Brendan Rodgers sat on the roof of the Carrow Road Holiday Inn and sighed.

Soon men would come, men with hi-viz vests and ladders and nets and angry voices. Brendan would try, oh he'd try all right, but he knew in his heart of hearts there would be no talking his way out of this one.
Jose, FSG, the police, they were all the same. They hated mavericks, renegades, free-thinkers and tinkerers. Of which he was all. A false 9 3/4 here, an inverted wing back there.

Brendan stood up and spread his arms wide, like Rio De Janeiro's Christ The Redeemer but with Tippexed teeth, skintight jeans AND a suit jacket. A formidable look. He honked down a technically excellent draught of the Fine City air and surveyed the beautiful green turf and roared into the early evening sky.

"OH LORD, ITS BRENNO, PLEASE TAKE ME BACK BOSS, BACK TO THAT DAY, OK?"

A 3-2 win and 5 points clear, this was the scene of his last real moments of triumph. When the world believed, truly believed. It all went a bit off script after that, if he was being honest. If only he'd signed Dele Alli, Alexis Sanchez and...Brendan faltered, uncharacteristically. Put off from his thoughts about who else had played really, really well lately by...footsteps?

A figure emerged onto the roof, not clad in hi viz or with tasers and nets. But in NCFC emblazoned training kit.
The man seemed familair, but he couldn't quite put a name to the face. The man held his arms out in a placating gesture and slowly walked, inch by inch, towards Brendan.

Mysterious Man: You know you're not the first guy to think of this you know. A lot people have got problems, especially during the silly season like now.

Brendan: You know s**t, OK?

Mysterious Man: No, you're wrong, pal, you're wrong.

Brendan: You don't know nothing. Don't touch me!

Mysterious Man: Take it easy.

Brendan: Look, I didn't do anything wrong. We simply went again, like Stevie G said we should.

Mysterious Man: I know that. It's not like your murdering anyone or anything.

Brendan: That's right. The only one I hurt was me. Me!

The Mysterious Man was close, now, but Brendan was lost, lost in a brutal flashback of Gerrard's slip, Crystal Palace scoring 3 in 10 minutes, hot tears and cold regrets.
In a flash, the Mystery Man had whipped out a pair of handcuffs and locked them around both Brendan's and his own wrist.

Brendan: Hey! What are you doing?

Mystery Man: See this key? Bye.

The man hurls it in the general direction of Brundall.

Brendan: Who-ARE-you? You're crazy!

The Mystery Man: Oh I'm crazy am I? The guy who invented playing Bradley Johnson on the left wing and sent Bassong to Watford?

Brendan gasped. The Mystery Man, he knew, was none other than his tactically naive and technically poor adversary from That Day. But how could this be? How could he know?

Brendan: Is this purgatory? Am I already dead? Are you a false angel?

Neil Adams: I'm the loans manager pal, and your credit just ran out. You wanna see crazy? Well we're going there!

Adams ran, with the instant acceleration of a former winger, to the edge of the roof, dragging Brendan with him. Ordinarily, Brendan's heft would have stopped the smaller man manipulating him in such a way, but he had his new slip-on's on and no traction whatsoever.
The men hurtled through the air.

Adams: YOUUUU BEEE-UUUUUTTTTTTTTTTYYYYYYY

They landed on the pile of zorb-balls in the Barclay-Jarrold intersection. Brendan now a shivering, quivering wreck. Adams looked to his crestfallen foe and smiled, and held his cuffed wrist up in greeting as The Aviva Lemur trotted over with the bolt cutters.

Posted By: MIKEWALKER on January 21st 2016 at 11:46:52

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