the results to ensure that Bayern Munich had been champions of Europe for 8 seasons in a row, and there had been muttering over the fee that Spurs manager Tim Brown had paid him to engineer a frankly inconceivable finish to the Premiership season that had lost the bookmakers a fortune.
” Do you know what lads, fuck you all” said Banks, as he doused the floor with petrol.
Casually walking away from the Discord warehouse, he pulled out a large joint, and struck a match to light it up, enjoying the first drag as he flicked the match behind him. As he walked away down the road the warehouse exploded into flames and the rest of the managers ran out. Unfortunately Real Madrid manager Ian Greaves, fresh from winning the title, sprained an ankle and was left in the building, the sad casualty of an unsavoury incident.
JB’s phone flickered into life
”It’s me - get your fucking arse back up here, there’s a load of kids outside that say you’ve signed them” barked Delia.
”Sorry love, I’m done” he said
”What, you’re leaving FFO??” She exclaimed
”Oh no, I’m leaving Norwich - don’t you worry about FFO” he cut her dead and put the phone down.
As he puffed away on his smoke and went in search of some munchies he chuckled to himself
”Oh yes, I’ll still be around all right - and now I’ll be running ALL of the games!’
He smiled to himself and whilst high and happy went online and transferred £10,000,000 of his vast fortune to each FFO club
”Time to enjoy this lads!” And he signed off.
So the Discord warehouse of lost souls and maniacal ramblings is gone - will it ever reappear? Could this be the end of the gangs of FFO forever? Stay tuned as the story develops.