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» One Touch Football - Archive » Football » 101 short stories about Steve McManaman (Page 1)

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Author Topic: 101 short stories about Steve McManaman
Don Malhumorado
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#1

Our eyes met across a crowded Scoreboard End. You were hugging the post, as if scared the blustery Mancunian wind would blow you out of the ground an in to the Irwell. I was stood, brow etched with furious lines, my face contorted with anger and hatred.

"You scouse bastard." I yelled as you stood impassively, uncaring. "YOU SCOUSE BASTARD."

You looked up at me and grinned your boyish grin, your effortlessly tousled hair waving in the gales. You flashed me the Vs as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and your grin spread further, breaking out in to a charming giggle.

"FUCK OFF YOU SCOUSE CUNT. YOU FUCKING SCOUSE BASTARD."

The corner was cleared and you trotted off laughing quietly to yourself. I willed the ball down to this end of the ground again, just so we could spend more moments together.

You are a Scouse bastard, Steve McManaman. And you always will be. But at least you're not Robbie Fowler.

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Don Malhumorado
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#2
When my folks lived in Croxton Kerrial, a fuck-all village that straddles the A607 between Grantham and Melton, they had an afternoon drinks do with the other village folk and some work people. It was very well to do. And none of my fucking business. But My Dad made me get involved as it would be good to mingle and have some social contact. Fuck social contact. I was in my teens and all I wanted to do was sit upstairs in my room, listen to bad music, play Nintendo, and masturbate if the urge grabbed me. No such luck.

So I mingled with some folk. One guy tried to sell me kevlar body armour. Which, at the time given my lifestyle in Grantham, wasn't a total waste of time for him. But I still politely declined the offer. I wanted to save my money for bottles of blue WKD and treble JDs in the Hogshead in town.

I ended up chatting to a local magistrate. I'd meet them again, years later, when I ended up in the dock for a few minor driving offences. Perhaps my Dad was right then, mingling with these folk was good for me, just not in the way he envisaged.

We got on to talking about football, which was the only subject I was ever really comfortable talking about as a teenager. I mentioned the famous story about Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman writing out a cheque to Roy Evans to pre-pay a fine so they could both skip training and go to the horses the next day. He laughed. I forced a laugh as I was a humourless, dour young cunt at the time.

"I hate Steve McManaman." I told the magistrate. "He's a right twat." Though I doubt I used the world twat. Apart from being dour and humourless, I was very polite. Even now at 27 I've never sworn in front of my parents. "I'd like to break his legs. Not only would it make me feel good, but it'd mess Liverpool up as well."

"Well don't do that!" chuckled the magistrate. "You could end up in front of me, and neither of us want that to happen. You could end up with quite the fine!"

"Yeah?" I asked, as I pulled my cheque book out of my jeans pocket. "How much?"

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Crusoe
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Heh. Like a bitter Dave Eggers story.
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Dynamo Kev
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Well done Don, can't wait for the next 99..
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Don Malhumorado
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Yeah. I may need some help with that. I see this as a group project.
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Harbinger Of Hope
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You kept your court appearance quiet.
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Don Malhumorado
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Every fucker knew about it. It made the Journal. I think you were still in Brum though.
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Harbinger Of Hope
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Talking about the Journal. The mrs made it in last week. Slating some idiots that had written in, saying that they couldn't work out Asda roundabout. Tsk Tsk.
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Don Malhumorado
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You see, this is typical. I leave Grantham nearly a decade ago and finally something happens. I miss all the fun.
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Don Malhumorado
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#3

One night Robbie Fowler was walking along the beach at Chapel St Leonards, when he noticed episodes from his life flashing up before him in the sky. For each sordid episode, two sets of footprints would appear in the sand, one belonging to Robbie Fowler, and one belonging to Steve McManaman.

When the final episode had played out in the celestial cinema, Fowler looked back down the Chapel St Leonards beach and noticed that during the difficult times of his life, the times he'd been at his lowest, saddest, and most self-pitying (for arguments sake from when he hit thirteen to the present day) there was only one set of footprints.

