So you all know the story. Tyrannical miser, obsessed with money and who horribly mistreats his employees gets visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve who attempt to teach him the error of his ways before morning. The ghosts are the interesting bit obviously so I’ve skipped straight to the spectres of GTFC Christmas past, present and future........
Fenty laid in his gold plated four poster bed, designed like an up side down snooker table, with the curtains drawn and the cashmere and leather bedclothes tucked up warmly around his chin. All outside his window was cold and silent, the kind of peace that can only be found in a mock Elizabethan property on Humberston Avenue.
Suddenly he was wide awake. There came a noise outside the window. A moaning and clanking noise but muffled by the triple glazing. Cautiously Fenty peered through a gap in the curtains, confused as to how anything could be moving in the garden other than the dobermans he’d bought after that incident with his motor. He mistreated those dogs as he mistreated everyone else, keeping them on short rations and kicking them whenever he wanted to make himself feel better. One of them had taken a chunk out of the club mascot but that had all been hushed up after the unfortunate servant was threatened with being banned from BP for life.
What he saw between the curtains caused Fenty to start backwards onto the bed. Floating over the back garden shrouded in mist was a pale glowing figure wearing an ill fitting suit and a vacant expression. Fenty couldn’t make out who the apparition was although it looked strangely familiar, the ghoul appeared to be mouthing something but again the swedish glazing was doing its job. Fenty opened the window a crack to hear.
“Shut up, shut up” the ghost was wailing. Now Fenty recognised his old business partner Stephen Marley. He was wrapped about with chains which in turn were wrapped around a number of huge petty cash tins that had upon them massive locks. On the top of each tin was engraved the words ‘Benign Loan’. They appeared to be a terrible weight and the ghost of Marley was being dragged down by them only to struggle back up towards the window.
“What are you doing here Marley” exclaimed Fenty in amazement. “You’re not dead, I thought you’d just gone to Benidorm for the holidays?”
In a terrible voice, like the rending of a key being pulled over expensive paintwork the creature spoke. “Shut up John,” it said, “I am here because I have learned the error of my ways. It’s too late for me but I have come to save your soul, there’s still time for you.”
“What are you talking about - error of my ways? I’ve never made an error in my life - except perhaps for Slade’s second spell. And that wasn’t really an error I got hypnotised by that power point presentation and before I knew where I was I’d offered him a contract....”
“Shut up,” thundered the apparition again, “you never listen. Tonight you’ll be visited by three more spirits. Heed well what they teach you and if you do you may still be saved. If you do not you will end your days like me haunted by the debacle of ITV digital and doomed to roam Imperial Avenue chained to these for all eternity.” Marley raised his pudgy arm and the cash boxes on their chains clanked mournfully. He began to float away behind the timber framed building that housed the jacuzzi which had been granted retrospective planning permission after the local elections.
“Wait Stephen,” called Fenty in perturbation. “What must I do to avoid this horrible fate?”
But it was too late the ghostly figure floated over the mock Georgian duck pond and away towards the Country Club and beyond that Wilton Road.
Shutting the window tight in its wake Fenty climbed back into bed. Poppycock and humbug he would have said if he’d had someone to write his press release but sadly he’d given that servant the day off for Christmas (much against his better judgement). He’d lost his trusty game of bull excrement bingo which had provided such inspiration over the years so he settled back muttering cynically to himself about tyre kickers. It wasn’t long before the expensive fabrics and underfloor heating lulled him back to sleep with their warm embrace.
Some time later, he wasn’t sure how long Fenty woke again with a start. There was a warm glow in the corner of his bedroom penetrating even the heavy drapes that shrouded his bed. He peered cautiously towards the light and as his eyes became accustomed he could make out the figure of a man small in stature but with an aura somehow larger than his physical appearance. He was wearing a track suit. There were two initials on the chest but it took a moment for Fenty to read that they were an A and a B.
