The Three Fellows:
The Football Match

I.
It was a very cold, rainy day outside the pub in the town of
Muddlestone, and as a result, this establishment was
unusually full of partakers of the hop and vine, many of
whom had simply entered in order to escape the
unwholesome conditions without…

For many of the more sensible variety of these enforced
patrons, this action had a quality reminiscent of the well-
worn phrase: “Out of the frying pan into the fire”, as the
environment within was, arguably, of less appeal than that
outside…

A heavy haze of smoke, issuing forth from the grimy
mouths of several individuals overcome with tobacco
addiction, produced a lack of visibility and an abundance
of accidents, which included knocked-over drinking
vessels, angry collisions and spilt beer, and, for a few
moments, an illusion within the mind of a retired sea
captain, well gone with drink, that he was at sea in a vessel
shrouded with mist, and he cried out in a terrific voice:
“Shorten the sail! All hands on the lookout!

Added to these optical challenges was the lack of space
occasioned by the abundance of human flesh, alcohol of
highly dubious quality, and an incredibly rude bartender
who seemed inclined to treat his customers in much the
same way that a solider treats members of the army
against which he has been called up to fight…

It was in this maelstrom of human confusion and
discontent that Three gentlemen of a certain disposition
could be found, seated at a small table with a large
collection of glasses thereupon- many of them empty, a
few containing some alcoholic concoction…
As to what this certain disposition was, many would not
care to say, but it was not of the favourable kind, and it
was perhaps for the best that their table seemed
particularly engulfed in a cloud of putrid cigarette smoke…

Despite this veil of toxic fumes, many people had
attempted to ascertain their appearance and aspect, as,
issuing forth from one of these dubious gentlemen, was a
constant barrage of coughs, sneezes and grunts,
seemingly delivered with a great air of gusto and a strong
desire for attention…

This gentleman was in fact a short, stout fellow with an
incredibly tatty, weather-worn Mac, baggy trousers and a
huge, unruly beard, which seemed intent upon acquiring a
length and size not hitherto discovered upon the face of
any civilised human being…

There was a certain quality of deliberateness and vulgar
intent about the various noises this person was producing-
in particular with the sneezing, which was of a particularly
loud and far-reaching variety, and which produced such
vast volumes of phlegmatic spray that a couple of
individuals at nearby tables had glanced upwards and
called into question the soundness of the roof which lay
between them and the rain and clouds without…
In fact, one could say there was almost a touch of
braggadocio about them- it seemed that these profound
expressions of unwellness were a matter of masculine
pride with the person who produced them, such was there
violence and power; and even that, should a person of the
female variety happen to be near, these sounds would
result in the arousal of romantic feelings towards this
manly individual…

If one were to grope through the haze and confusion and
join these three fellows, they might notice an appearance
of expectation and even apprehension upon their
features- and, with this point having been made, our story
can truly begin…

“Why did we agree to this!?” the stout man demanded in
between one of his bouts of ardent sneezing.
“Because you thought it was a good idea,” replied another
fellow seated at the table: a young man with a face which
suggested a constant application of cheekiness to any and
all situations to which life could subject it…
“And you said we needed some money”, the young fellow
added, not forgetting to inject a note of cheekiness into
this latter statement.
“That’s right!” Said the stout man thickly, “But I didn’t ‘ave
this bloomin’ cold then- and it was nice and warm ‘n
sunny!”

As though to add yet more drama to this sorry
predicament, the man rapidly emitted another volley of
terrific sneezes, with such violence and suddenness that
a man who had been squeezing past their table with a tray
of drinks very nearly lost his sorry-looking fare to an even
sorrier-looking floor…

A third man seated at the table, who never seemed to say
a word, nodded solemnly as the stout man gave vent to his
irritation.
He seemed on the verge of uttering some profound
statement which would doubtless relive his comrades of
all their woes- yet, no statement was ever forthcoming…
“Bloomin’ cold! Bloomin’ wet! Bloomin’…
AAAHHHACHOO…! BLOOMIN’ FOOTBALL!”
roared the stout man passionately.
“What’s football”? Asked the young lad, with an extra dose
of cheekiness.
“Yer smart enough to know what football is!” asserted the
first fellow moodily, “And if yer know what’s good for yer
yer’ll do yer best!”
The cheeky chappy was silent for a moment- then, looking
at his watch, he said, seemingly to increase the stouts
man’s sense of misery: “Just an hour before the game…”
“Pah! Bloomin’ football!” Was the only response…

