Shyton United

4th MAY, 2013

4th MAY, 2013From the Twitter account of @JoeMeek, President of Fudge Packer for Life (FPL) supporters club: ‘Biggest game of season. Biggest game ever! Get down & support Shyton. #PLHereWeCome #FPL’

It’s match day, the day of the biggest match in Shyton United’s history. If they won against Crystal Palace, they’d finish second and automatically get promoted to the Premier League. We were in the Creek Alley Stadium’s rather small changing room that had just a few wooden benches, a few hooks, a couple of showers and Old Sally, Huge Jack’s buffer. Charlie Greencock, with his ever present hands-free headset, delivered a lecture from his whiteboard that displayed a 4-4-2 formation. By his side, as always—like a resident sidekick—was assistant manager Ben ‘Mystic’ Twaddle – a shaggy-haired guy in a brown and white Shyton United tracksuit. Speaking of shaggy, he did look a bit like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Mystic always either had his hands clasped together in prayer or would move into a Muslim prayer position. Which deity he prayed to wasn’t clear… If it was a deity. He may have worshipped William Shatner for all anybody knew.

Sixteen or so footballers, all wearing their fudge-brown Shyton United football kits with white trim, sat glued to the gaffer’s every word… or were just numb from having listened to him all season. I wasn’t sure. My brain was still numb from yesterday.

CHARLIE: Alright, you talentless no-hopers. Thanks to me and my enormous tactical brain, we’re a win away from automatic promotion.

BEN: Heed Charlie’s words. The force is strong with him.

CHARLIE: Listen up, if you score first, you have a 75 per cent chance of not losing the game. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to work out that you have to get off to a good start and score.

Shyton United owner, Sid Chesterton stormed into the changing room like that X-Men character whose name I’ve forgotten. There he was smoking a cigar and wearing a John Motson-style sheepskin coat—almost the exact same as Huge Jack’s. They must’ve shopped at the same place. They also looked an awful lot alike. I had heard they were cousins but many wondered whether they were in fact twins who had been separated at birth because of the expense, with one of them having been offloaded to an aunt. Alongside Sid was Maury Git’a, like a creepy shadow—a creepy Robin to Sid’s retired Batman.

SID: Alright laddies. Final and biggest game of season, nay, biggest game in club’s history. I want you to show them true Shyton grit that only a fudge-packer can stand.

TOMMY: Come on boys!

Shyton United headed out of the changing room. Tommy head-butted a wall, then charged out. James ‘K-Y’ Black, the lanky goalkeeper head-butted the same wall and collapsed. I helped him back up and he thanked me by calling me Tony. I corrected him. I managed to get a quick word with Tommy.

STANLEY: Tommy, you’re not too fond of Charlie Greencock, are you?

TOMMY: The gaffer’s a complete c**k. c**k by name, c**k by nature. I’m gonna nut him one of these days.

I didn’t doubt him.

There was a vociferous sell-out crowd cheering on their heroes, Shyton United. The crowd chanted ‘C’mon you fudge-packers!’ It did bring a tear to this documentarian’s eye and not much makes me tearful—except for when Captain Kirk allowed Edith Keeler to die. The town had suffered so much, what with the chlamydia epidemic, and now here was a ray of light.

The first half saw Shyton United try shot after shot at the opposing team’s goal without success. It got to a point where Tommy tried to be fancy and lob the goalkeeper only for the ball to be just tipped over.

TOMMY: f**k a pig in the arse and call it barbecue!

He was evidently frustrated. I wasn’t sure if that could ever be considered barbecue. Anyway, by half-time it was still 0-0 and the gaffer wasn’t happy as he tried an alternative pep talk by conducting it in the centre circle with the Shyton United team seated in it. It was more awkward and embarrassing than when Pip Turner had publicly stated he’d beat me in the short best documentary award at the ‘Doccos’, only to be soundly beaten.

CHARLIE: That was f*****g pathetic! If I had been out there we’d be 5 nil up already. Get down the flanks and shoot on sight, you bunch of p*****s! Jesus, that's a lot of hard work gone under the water, under the bridge.

Charlie stomped off the pitch like a child who had just discovered that he was adopted and his biological parents had been country bumpkins and first cousins.

BEN: Feel the ball into their net, my brothers. Let the force of Christ Our Saviour guide you.

TOMMY: Shut it, Mystic.

Ben clasped his hands together and skipped away to the touchline. That was not unusual for him as he had once auditioned for The Royal Ballet.

TOMMY: Alright, we can do this. Ignore that orange turd.

The second half got underway and Tommy straight away powered forward towards the penalty box when he was on the receiving end of a late tackle. It looked pretty tasty did that tackle. The referee signalled for a free kick on the edge of the penalty area. It was Tommy that was going to thump it. He stepped up and hit a screamer into the top corner. What a thumper!

The fans went wild, waving plastic turds in the air - plastic turds, which symbolised Shyton United and their fudge-packing history. Tommy celebrated by pretending to ‘machine gun’ the fans. He mouthed something but I couldn’t quite catch it.

The match finished 1-0 to Shyton United, which meant they’d secured 2nd spot and automatic promotion to the Premier League—The bestest league in the world. The Liverpools, the Manchester Uniteds, the Chelseas, the Arsenals, and now the Shyton Uniteds. Shyton had earned the right to be in that class.

After the match, the champagne was overflowing in the changing room as the team celebrated. I caught a few words with the gaffer.

CHARLIE: What can I say? I’ve done it. We gave ourselves a hill to climb and we climbed it.

Sid threw open the door with Maury following, dusting down Sid’s coat like he was his own personal servant. It looked like Maury would do anything for that man. Anything.

SID: Lads, lads, lads. You done me and Shyton proud. Now settle down for a bit, I got some news I need to get off me big, hairy chest.

The team sat on the benches, still downing bottles of Asda’s finest sparkling wine, as it turned out to be.

SID: I been with club when we was just a non-league outfit with a stolen park bench for a stand and today, eight year on, we made it to Premier League.

A huge, deafening cheer went up.

SID: But for me, that ride is over. I gone as far as a son of a butcher’s son can.

Butcher’s son? The same fella?

SID: With that said, I sold club.

There was an awkward tense hush like when I shoved my ‘docco’ in front of Pip Turner’s face. Could Sid really have sold Shyton United?

SID: Now, don’t be getting nervy. New owner promised me he’ll keep you all and make Shyton United one of biggest clubs in Premier League, something I could never do. So, up the fudge-packers!

Sid didn’t hang around and he scarpered along with his sidekick Maury. There was stunned silence except for Tommy who was head-butting ‘K-Y’ Black’s upper arm.

K-Y: Stop it, Tommy! Boss!

From the Twitter account of @JoeMeek, (FPL): ‘Yes! Shyton United promoted! @TomMachineGunn legend! #PLHereWeCome #FPL’