This bothered him no end, and he questioned Steve McManaman about it.

"Hey! Steve McManaman!" he shouted up in to the night sky. "How comes right, when times are tough, you disappear and leave me to field the shit on my own?"

Steve McManaman's cheery Scouse lilt boomed back, "My son, my precious child (he always was a little over-familiar). I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."

"Bollocks." Robbie replied. "Look closely at the footprints. Those ones on their own are mine, see? Check the tread properly. And look at the size. They're deffo mine."

"Errr, well..."

"Well nothing, McManaman, you fucking splitter. You can get to fuck. I've been carrying you your whole career. Even when we were both shit."

And with that, Steve McManaman fled from the skies, over the sand dunes, and in to his expensive car which he drove back to Butlins Fun World near Skeg where he was staying.

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Barndoorio
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I think hitting the celestial biblical tales in only story number 3 may be an editorial mistake. Where do you go from here?

I imagine there's room for a journey to the centre of the earth and possibly a tale about the sun and the wind fighting ot get Maccas coat off of him though.

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G-Man
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Great stuff, EIM. For goodness sake, don't let them rot here!
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Don Malhumorado
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#4

One day, Steve McManaman and Robbie Fowler were walking in Delamere Forest, looking for a nice flat, open bit of ground where they could play a spot of football. So the pair didn't get lost, Robbie Fowler left a little trail of money gleaned from his poor, slum dwelling tenants.

"Eh up Robbie, we'll never find this pitch." said Steve McManaman. "let's just go home to our Cheshire mansions and laugh at the poor people instead."

"Ok Steve McManaman, la'." said Robbie Fowler. "But we got a problem. Someone has robbed the paper trail I left. We're lost in these woods."

"Oh crap." replied Steve McManaman.

So Steve McManaman and Robbie Fowler trudged around the woods all night, trying to find their way out, just like the Blair Witch Project, but in leisure wear.

After hours of walking, they stumbled across a pure white house. It gleamed under the moon light, and sparkled in the eyes of Robbie Fowler.

"Eh, Steve McManaman, is that house made of....?"

Robbie Fowler was right. It was a house made of cocaine. It was a Smack Shack. Robbie Fowler vibrated with delight and excitement and ran over to the house, snorting the window sills, the door frames and the chain link fence around the pretty little garden. "Fuckin get stuck in, Steve McManaman." Robbie screamed. But it wasn't really Steve McManaman's scene.

All the noise woke up the woman who lived in the smack shack, and she came out of her house, furious. "Who the fuck is snorting my house up?" She roared, looking straight at a wide-eyed, very agitated Robbie Fowler, who couldn't make eye-contact.

The woman got a cruel look in her eye and said, hey Robbie Fowler, if you liked that smack shack, I've got plenty more where that came from. I'm the local dealer for Delamere Forest. Robbie, unable to form coherent sentences, just chewed his lips, and mumbled. Steve McManaman just followed his mate, like he always did.

Once inside the house Robbie Fowler noticed a distinct lack of drugs or paraphernalia. "Er, what's the story here?" he asked the lady.

"Get in this fucking cage!" she cackled, and shut both Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman inside a WWE style cage. They were trapped with no escape.

Well, I say no escape. Steve McManaman had always been the skinny kind, and just slipped through the bars, like he slipped through the Celtic defence in that UEFA Cup tie in 1997. He looked at Robbie Fowler and laughed. "Serves you right for being so fat, you useless knacker. I'm off to Madrid, you're not bringing me down to your level, you stagnant prick." And off he waltzed, light on his feet like a forest nymph.

Steve McManaman didn't see Robbie Fowler for some years, until all manner of coincidence and misfortune brought them back together at Manchester city. Robbie Fowler was still a fat, useless knacker, but by then so was Steve McManaman. But at least Steve McManaman had won some trophies.