These three fellows had been, as was their custom,
wandering about the local area in search of some means
of making a few quid, by whatever means necessary…
An opportunity had recently come their way through an old
acquaintance of the stout fellow, one Roger Thomas, who,
as well as being a teacher in the local school, was also the
manager of the local football club, “Muddlesborough
United”…

Suffice it to say, this latter football club was not exactly
known for its contribution to the history of the beautiful
game…

Indeed, many of its endeavours strayed far from the
principles of traditional football, and instead inclined
more towards disciplines such as rugby, sumo wrestling,
warfare and bribery…

Despite these latter qualities- or perhaps, because of
them- this team had recently scrapped, battered, bullied
and bribed its way into the local cup final…
However, just a few days before the game, tragedy had
struck- three players had been injured during a local bar
brawl and were- if not before- now totally unfit for the
upcoming game…

All of the team’s substitutes (a grand total of three able-
bodied men…) were also out of action; thus, a strategy of
rapid recruitment had been employed by the team’s
manager, Mr Thomas.

Having bumped into the three fellows in the bar, Mr
Thomas had wasted no time in endeavouring to seduce
these three gentlemen into performing acts of violence
and aggression (and perhaps a little football) on behalf of
Muddlesborough United…

At the mention of a cash prize for winning the cup, the
three fellows had hastily agreed to participate in this grisly
affair, and now, just an hour before the game were
beginning to regret this decision…

Three hours previously, the three fellows had paid a brief
visit to the battleground; similar to other such historic
sites of war and bloody conflict, the home ground of
Muddlesborough United had seen its fair share of mud,
blood and tears over time…

A small, muddy field with ill-defined boundaries and
poorly maintained seating areas, this ground would likely
serve as a fitting substitute for the place of fiery torment in
any number of religions…
A series of vague, white smudges lined the sides of this
field, about as straight as an alpine road and as visible as
a black cat during an eclipse…
A game of football here was no game of football; it was 90
minutes of pure, unadulterated suffering, and any man fit
enough to endure its rigours was worthy of the title of
“man” indeed…

Having seen this arena of woe beforehand, and, having
consulted a few locals and hearing their tales of blood and
gore, it is small wonder that the three fellows felt a
measure of apprehension as the time for the “game”
approached; particularly the stout fellow who, during the
last few hours, had developed a violent cold…

Half an hour before the match, the three fellows were
about to depart, when, rushing through the crowd and the
haze, came Mr Thomas, their new manager…
A small, skinny sort of man with thin- framed glasses,
white hair and watery eyes (which, upon closer
examination, also seemed imbued with a certain quality of
craftiness and calculation), he seemed an unlikely
candidate for a manager of a squad of murdering brutes-
however, it was so…

“Lads! I’ve news about the game!” He cried excitedly.
“Eh? What bloomin’ now?” snuffled the stout man.
Mr Thomas assumed a furtive attitude; leaning on the
table and drawing close to the stout fellow (an action he
instantly regretted) he whispered loudly: “The referee is
OURS!”

For a moment, there was silence. Not used to the many
intricacies of football conducted at this level (rock bottom)
the three fellows were a little slow in catching on to this
statement; however, after a terrific sneeze, the stout fellow
suddenly seemed to grasp its meaning…

“Ah!” he said, wiping away a large collection of snot which
had gathered on the edges of his nostrils, “I see…”
“Yes,” said Mr Thomas, “He’s ours, lads! Cost me a pretty
penny and all…”
“So who is this sorry blighter then?” Asked the stout man.
“Well… Actually, he’s just over there, finishing a pint by the
bar…” Mr Thomas pointed with a bony finger.
The stout fellow arose and peered through the smoke.
“That tall bloke with ter red face whose bin’ downin’ pints
like water the last few minutes?” he asked.
“That’s him!” Thomas said.
“Bloomin’ hell!” was the response, “What a lark, eh!?”
“Yea… Anyway, you lads ready to come to the pitch?”
“About as ready as Joan of bloomin’ Arc was to get burnt
alive!” affirmed the stout man, in a moment of rare
eloquence and wit…
“That’s the spirit!” Mr Thomas said, “You boys go along- I
just want a word with OUR man…”

Arthur grunted and moved awkwardly towards the exit; his
two friends followed unwillingly, glancing painfully at Mr
Thomas as they went past.

