the chairman diaries episode one

8/4/2019 The Chairman Diaries Episode One

1/12

DAVID HARTRICK >

EPISODE ONE

Day One Welcome to Hell

What a shit hole.

Alright, so I might have told the ac-

countant I wanted to buy a football

club, but this? I'm not sure if the car

park's even fit for dogging. Its no

wonder that prick's not answering

his mobile I'm going to sck it up

his arse when I see him and he

knows it.

Why didn't I at least Wiki this lot be-

fore I signed the paperwork? I built

an Internet Empire without having

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THE CHAIRMAN DIARIES

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to resort to pornography, yet got too

excited at the prospect of owning a

football club to do the homework.

Jesus, leaping in with both feet like

that Im Nigel de Jong.

I might not have Premier League or

even Championship money but I

thought the budget stretched fur-

ther than this bloody Vauxhall

Conference football. Saying that, I

may as well try to get into the spirit

of things for as long as it takes for

me to work out an exit strategy

bloody Blue Square Bet Premier

football. I've at least heard of this

lot but that's mainly down to an FA

Cup third round appearance in the

80s.

Memo to self: research business de-

cisions beyond the 1984 Grandstand

vidiprinter in future.

I thought an established club at non-

League level wouldn't be this run

down and this is just staring

through the 50% nt on the car win-

dow. Looking up I can see a painted

name on a once-famous sign, now

reduced to a faded shadow. Looking

down, the word 'pothole' barely

seems adequate for the innumer-

able hippo's yawns liering the car

park. This isn't even disappoinng

this is frightening.

I had visions of at least being able to

park my car in a neatly white-lined

space marked 'Chairman'. As it

stands Ive been forced to abandon

the Range Rover in something re-

sembling the 26th minute of Slum-

dog Millionaire. Thank God I didn't

bring the Aston.

As I open the car door I noce the

air is thick with fried onions and

burgers, apparently made of roughly

half meat, half carpet. Prada shoes

meet B&Q gravel as I step out to

gaze upon my new empire.

To repeat: what a shit hole.

To the le of the car park a steady

stream of bobble-hats are parng

with their hard earned fivers to

enter a structure rather hopefully

entled the 'Grand Stand'. A Range

Rover with private plates is being

viewed as something akin to witch-

cra by a queue of people with

whom I have nothing in common.

I've seen the odd eyebrow cocked in


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my direcon so I assume word's got

around the new chairman's in town.

To my right I see a door marked

'Staff Only' which I guess is my en-

trance. With a deep breath of icy air

I make my way towards it, lighng a

Benson for comfort as I go. The

smoky filter just beyond my nose

does nothing to improve the view as

the Rice Krispies snap, crackle and

pop beneath my feet.

As I reach the door a man appears,

opening it wide as if expecng me.

He looks about early 30s. The suit

that hangs about his body would

disgrace a charity shop sale rail. If I

combine his are with his body lan-

guage, general demeanour and

what looks suspiciously like a wig,

Im guessing whoever he is, hes yet

to marry.

You the new Chairman?

I nod a response and flick the barely-

smoked cigaree away to my right.

He thrusts out a hand covered in a

mixture of dirt and white paint to

clasp mine and introduces himself

as Richard, Club Secretary. He turns

and leads me into a corridor that

runs beneath the small stand; I fol-

low without a clue where we're

going, observing a discomfing lack

of windows. It feels like the journey

to the centre of the earth. A door

appears from the midst of the cave

with a sign marked 'Manager' on it.

Shit. I've just realised I don't even

know who the manager is.

Richard half trips as he opens the

door and I'm thankful the wig stays

in place. As he crosses the threshold

I catch him mouthing the words

He's here. Entering the small office

I find two middle-aged men, one

slumped in a tracksuit behind a

dusty, paper-strewn desk, another

standing over him with a face like

he's been chewing pine cones.

Thank you, Richard. Now take that

awful wig of yours and fuck off.

Richard complies with standing

angry mans order and shuffles out

somewhere behind me. Even

though I now own this lile corner

of Mordor, I get the feeling I'm being

told who really has the power.

You've met Richard then. I've no

doubt he told you he had some fuck-

ing job here but he's just a fan we




4/12

use for the shit I can't be bothered

with. I'm Bryan Ramsden-Smith,

club director for life due to the fact

my family founded this place, and

no doubt the person pung out the

fires once you've pissed off back to

your ivory tower.

