Tuesday, June 5, 2007

The Branston Rabids Files x2 - file

The Hound of Baskerville Athletico – Part 2

Previously on Hound of Baskervile...
Jorges Mourir, the ex-Baskerville Athletico manager has just joined Branston Rabids Football Club. It’s a mixed blessing; his track record speaks for itself but so does his air of putrefaction.

The black-eyed chairman Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza has got the first team squad to sign injury disclaimers and Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private detective, smells a fish.

Jorges Mourir was late for training the next morning, leaving Basho Johnson, first team coach and twin brother of Boris, in charge to kick it off.

Ever since an unfortunate touchline run-in with Professor Moray-Arsey, the Gurning Emirs manager, Basho has only been able to speak in haiku or koan.

"Nanny? Nay never.
"Train free young fooballets with
"No Nike nanny"

He said and with a wry smile and a sigh, his eyes returned to the sky.

The players are used to this and take it as a sign to start kicking balls around randomly. Eckle and Warsaw go over to the touchline and start practicing last minute sliding tackles from behind on the slight Scottish winger.

20 minutes later when everyone is knackered and a card game has been set up behind the shower block, they hear:

"Arrr," cough, splutter: "Arrrr, come on Rabids let’s go! Arrr."

Mourir looked even worse than yesterday, his eyes red and bulging and reeking of decomposing moles.

"PASSION!" he spits with venom: "Branston Rabids are all about passion, yes?" he slapped Chris Rocket hard on the back leaving Chris winded and gasping. "Five-a-side eberyone, no prisoners yes?"

They amble, run and then pelt headlessly around the five-a-side pitches, driven by an increasingly maniacal Mourir.

"Arrr, you, numpty. Arrr, run, push, live with your heart and die, DIE!!" he slavered at Warsaw. "Is passion?" he squealed "Passion, PASSURrrghh."

He fell over clutching his throat and foaming at the mouth. He rolled around for a minute as the players gathered for a laugh. Then he calmed down.

"Er…are you alright?" said Eckle: "Would you like some water?"

"Arrgghh, no, no," said Jorges: "Its ok, ok, thanks." He mustered a frothy yellow smile which sent a shiver down the spine of the team. "I was bitten by a dog before I left Portologo and it’s starting to sting a bit."

He rolled up his left trouser leg to reveal his half-eaten calf, festering and fermenting. Eckle saw the bubbling and hissing pustules of frothing flesh and the black and green gangrenous bits and looked up at the pale face of Mourir.

"It’s only a scratch," said the manager: "Mr Stanza want me to start quick so I come, now," CLAP CLAP: "BACK TO WORK, RUN, DIE FOR BRANSTON!"

But when the slight Scottish winger missed the ball five minutes later the Portugazi jumped on him and sank his teeth into his wee pink ear. Like a mad Iberian hound he tore and ripped and gored and then stood over the limp Glaswegian frothing pink bubbles from his mouth and roaring.

The entire midfield just stood and looked at him and before they could think of anything better to do Mourir had passed among them, verily, like a rabid fox in a chicken coup.

Through the spray and mist of fizzing arteries Eckle noticed Basho running away screaming “Aaaah, the sound, the sound of one tooth biting,” and that Warsaw was the only one trying to stop the crazed continental shouting "Red card ref! Red card! Ref?"

Mourir, now crouching and circling, snarling and snapping, was on to him in a fell leap at Warsaw’s neck. Eckle jumped into action and pulled the managers face back and over and down. But Jorges bounced straight back into Eckle biting hard on the central defenders nose, growling.

When Warsaw finally hit him, with all the force of a Trans-Siberian express train, he flew howling fully 15 metres away, still with Eckle’s beak between his teeth.

Jorges was not yet gorged and bounded off to bury his fangs into the fleeing left buttock of the inside right, and then on for a squealing apprentices forearm. The open-nostriled Eckle gave chase, stuck out a sliding leg and tripped his manager into the goal post with a ‘TUNK!’ and a slow downwards slide.

Apart from some groaning it all went a bit quiet after that.

Then came the sirens; press, police, paramedics, in that order.

As it turned out the Authorities were aware that quarantine laws had been contravened and that there was a possibility of a rabies incident, but were inclined to let it slide as Baskerville Athletico were, after all, a very good team.

Despite the pain and the blood Eckle was mostly just worried about how they were going to patch a team together. The big game with Melchester Roofers was only 24 hours away and most of the squad had rabies.

He was eventually lifted into one of the ambulances, clutching his nose in a sock in his hand. He could only breathe through his mouth as his nose hole was stuffed up with blood and bandages but he still saw the pitch haired chairman, Sir Tannic-Stanza, laughing triumphantly into his Bluetooth.

Dodgy, thought the Belgian through squinting eyes, very dodgy…


Zeph said...

The phrase "the plot thickens" has never seemed more appropriate.

What is Sir Derek's evil plan???

offsideintahiti said...

OK, I didn't say anything about Paul Doyle's ligue 1 article because it clearly wasn't plagiarism, but this Mourir character is a straight lift from one of my GU posts a while back, in which I was advocating they disinterred the corpse of Vladimir Lobanovsky to replace José Mourinho at Chelsea.

So, I really should sue File, except he'd probably get away with it on grounds of insanity.

Or would that be a draw?

Zeph said...

OffsideinNormandy, hello!

I was expecting Mourir to be a Frankensteinian creation assembled from bits of old managers, but it was only rabies. Huh.

nesta said...


There should be a warning at the top. I was eating a sandwich during the rabies massacre and now I am feeling more than squeamish.

guitougoal said...

" he flew howling still with Ekle beac between his teeth.."
He probably ended up the night at the hospital, where the medics needed a picture to stitch him properly without the beac.
Morir de plaisir.

mimi said...