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The cantering captain
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#5

As Mcmanaman turned away from the bar, a tsunami of fear washed over him. What had he done ? What. Had.he .done. Looking quickly down at the tray in front of him again, he saw it, nestling innocently amongst the 4 pints of Fosters, a small glass of green liquid. His nemesis. His greatest ever mistake. A midori. Briefly he considered fleeing, but a quick glance across the room told him that the baleful stare of Jan Molby was already upon him, so he squared his shoulders and set off towards the 3 tables.

The monthly Liverpool reunion had seemed like such a great idea to start off with, a few old pals meet up to have a few laughs, sink a few drinks, relive the glory years. Sure there was banter, as some of the older lads brought in their medals, and the younger ones showed off their nice hair, but it was all good natured. After a while though, things started to turn nasty, factions formed, boundaries were set. The commentary mob, the failed managers, the bealers.

As Macmanaman walked slowly towards his table, sweat dripping from his bangs and rusting his suit, a million thoughts flew through his head.

He had originally been in the commentary mob with Al, Lawro and Jamie, but once the Setanta Steve jibes started flying, he'd found himself relegated to a table thick with resentment, Sammy Lee, John Aldridge, Ian Rush and a recently stomach stapled Jan Molby. He knew he was hanging on by his fingernails there, one slip and the ignominy of the bealers table awaited him. He couldn't take it. Only last week Keegan had come strutting into the room boasting about his new Newcastle job, to be sent running weeping from the room 5 minutes later, as his celebratory glass of milk was mercilessly ridiculed. And he'd gone and bought a bloody Midori, the sweet, melon based liqueur was a secret vice of his, but he knew it wouldn't play well with this audience. His table were hardened drinkers to a man, while the commentators could also pack it away. Hansen could put away the Whisky and Irn brus like it was going out of fashion, and hadn't he seen Lawrenson nail 4 or 5 Tia Marias only last week ? And still go on to give a flawless co commentary later that evening.

Motty – So who do you think'll be the new Ireland Manager Mark ?
Lawro – No idea John
Motty – Who's that playing at 7 for Italy Mark ?
Lawro – Fuck knows John.
Motty – Oh and isn't that Franz Beckenbauer in the crowd ?
Lawro – Never heard of the cunt John.
Motty – And isn't that your wife he's touching up there ?
Lawro – She certainly looks familiar, but to be honest it's not often I see her at that angle John.

The man was pure class, and he was about to humiliate himself before him.

Steve carefull placed the tray on the table, and handed out the lagers one by one, until only the midori remained. Silence spread over the table, and its surroundings. 'Is thara Midoooree?' barked Jan grinning agressively at Macmanaman. All 3 tables of men leant in to hear the reply, sensing blood. Macmanaman gaped back, sweat now forming in pools on the titanium shoulders of his suit, he was dying here,flashing before his eyes was a giant neon sign reading 'Midoooree Steve Macmanaman', he could see it now, they'd probably put it on his grave stone. But then, as he straightened up, inspiration struck.

'No, actually its a crθme de menthe' he said, and in one swift movement lifted the drink and sank it down in a oner. As he slammed the glass back down on the table, he stared back at the failed managers. For a second they stared, then turned morosely back to their lagers, only Aldridge commenting quietly 'fucken hardcore'. Macmanaman though was in trouble. As the sweet fruity drink washed across his tastebuds, his gorge rose, and he felt a wave of nausea came over him. Groaning he reached for Kevin Keegan's life sized replica of the european cup, and vomited copiously into it. As Keegan began to sob and snivel, Macmanaman lifted his head and looked over towards the commentators. 'Quality' said Hansen, pushing a chair towards him. He was back where he belonged.

[ 02.03.2008, 10:45: Message edited by: The cantering captain ]

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Don Malhumorado
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Shown up in my own thread.

But you need to number it, Captain. Keep the flow, errr, flowing.

Posts: 14591 | From: Paper Street | Registered: May 2002  |  IP: Logged | Report this post to a Moderator
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