The figure spoke in a slight west midlands accent, “I am the one who’s coming was foretold, I am the ghost of seasons past, heed well my words John Sheldon Fenty.”
“intercourse me,” exclaimed Fenty, “it’s the spirit of Alan Buckley mk1. That’s a low blow. I’m so sick of being compared to Bill Carr’s tenure. Well you can’t teach me anything I don’t already know so you might as well clear off back to Radio Humberside and stop haunting me.”
“You will watch my show reel young Sheldon,” intoned the spirit ignoring his protestations. “Half your problem is not respecting the glorious past, not just mine but that of Laurie Mac, George Kerr Shankly and the others. None of your appointments would have been fit to lace the boots of managers past.”
As the ghost of Buckley spoke a flickering series of moving images played on the bedroom wall. They appeared to be a compilation of clips from the Fishy showing black and white clad players. There was Matt Tees hanging above the old Pontoon goalmouth arrowing a header beyond a diving custodian. Tony Ford crossing from the wing in front of the main stand. Garry Birtles spraying a pinpoint pass from midfield. Thousands of cheering fans packing the stands at BP in the cold under the old floodlights, all their cares forgotten, united in joy as John Cockerill smashed an unstoppable shot into the top corner of the away goal. Or maybe was it Ron, it was hard to tell through the tear in my eye.
“So what,” croaked Fenty turning his head away. “They never had to deal with what I had to, it was all easier in the olden days. Fiddlesticks, history and tradition means nothing.”
“Then you’ll never learn the error of your ways,” intoned the spirit of Buckley. “But there are two more who follow me so there may be hope yet.” His light began to dim and the pictures on the wall began to fade. The last image Fenty could make out was a group of men in old fashioned clothing sitting around a table in a public house called the Wellington Arms, then it faded completely to black and he knew no more.
Time passed, Fenty knew not how long. He was next awakened by a scratching sound at his bedroom door. He could hear sounds from the landing as if a small figure was moving from foot to foot in a shifty fashion. A wheedling voice sounded through the closed door, “Come on John me old mate, me best pal, it’s Alex I’ve got a suitcase full of cash for you. Come on me old mucker let me in you know it makes sense.” It was the ghost of the present season come to continue the lesson as foretold by Marley.
Fenty reached out to unlock the door but stopped himself. He really wanted to take this spirits money but was worried that someone would find out. He turned furtively and looked over his shoulder as if half expecting to see Lloyd Griffith tweeting in the corner, there was no one to see so Fenty admitted the spirit of Christmas present into the room. A little wide eyed ghost wearing prison clothes sidled into the room a sheaf of mortgage deeds hanging out of his pocket. He was pushing a carry on type suitcase on wheels, full of used notes. “They’re all yours John my mate,” spake the monstrous apparition, although to Fenty he appeared friendly and reasonable. “It’s a million smackers. All I need is a meeting with the Council and the account details for the regeneration money. It’s your chance to leave a legacy for the town, they’ll put a statue of you outside the training ground, make you a Freeman, carry you round the pitch on their shoulders.”
“Oh yes that’s what I’ve always wanted,” whispered Fenty to himself. He reached out towards the case all went black and a chill crept into the room. The spirit disappeared in an instant together with his case of money. For a second his empty promises hung in the air like a vile smell blowing in on a bitter easterly wind from the fish meal factory. Then there was just blackness.
Hours passed and the grey fingers of dawn crept slowly over the frosty horizon and peeked into the window of the big house. Fenty stirred and rubbed his eyes. He was confused and looked around the room. There was no one else there. Outside was a grey and cold and friendless early Christmas morning.
“No third spirit?” thought Fenty scratching his head through his night cap. “What’s has happened to the ghost of seasons yet to come?”
But look as he might there was no spirit showing the future. It took Fenty quite a while before he realised that there would be no future seasons. It took even longer before he realised why that was.
If only he’d done the deal on Christmas Eve when he had the chance none of this would ever have come to pass......
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