What the?

This is Terry Maclean, he's your

manager and resident club alcoholic

you'll be pleased to know if we

paid him more he'd have a raging

drug problem, as well. Now you're

here hes your problem.

I look at the tracksuited man. His

ouit is stained with that I really

hope is beer, and as he melts further

into his lopsided chair I realise he's

not just drunk, he's wasted.

Now do you want some boots and

a ball so you can piss around on the

pitch like a dancing fucking bear be-

fore kick-off? Show the fans how

much of a football man you are?

When I answer it'll be the first words

out of my mouth since leaving an ex-

tremely abusive message on the ac-

countant's phone. Hes going to get

another in about five minutes. I

stumble and fumble out the words

No, I'm not Michael Knighton.

Michael Knighton? Why you *hic*

talking talking 'bout Knight Rider?

With that comment Maclean finally

slips all the way from the chair that

had been clutching desperately to

his last shreds of dignity. As a body

disappears under the desk in front

of me Bryan Ramsden-Smith bumps

past and leaves me one last out-

pouring of bile.

Welcome to the club Mr Chair-

man.

Sarcasm drips from the words Mr

Chairman like a dew drop hanging

from a snoy kids nose.

We're boom of the league, the

grounds fucked, your manager's a

disgrace and they're all your prob-

lems now.

I cant say it enough. What a shit

hole.




5/12

Day Three Gym Weeks & Happy

Endings

Terry sits in front of me with blood-

shot eyes that tell me all I need to

know about his quiet night in. As

an ex-pro his name sll carries

weight in certain pubs and clubs in

town, something I hear hes become

very adept at exploing. If the eyes

hadnt given it away, the abundance

of some shit aershave hes lath-

ered over the smell of stale beer

would have.

So, Terry, losing 5-1 at home is

probably not where we want this

club to be, is it?

When I see we I now have to mean

it. Aer finally tracking the account-

ant down to a 24-hour casino not far

from his office, he explained that

the deals already been completed.

I now own this place, lock, stock and

two subsiding changing rooms. Any

room I had to wriggle away from this

heap has gone and believe me, Ive

checked every bastard angle. Selling

this place as quickly as possible now

depends on my finding someone as

stupid as me, or turning things

around and making it a viable

proposion for a buyer. Having

thought long and hard about it yes-

terday, I came to the conclusion that

I just cant rely on finding as big a

prick as me out there. Im going to

have to do this the hard way.

Thing is, Chairman, had my hands

ed havent I? No money you see,

work with shit you get brown hands

eventually.

I dont really understand the

metaphor but Ive decided not to

shake Macleans hand again. Hes

talking in bullet points a classic

sign of a hungover mind struggling

to fill in the crossword clues that

make up a full conversaon.

Regardless of that, Terry, what con-

cerns me more is that your illness

meant your assistant had to take

charge of team affairs on Saturday.

A moments silence draws its awk-

ward fingers down a chalkboard as

Terry considers the statement.

Have I got an assistant?

No.

Almost unbelievably the queson




6/12

was asked without a hint of shame.

Taking up a posion in the home

dugout come 3pm on Saturday af-

ternoon were me (perfect excuse

not to have to mix with Ramsden-

Smith or the bobble-hats), Richard

(in a tracksuit top that I dug out of

the teams kit bag that, judging by

the smell, had been there a long

me) and our physio, who couldnt

move as hed pulled his hamstring

pung up the massage table (and

whose name I didnt find out, nor

care to, either).

I fill Terry in and he feigns astonish-

ment.

Richard? Hes thick as pig shit.

Hardly the point, but hes bang on

the money.

I know, Terry. I discovered that

when one of the lads went down

with an ankle knock in the first

minute and he ran on and rubbed

Lucozade into it.

Time to up the ante a lile. Maclean

needs to understand that hes only

got three choices le at this club:

lead, follow, or get the fuck out the

way.

Terry, when are the lads training

this week?

Gym week, Chairman, told them all

to go and work on their stamina, at

the gym and that.

What did they do last week?

Err gym week.

When was the last me there was-

nt a gym week, Terry?

Ah, well, see what youre geng at,

but as an ex-professional, Ive iden-

fied a lack of err, condioning, as

one of our biggest problems.

I compose myself, even though the

room is now thick with bullshit as

well as Brut. I want to drag ex-pro-

fessional footballer Terry Maclean

over this desk and backhand him.

