Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Down in Albion

[Above: Tessa Jowell at Westminster]

Deadly Doug Ellis fixed his tie. Quivering - resembling a man whose best years had long-since trickled away - he screwed open the brylcream, scooped a meagre portion and brushed his white grandad hair back. Today he'd speak on Central News.

I saw that plea. That ill-fated dream.

He gazed at the camera, full of hope, his soft broken words belying a Dunkirk spirit and a fire in the belly. He was ready to submit Birmingham's bid to become the home of the National Stadium to the politicians in that London. For of the 92 clubs surveyed...87 desired the new stadium to have a midlands location. The Birmingham bid was ready to start tomorrow. The Birmingham bid was cheaper. The Birmingham bid was value for money for the taxpayer. Deadly Doug turned from the camera and began his walk to that London with the documents proudly clenched tight to his chest.

Deadly reached the brown Gothic hall where our leaders ponder and peruse in between the tea, piss and debauchery. He rattled on the door. 'Rat'- 'atat' - 'tat'. Perched in a demonic dusty tower Tessa Jowell glared down with her piercing glass, multi-coloured, lizard eyes; her beak pecking away in uncomfortable apprehension.

Deadly looked around, finally that gate slowly opened, an eerie cold voice seeped out through the walls, it filled the air...'come in Mr Ellis, come to make a donation have we?' 

'No maam' replied honest Deadly, proudly clenching the documents near his chest, 'I'm here on other business'.

'Other businesssss?'..............Tessa Jowell slithered from behind a pillar, gliding out of the shadows and appeared before Deadly.

'Yes maam. It's regarding the National Stadium proposal. I've travelled here to deliver a bid from the people of Birmingham. It''s received national praise, been backed by a majority of football chairmen and we believe it's financially the more efficient.'

Jowell's wrinkled face forced a false smile, revealing a hideous array of coffee-stained crooked yellow teeth. 'I ssssee. Well Mr Ellis, you will be aware that we'll need to scrutinise this bid and should it prove favourable, you'll be hearing from us.'

She turned from Deadly's view, the false smile instantly transmuting back to icy sneer. 'I trust you'll show yourself out Mr Ellis' dismissed Jowell. Deadly dothed his cap and went home, back to the forest of Arden.

Jowell? That woman reentered the Gothic castle. Picture the darkened scene, nowt in view but a second figure standing near a red fire licking the black air. 'Have these papers burnt girl' she commanded to her orc-like Essex assistant, rendered vile to behold by years of sunbed usage. 'Yeh OK that's reem, you know what I mean like?' responded the Essex orc in the affirmative. She tossed Deadly's work into the flames. Jowell smirked,disappearing into the room next door. The Wembley bid team were in there enjoying hospitality. Laughter filled the air. The deed was done.

O vile bitch. Lizard-eyed crone, must you act this way? Is your soul not for redemption? Why lie to Deadly and spread false hope? You were never to consider the Birmingham bid fairly in the first place. Logic pointed at the midlands but you turned to other impulses. Foul wench.

Deadly returned to the Forest of Arden. Weeks passed, months, years. He grew older still, but he maintained a stare down his rustic driveway in hope of the positive reply.

Alas it would never come. Deadly was made a fool. Birmingham was made a realm of fools. Shameless Jowell appeared on the news, her cold claws handing over the keys to the giggling Wembley simpletons. 

Poor Deadly. What became of him? We don't know. Some say he died shortly afterwards. Some say he still lives and can be seen floating along the garden of his Majorcan villa. The truth is I don't know, and I don't want to know.

That London clique. They drove him mad with insanity.

They're all in it together. All for London, screw the rest, screw the people. These football Illuminati never go without.

The people's stadium plans nought more than ash on the grounds of a darkened Westminster castle.

It's enough to force tears of pride from those glass lizard eyes. Aye, it might just do that.

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