Mr Thomas smiled grimly; he then went over to the
“referee” and began a most interesting conversation…

II.
The game began as it was meant go on- with agony…
Just one minute in, and a member of the football team
known as Trelby FC had just been carried off the field by a
medic (the local barman) who had rapidly provided his
patient with some medical assistance (four pints of
Muddlesborough’s best bitter- known affectionately by the
locals as “the muddle”).
This injury was a result of a truly terrible tackle by a
member of the opposing team, who, though surely
deserving of a red card and a life sentence in even the
most forgiving of courtrooms, was merely penalized with a
free kick… (This was perhaps a result of 6 pints of “the
muddle” having recently descended into the depths of the
game’s referee, and also a suspicious-looking bulge in the
back pocket of the aforementioned official, for which Mr
Thomas was doubtless responsible..)

Having waited till the injured man was removed from the
field, the referee blew his whistle and the game resumed-
to the surprise of a few players, who hadn’t heard the
whistle due to the screams of the injured man…
As this was a cup final, both teams had their full count of
loyal fans in attendance…

In order to make all of their fans as comfortable as
possible, Muddlesborough had provided (stolen) some
plastic chairs from the local school for the game.
Of the six chairs taken, only four turned out to be needed…
Most, if not all of the fans in attendance were present only
because of a certain monetary interest in the game-
gambling was one of the chief means by which the
denizens of Muddlesborough both entertained and
sustained themselves…

The Muddlesborough team was comprised of an uneven
bunch of locals whose footballing abilities ranged from
bad to catastrophically abysmal…
Their equipment and clothing consisted of torn goal nets,
assorted footballing shoes (boots, trainers and, in some
particularly dire cases, even sandals…) and a style of
attire remarkably avant-garde for that of a football team…
The three fellows were no more out of place in the team
than a convict is in the midst of the denizens of
Wormwood Scrubs…

Arthur, for some reason (or perhaps no reason at all…) had
been placed in a centre-forward position.
The tall, silent fellow had been placed in central defence,
whilst the young lad seemed able to roam where he
pleased…

Right from the start, the game seemed locked in a
stalemate of violent interactions between the members of
each team. The whistle seemed to blow with alarming
regularity, and the number of wounded swiftly rose.
“KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN AND GET AT ‘EM!” roared Mr
Thomas from the uncertain sidelines…
This latter statement seemed to be a sort of motto for the
team of Muddlesborough; who, to give credit where it is
due, seemed to abide fairly well to these words..

Halftime approached, and, after having one of their
players very nearly killed by a member of Muddlesborough
United, Trelby FC roused themselves indignantly and
scored a fairly respectable goal just as the 45 Minute mark
was about to be crossed.

As the ref blew the whistle for play to stop, Arthur bawled
at the Ref: “What about extra time!?”
The worthy official replied: “Extra time? What’s that?”

Though the period of fifteen minutes has been widely
established as the acceptable time which runs in between
each half of a game of football, it was in fact a full forty
minutes until play properly resumed- this was due to a
number of factors, one of these being an instruction Mr
Thomas had issued to his defence at the half-time
interval…

Not happy with the way the opposition had been able to
penetrate so deeply into his half of the field, Mr Thomas
firmly instructed his defence to “GET Tight”!
This latter instruction his defenders had loyally obeyed,
when, just ten minutes later, they consumed a large
quantity of alcohol at the small makeshift bar which had
been set up on the grounds for the duration of the game
and very nearly rendered themselves unfit for the game…