Professionalism dictates we do this

through discussion first though, and

Ive got a couple of lines of aack

planned.

You may believe condioning is

partly to blame for the teams current

league posion but I have my own

theories. Do you want to hear one?




7/12

Instantly I see Terry prickle at the di-

recon he thinks this is going to

take.

Listen, Chairman, I run the team, I

decide whats right, and whats

going wrong. If youre coming here

to get involved with on field maers,

then

Terry, Terry, Terry. Let me speak.

I agree the lads condioning isnt

great, but I think there are one or

two other problems to consider. For

example, due to your various ab-

sences with illness, our captain,

Paul, has come to the fore and is

picking the team, deciding on the

formaon, telling the bench when

to substute players and doing all

this while trying to do a job as a

striker himself.

I pause and wait for any sign of

recognion.

Now Pauls a fine player and an ex-

cellent captain, but maybe not the

best centre-forward in the world.

Any idea why, Terry?

Hes beginning to realise there are

only two ways this can end: shape

up or piss off. He shakes his head in

mock bewilderment.

I think hes struggling up front as he

spent the first 21 years of his career

as a fucking goalkeeper, Terry.

With no visible response I take the

opportunity to connue.

Since youve been here youve

managed to personally see off an as-

sistant manager, a fitness coach, and

an enre reserve team. Your an-

Midas touch has managed to make

every area of the club worse for

your involvement. The team are

dogshit, the crowd knows it, the

clubs fucked, and youre an addict.

Ive got his back up now. Hes beaten

but I know hes not going to go qui-

etly.

Now listen here, Mr Chairman, I

handle team affairs, Im the ex-pro

this clubs lucky to have me. If

youre saying we cant work to-

gether, you beer start thinking

about a pay-off, I wont resign.

I thought youd say that Terry, thats

why Ive decided to give you a

chance. If you make a commitment

to knuckle down and manage the




8/12

team properly, use your contacts to

bring in some decent players, hit

some performance targets that I set,

stop drinking, and cease using what

is now my office as a place to hide

your cocaine, we might be able to

work together.

He turns his shoulder like a petulant

child. Taking a few seconds to think

about it he composes a predictable,

laboured response.

I cant work with these, baseless

accusaons, so Im afraid youll have

to offer me, a suitable severance

package.

I smile. It doesnt feel great to do

this but hes le me no choice.

Well I tell you what well do, Terry.

Well part ways and as a severance

package Im offering you the chance

to stop me ringing your wife. You

see, I think she might be able to ex-

plain something in the club accounts

thats come to my aenon.

Theres an uneasy sense of recogni-

on creeping across his face.

It started with a phone call that led

me to an outstanding bill from

Delilahs Massage & Sauna Centre.

They rang us this morning chasing

their money, claiming you told them

to charge the club for two girls, a

full service and a happy ending.

They know it was you because you

were so pissed and coked-up youd

managed to leave, among other

things, your club jacket with your

name and fucking inials embroi-

dered in it, you dickhead.

Five minutes later Im all alone in the

office and looking for a new man-

ager. Ill ring the local paper and

give the sports guy an exclusive. Ill

have to tell them weve parted for

football reasons but I dont care,

hes someone elses problem now.

Beer ring Delilahs and ask them to

return that jacket too.




9/12

Day Seven Mascots & Misunder-

standings

Do you think we need a mascot,

Richard?

My second match day and it strikes

just how grim this place really is.

The grounds got more in common

with Colditz than Old Trafford. Now

its raining I honestly cant think of

anywhere Id want to be less.

Adding to the picture perfect view is

the fact the team are sll playing

some absolutely dogshit. Aer Sat-

urdays 5-1 mauling any hope of a

rousing midweek response was put

to bed by a 6-0 away defeat which,

mercifully, I had to miss due to a

prior commitment. That commit-

ment was actually half a bole of

scotch, Come Dine With Me repeats

and aempng (unsuccessfully) to

have a lile roll around with the wife

but they dont need to know that.

Dragged here again kicking and

screaming by the fact I now own this

white elephant, geng rid of Terry

has done nothing to make it feel less

like a chore.

With no manager and the chairman,

the village idiot and an injured

physio in the dugout again, any dis-

tracon from the steady abuse com-

ing from behind us is welcomed. I

turn to the oblivious Richard and ask

him the mascot queson a lile

louder.

How do you mean, Chairman?

