Lambert gave up the futile attempts at sleep

and leapt out of bed with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morn, and pulled on his training wear. It wasn’t anything negative playing on his mind that was causing the sleeplessness, the opposite in fact. He had absolutely no worries on that score. Rather, he had solved a complicated dilemma; how to put The German back in his place.
He’d seen the gif of The German’s wink, and had after much thought finally devised a strategy to nullify it, and escalate the mind-games to an instant checkmate. As he had a free night in midweek due to his touchline ban, Paul had decided rocking up at Preston in a seat right opposite the away dugout would be quite a statement. But he needed a gesture, subtle, but devastating. He considered blowing a kiss or licking his lips would deliver the wrong kind of statement. Baring his teeth was on the right lines, but might look a bit rum if performed for 90 minutes.
Two hours later the answer had hit him. Brushing his teeth. That was the gesture. The German would be all like “Was ist das?” Is he scouting? Has he eaten? Is he scouting something to eat? Perfect mind-game escalation.
The only problem was how to ensure it was picked up by the football camera guys. Again, another couple of hours and the answer became clear. A top heavy tart sat beside him. Football camera guys love top heavy tarts in the crowd. Paul checked his look in the mirror, the all black training wear was a powerful alternative to his black jumper and chino’s, and he smirked at what he saw before leaving the flat.

“Gae-mornen Polis Guy” he said to the officer outside his door.
“G-g-good morning Gaffa” stammered the man.
“All quiet of the Eastern front, aye?”
“Y-y-yes sir”
“Aye, well, get yesil aff tae traynun pal…leave the costume.”

Chambers fumbled to remove the fancy dress police uniform with his frozen fingers to reveal the match kit on underneath. Paul lunged his way through some warm-ups and mused. Chambers was simple but very loyal. Could Chambers and Gill, despite sounding like a pair of solicitors, be his new enforcers, the new Culverhouse and Karsa?

Paul stopped his warmup and barked out into the pre-dawn.
“Gilly”.
A figure shuffled from behind the bins.
“Gaffa?”
“Ye and Chambers, get yesel down taw traynen, get one of the Football Traynen Men to put the cones oot. I want ye tae work on the motivational stencils.”
“Y-yes Gaffa.”

Gill thrust his hand into his cagoule’s pouch and pulled out a notepad. He cleared his throat.
“The Gaffa Is Always Right, What We Do In Life Echos In Eternity, and Sweep The Leg.”
“Aye, nice big fonts Gilly, mebbe goe wae some italics pal. Now, ye’s can make yer own ways tae traynen, mebbe try out a piggy back formation? I’ve got to run these streets lads.”
And with that, Paul was off, striding purposefully into the streets of his town.
“Gae-mornen, bread making folk” he shouted at the bakers at the end of his road.
“Gae-mornen, milk hander-outer” he called to the milkman hopping out of the milkfloat.
“Gae-mornen, valued season ticket holders” he chirped to the bin men emptying the Sulo’s from outside the pub.

The streetlights began a Mexican wave of deactivation as the quality light from the big yellow thing in the sky started to win the second half, after the moon had had arguably the best of the first period.
A King needs to carry the fight to give life to his people, no matter the enemy, no matter the odds. And the King was back, fighting, always fighting. Yes, life was good in this town.

Posted By: MIKEWALKER on February 11th 2019 at 08:51:29

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