This and other matters contributed to the delay; finally, all
players had returned to the pitch and were ready for the
second half…
Just as they walked out to the pitch, the manager of Trelby
FC had announced that yet another of his players had
been declared unfit to continue, and that he was making
another substitute.
This substitute was in fact an unfortunate bystander who
had been recruited to the cause of Trelby FC just a few
minutes previously, as all of the substitutes for the team
were already used up.
This new recruit positioned himself in defence, and, as he
jogged by, Arthur recognized the lad as someone he had
seen conversing eagerly with Mr Thomas just before the
game…

As the would-be Trelby FC defender turned and faced
Arthur, from a few yards distant, he gave him a very brief,
yet meaningful, wink…
“Hmm..” muttered Arthur, “Bloomin’ interestin’…”

The game got back underway, and Middlesbrough United
immediately adopted an attacking mentality.
Arthur was rushed about hither and thither, in a sort of
maze seemingly constructed of mud, rain and his own
snot…

In addition to these challenges, there was the matter of
Arthur’s trousers…
Under normal circumstances, these trousers had a habit
of making a slow yet certain descent, always drawing ever
closer to a complete humiliation of their owner, yet always
saved at the last moment by a grubby paw which jerked
them back up into the realms of precarious dignity…
However, the demands of the game at this current time
made preserving the uppness of Arthur’s trousers a near-
impossible task…
(Once, in a time long gone, someone had suggested to
Arthur that he wear a belt… After a moment of intense
surprise, Arthur had demanded: “Why the bloomin’ hec
would I want to do that!?”…)

As the game progressed, an opportunity arose for Arthur to
make a name for himself…

A certain young lad had made a wild run down the right
wing towards the Trelby FC goal; now, he was just a few
feet from the six-yard box…

Arthur made a stumbling run forward into an enormous
amount of space that had just opened up in the middle of
the opposition’s defence- thanks to a rather dramatic
tumble their new “recruit” had just taken whilst running
back- and, just as he reached a suitable area a few feet
from the goal, a crisis occurred…

Arthur’s features were twisted and contorted with a
sneeze of unusual violence, and, added to the
inconvenience of the run he had just made, his trousers
slipped right down to the ground, leaving him standing in a
pair of red underpants (which were, for a man of thick
proportions, surprisingly small…)
It is doubtful that even the most trained monk of the
Buddhist fraternity could have restrained himself from
laughter after having witnessed such a sight; needless to
say, the goalkeeper for Trelby FC practically collapsed with
laughter.

Arthur, not relishing this mockery, shouted: “YOU…” and,
bowing his head slightly, as he was accustomed to doing
just before acts of violence, he made for the keeper.
Just as this was occurring, the young lad was turning
towards Arthur from a few feet away with the ball at his
feet; suddenly, having struck a particularly thick patch of
mud, the lad slipped wildly, his foot sliding forward
violently and lifting the ball into the air before it collapsed
with the rest of the lad’s mud-spattered body onto the
ground…

The ball flew towards Arthur’s head; within seconds,
Arthur went from being a figure of intense fun to a much-
loved local hero…
In a moment of extreme good luck, Arthur scored with a
fairly firm header.

It is likely that, had the goddess of good luck herself been
present, even she would have pronounced such an
occurrence beyond her powers… But occur it did, to the
amazement and disbelief of all present, and
Muddlesborough United found themselves back in the
game.

After the celebrations had died down (Arthur had been
lifted into the air and marched around the pitch by his
team, sneezing and spluttering over them all the way) the
game resumed.

It became clear that Trelby FC was a beaten team, as
spirits and heads dropped and the standard of their play
descended into depths hitherto thought unreachable by
teams even this far down in the divisions of professional
football…

Added to this fact, was the introduction of a “secret agent”
into the ranks of the Trelby FC team; the central defender
whom Arthur had recognized proved vital in the scoring of
the next two goals, one of which was served up on a plate
for Arthur as the ball was passed to him instead of a Trelby
FC defender by means of a contrived mistake.

Looking ahead to the goal, just 5 feet distant, Arthur
ruthlessly toe-punted the ball straight at the keeper- as he
did so, his boot (a large, cumbersome item with a huge
sole and steel toe caps) came loose and flew straight at
the keeper’s face.
The keeper ducked and, once again, Arthur was a very
lucky hero…

The other goal was perhaps the best of the game; scored
in the last five minutes, from a corner, it was the tall silent
man who rose majestically and with an air of grace into the
air and headed the ball solidly into the top right corner of
the goal…
“Like bloomin’ ballet…!” Arthur had muttered to himself.