Offy: if they'd have disinterred Lobachensky, that would be worrying!

file said...

zephie, the thick plottens indeed, sorry no monsters, don\'t worry I\'ll work some in

offie, insanity parity, lets share a castle in the sky; Chateau Luna Sea, you can go rowing between the clouds and I will paint frescoes on the walls

guitou, mimi, nesta,

you\'ve got neighbours

stanza, stanza & saatchel said...

[day time, training ground]

[jingly jangly music]

[Chris Rocket jogs over and smiles with a *glint*]

See, no more dribbling! Rabbit Brand Dental Floss

[holds up pack and *glints* again]

Doo wap doo wap, diddy diddy
He\'s the bunny from Branston city
Doo wap doo wap, showaddywaddy
Under the rabbit of love

Branston Evening Echo Echo said...

Gulliver F\'ack, our footballing guru, speaks to Warsaw after today\'s terrifying run in with rabid Rabids manager Jorges Mourir:

F\'ack: Soo, Warsaw, how are you feeling now?

Warsaw: Sick as a parrot

F\'ack: Can you describe the events of the day?

Warsaw: Well, it was a game of two halves really

F\'ack: It must have been a frightening time?

Warsaw: Naa, just handbags

F\'ack: Handbags! It was a bit more than that shirley?

Warsaw: I\'ll have to wait til I watch the replays, coulden\'t really see it .. mumble .. referee\'s report..

greengrass said...

this is a thinly-veiled, snide attack
on that excellent trainer and human being, Mr. Jose Mourinho.

Hiding behind a pseudonym is not a very brave thing to do.

I'm sure that if Mr. Mourinho found you, cowering in your Thai hut, he would bite your nose off.

file said...

sorry gg, I don\'t cower, I lurk

guitougoal said...

jose morir we shall see.

gg said...

Point taken, File - but as you lurk, Rabid Mourir is at his work.
And if you avoid the evil Jose,
Kenyon will come and bite off your nose.

file said...

blimey gg, that is a scary thought Jorges I can handle but PK will skin me in the batting of an eyelid

you\'re still miffed about brucie arent you?

gg said...

if it makes you feel good, I'll answer "yes"!

file said...

to be honest, gg, any response from you reminds me of my time as a kid in Sveden which has now become a suburb of Shangri La in my mind

so yes it feels good, like I knew that it would

anyway it wasn\'t my fault, it was Pipito who was waxing lyrical over the feisty jawed song and dance man

please forgive me and keep KP in his kennel!

gg said...

where did you live in Sweden?

offsideintahiti said...

Before you were taken, in handcuffs, back to the border, that is...

file said...

gg, Hamre, Vasteras, but went all over, you\'re not really in Stockholm are you?

btw; great post on the gu liverpool thread, just seen it. Vindictive? Glendining? Shirley not...

offie, just put the liverpool post link in the taproom for you, if you have the spare time to read it you should be writing more for us!

file said...

btw offie,

they don\'t use handcuffs on political prisoners, just diluted Polonium

gg said...

I passed through Västerås on my way to a steel band gig in Engelsberg a few days ago.

Just to get your tears of nostalgia flowing, I'll mention that on Midsummer's Eve I shall be playing "Små grodorna" and such so that the children of the village where the chapel lies can sing and dance.
(For those who wonder: Swedish kids do their maypole dances on Midsummer's Eve).

I spend a lot of time in the chapel, but live and teach in Stockholm.

Shangri La? A very antiseptic one, in that case - though less so than when I moved here!

As for my post on the Liverpool thread, it just gushed out of me when I came home half-cut last night: I hate the haters, and despise the GU policy.

Offside -
have you no shame? Poor Andy...

file said...


I guess Vasteras must be very different now, I haven\'t been there for at least 20 years, have you been to the islands, elba and 2 more I can\'t remember their names?

antiseptic maybe, but you can\'t sanitize the memories of youth, I have read your wonderful Oldham daze piece

life was all outdoors at this time of year by the lake, and those dusky summer evenings never end, not like here where the sun plummets like a piano at night

file said...


I\'ve lost most of the Swedish I had, they taught me in English in school, but have taught fillet to say 777 ... one of the more challenging linguistic feats

fred said...

yes - sju sjösjuka sjömän (seven seasick seamen) is harder than "The Leith police dismisseth us" when you've had one too few.

Elba? Don't know that one! Isn't that where that half-arsed Corsican general rotted?

The chapel is on an isthmus (lovely word, I'll write it again!) an isthmus of land between two lakes.
Any time you and Fillet are passing by, ask for me and we'll sing about small frogs (no offence, Offy & Guitou).

Oldham? I'd give all my tomorrows for another yesterday...

gg (i.e. fred) said...

Explanations time:

The Swedish kids sing:

Små grodorna, små grodorna,
Är lustiga att se...


Small frogs, small frogs
Are amusing to behold...

file said...


fillet and me would be most happy to listen to you sing on an isthmus (that\'s isthmus, I\'d really love it actually but we\'re committed to the Yukon now

memory is a bit awry and can\'t find them on the net but I remember that Lake Meloren (sp?) has 3 or 4 little islands just near Vasteras, we used to go and spend the day there

I seem to remember that one of them was a nudist island, which of course we were banned from!

file said...

very difficult to find but one of the islands is called Ostraholman, maybe I got Elba a bit confused! I mean I know of Boneys Elba but I just thought had the same name...

mimi said...

File: surely you mean a nudist island from which you were banned?
Never banned from!

gg said...

Yuke on, Yuke on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never Yuke alone...

Come another year - the isthmus will still be there.

MotM said...

I blame Frank Lampard.

That frog song is playing in my kid's bedroom now!

Hej da.

gg said...

Lampard - and Forsyth.

Tweet it, digg it