A character. A man in a big foam

costume.


A man doing a bit of a dance and

celebrang if we score, geeing the

crowd up, geng the kids involved

a bit, try and get a few more people

down here.


For fucks sake.

What I mean, Richard, is a bloke in

a big silly ouit promong and sell-

ing the club on match day, and at

the local schools, trying to return us

to the community if you will, making

this place look a lile less like Cher-

nobyl and more like somewhere

youd actually want to spend your




10/12

Saturday aernoons.

Richard pauses and I can almost

hear cogs turn.

I do want to spend my Saturday af-

ternoons here.

Before I can go any further weve

conceded, and with twenty-five

minutes of the first half gone I know

the games over.

Oi! Chairman!

Ive quickly realised that although

the dugout lets me hide from cer-

tain situaons, theres no escaping

the dissenng voices behind me.

Every. Single. One.

Chairman!

The voice is deep and definitely

comes from one of the older bob-

ble-hats. I dont want to sck my

head out and glance back but itkeeps calling me out. Tentavely I

step forward and turn my head over

the dugouts plasc roof to look at

the terrace behind me. While one

side of the ground boasts the

Grand Stand, this side has a long,

raised paved area with a wooden

roof that leaks like a tramps shoes.

Even through the drumming of the

rain I can instantly pick out the

source of the shout.

Standing about twelve feet behind

us are two men who were stood in

exactly the same place last week. I

get the feeling theyve stood in that

same space for a long me. On the

le is the one Ive nicknamed Jimmy

Saville, solely on the strength that

the two mes Ive seen him, hes

had the same shiy Adidas shell suit

top on. The one on the right I call FACup because he has the biggest pair

of ears Ive ever seen on the side of

a human head.

Fucking Alex Ferguson couldnt li

this shower of shit so you best get

Jesus on the phone - we need a mir-

acle.

I nod and roll my eyes mockingly. Sir

Jimmy made the comment, and it

appears now he has the Chairmans

aenon he isnt willing to let it go

just like that.

Have you got someone lined up?

No. Since sacking Maclean Ive had




11/12

the sum total of zero phone calls en-

quiring aer the job. It may have

only been four days but I thought

someone would have at least sent ina shiy CV.

Few irons in the fire, you know how

it is.

Please dont ask who, please dont

ask who, please dont ask who,

please don

Who?

Saville wont leave it. Embrace,

avoid or lie? Avoid.

Couldnt possibly say at this point,

its very early to be giving you

names.

A tacul lie on which to lower my-

self back into the dugout.

Its just that I spoke to Richard andhe says he overheard you on the

phone saying itd be easier to get

someone to throw themselves off a

bridge than find a manager for this

shit hole.

I look across at Richard and he

smiles at me.

Thats my Uncle Tommy, Mr Chair-

man, hes been coming here years.

For fucks sake. Need to keep that

office door shut from now on. I

smile the smile of a man caught

naked, climbing out his neighbours

bedroom window by an irate hus-

band, and slink back into my plasc

seat with a squeak. From behind my

shelter I can sll hear the muffled

tones of Uncle Tommy.

Richard also said youd told them

that you just wanted to get this

place stable enough to flog on for as

lile a loss as possible...

Running true to form, Richard is

grinning at me without a care in the

world.

which in our eyes makes you a

full-weight prick.

And on cue it begins. The inevitable,

pre-planned song.

The Chairman is a wanker, the

Chairman is a wanker




12/12

Two voices become ten within the

first line, ten become thirty by the

second. I reckon all told we have

about 500 in today and within sec-onds the fiy odd who chose to

stand behind the dugouts are in uni-

son.

Ive only been here a week.

The place is a shit hole and the

crowd already hate me.

I fish around in my pocket for my

Blackberry and cigarees. Time to

leave my fucking accountant yet an-

other abusive message.

To be connued...



This is an extract from Issue One of Man and Ball

magazine: Let Sleeping Gods Lie.

This issue introduces Nigel and features stories

on German football since reunification, African

Arsenal fans, an unsung Dutch legend, and

seven other intriguing articles.

It can be downloaded in its entirety HERE >

David HartrickGuest writer

IN BED WITH MARADONA >@Hartch >

Soon to be published author, IBWMEditor, occasion-

ally blogs at I Know Who Cyrille Makanaky Was. and

has numerous other articles strewn wantonly across

the Internet like torn-up betting slips.
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the chairman diaries episode one

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