Just after ninety minutes, the game ended, and Arthur,
along with his two companions, the rest of the
Muddlesborough team, Mr Thomas, and a tremendous
quantity of mud, blood and snot, which had attached
themselves ruthlessly to anyone within a mile of the pitch,
could be seen in company with a small, oddly shaped
metallic object which, Mr Thomas later assured the three
fellows, was in fact “a trophy”…

Not long after the game, Arthur became very ill, coughing
and wheezing in such a grotesque and frequent manner
that an ambulance was called for, in which he and his two
companions were conveyed to the local hospital.

The whole of the Muddlesborough United team had
watched on, somewhat alarmed, as Arthur had been
loaded carefully into the back of the ambulance.
Just before the doors closed and the vehicle departed,
Arthur could be heard muttering to himself: “Bloomin’
football!”

This worthy individual was committed to the care of the
hospital staff of Muddlesborough for a total of three days,
during which time his voice was rendered essentially
unusable due to the severity of his symptoms.

At the end of this time, his two friends, the tall silent one
along with the cheeky youth, came to pay him a visit and
also some news…

“It’s about the money we got from that game…” the young
fellow began.
“Ah! Finally!” Arthur declared, his eyes immediately
changing from dull, lifeless abysses to radiant orbs of
intense light at the mention of money: “Did Thomas send
us some dough!?”
“Erm, well… Not exactly…” the young fellow continued,
bringing a crumpled sheet of paper out of his pocket.
“What d’ya mean, ““not exactly!!??”” Arthur demanded,
his eyes now blazing with all the power of a supernova.
“Well… In this letter we got from Mr Thomas yesterday, he
says that he has just left the country on a trip and… as we
weren’t around to collect the winnings- you being sick,
like- he says he regrets that he ““…has missed the
opportunity of handing them to us…” Also, he says
something about some unexpected “fees” having arisen
during the course of the game, the total of which, once
they had been paid afterwards, left him with very little of
the winnings…”

For a moment, the lad and his silent companion grew
fearful of some horrific outburst on the part of their
convalescing friend; Arthur had assumed a grotesque,
primitive look of aggression upon his features; also, the
heart monitor which had been attached to him began to
bleep loudly and with great rapidity- in an effort to alleviate
these ominous symptoms, the young fellow smiled and
said with genuine excitement: “But Mr Thomas did send us
something special…! I’ve got it here with me…” and he
reached into the inner pocket of his voluminous jacket and
withdrew a package, within which, no doubt, was
contained this “special” item…

At this, Arthur ceased his terrifying impression of a city
undergoing the rigours of a severe earthquake, and he
looked eagerly at the unwrapped package.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded, “Open ‘er up!!”
The lad eagerly obeyed and began to unwrap the item with
the air of one who has saved the day…

As the last scrap of wrapping came away and joined it’s
companions on the floor of the hospital, Arthur stared
wildly at the item as the young fellow held it proudly aloft…
For there, in all its dull and misshapen glory, was the
trophy awarded to Muddlesborough United three days
before…

~finis~

Authors note: The Three Fellows began for me on a Sunday
afternoon in early 2021… The very first story, which took a
lot longer than those that have followed, laid the
groundwork for an amusing collection of stories which I
have, for the most part, enjoyed writing. I hope that they
will be enjoyed by as many readers as possible and, for
those who have already offered their support, I thank you!
The Three Fellows seem to be surrounded by a certain
air of mystery; from whence they have come and where
they will go is unknown- they wander from place to oddly-
named place, causing trouble and confusion along the
way…
Perhaps, after this fifth adventure of theirs, they will
withdraw from the make-shift stage their author has so
crudely erected, to make way and time for other intriguing
and, some may perhaps say, more deserving characters…
Will this withdrawal be permanent?- Who can say? But for
now, at least, their presence will be felt and- I hope!-
enjoyed in these five fascinating tales…
~Daniel Macintyre~

_{(©️ Daniel Macintyre 28/12/2024)
(©️ Daniel Macintyre protectmywork.com 28/12/2024)}