The Scout or Welcome to South Bermondsey

That was better and it worked. The blokes started running around and I could even see smiles appearing on their mugs.

"Roberts! Why the hell are you grinning? That's what I got from Harris. "Where is your place?! On a bench or something?! Who the hell are you here?! A Scout?! So fuck off and watch these fuckers from Blackburn! What the hell are you doing here?"

Johnny patted me on the shoulder. Grinning from ear to ear, rubbing his hands together.

"I thought it was all over." Martin leaned in close to my ear, and a wave of garlic and some other familiar smell washed over me.

"Are you drinking something?" I asked in a whisper.

"How’s that?!" He laughed.

Contrary to all forecasts we rolled out strong against the Rovers. Three-one. Twice it was Parker, once with a penalty for playing using his hand, and then Johnny Kenneth, with a long shot from-behind the penalty area. And then even Sigurdsson's own goal in the end did not spoil the mood of anyone but the Icelander himself. They laughed at him and teased him in the locker room afterwards, and that was it.

Our fans were so happy! Three wins in a row, which by the way, this season had not happened even once, and they just went mad. They were already not quite normal if they supported a club like ours. The only time I've ever seen people who were more unhappy was when I was watching hockey in Buffalo one winter. It was cold and windy, and there's just nothing in that city, no normal entertainment, no booze, nothing. Then they huddle in their ice palace and yell: "Let's go, Buffalo!" And so on for three periods in a row, although after the first they were already in the hole nil-six. Probably, in comparison with them, ours are still a little less unlucky. At least you can pop someone in the mug out of grief. And you don't even need to go far for that, there are Chelsea or Yids right next to you.

So, from such happiness, our blokes just went insane. The Fans arrived at the base on Tuesday. They knew that Monday was a day off, and no one would be at the base. Songs were shouted out, flares were lit. They acted like the Tiffozi, only they were dressed more decently.

On Wednesday, some blokes met little Fleming in one of the establishments and they didn't let him go until they'd made sure he drunk himself senseless. What discipline? Fleming was barely alive and could barely move his legs in training for two days. I won't even say anything about the social networks. All over the net they were still going nuts about Harris and the scoundrels in the club's management. Generally speaking, this entire orgy of happiness should have ended badly, and thus it so happened.

Johnny picked me up on Friday.

"Come on, Alex, let's sit down."

"Johnny, thank you, but I don't have time. I have to go to Exeter."

"Bloody hell, Alex. What haven’t you seen there? There are also only black ones. And ones that compared to your Cameroonian, are like way before Premier-League."

"You're a racist, Martin. You know, money doesn't know colour."

"Are you taking the car or the train?"

"I’m going by train."

"Then let me give you a ride. We need to talk."

He was driving badly. He twitched, broke sharply, and in general was somewhat nervous. I was silent. There's nothing I could do to help him. Let him speak for himself.

"That’s it."

"What’s it?"

"It's over. Harris is being removed."

"Oh, come on? How do you know that? Did you talk to the Big Boss?"

"Yes. I honestly explained to him that I didn't want to be a rat and couldn't work with the blokes without the old man. That today there was nothing better than Harris for the team. I told him that we have gained momentum and do not need to break anything."

"What about him?"

"Well, what about him… You know. If he's got the reins under his tail, there's nothing you can do about it. Generally speaking Harris is not permanent."

"That's disgusting. That’s bad."

"Too bad," Martin agreed. "I don't know what to do now…"

"When will it be announced?"

"Tomorrow, before the match."

"Wankers…"

"Yeah."

At Exeter, I was checking out a bloke to play as a fullback. He was a tough Irishman, aggressive and mean but for serious work still a little green. Losing his head he picked up yellow cards during the season. So in this match he got his "sick leave". Although he must be given his due, he always sees everything on the pitch and was good during the selection process, true that was by Exeter City standards. I'll have to watch him a couple more times. It would be interesting to watch him in the cup, against a stronger team than the one from Oxford.

It was almost midnight when I got back to London and I immediately fell asleep. In the morning, I had twenty-nine thousand new messages on my smartphone.

As soon as I read the first one, the phone rang.

"Alex, you owe me one." It was O’Grady, "What's going on at the club? Are they filming Harris?"

"Sean, bloody hell, I just got up. I got in really late last night."

"Alex, stop whining!" He was insistent. "You know if it's true, I should write about it first!"

"Sean, what are you talking about? We’re on the way up, they have never been in better form and the blokes are ready to carry the old man in their arms. What possible dismissal?"

"Bloody hell, Alex. You are a real arse!" He didn't seem to believe me.

It looked like it was going to be a hot day. It was worth getting ready. I had a couple of whiskies at breakfast. I took a taxi right to the stadium as it was better not to go to the base.

Our bus arrived at the stadium forty minutes earlier than it was supposed to and I have never seen anything more heart breaking in my life than the way our blokes crawled out of it. Iron Mikey led them to this match as a playing coach and neither Harris nor Johnny Martin was with the team.

I didn't go to the locker room as I had nothing to do there. I walked around in the stands, met a few friends from the club, and talked to them about Harris. One of the doctors told me that Johnny also seemed to have refused to stay on with the coaching staff, although this may have been a rumour. I watched the warm-up from the bench. The blokes were running around nervous and they were all wound up. It was like there were electric shocks in the air. Something was going to happen.

From the very beginning of the game, the pitch was covered with smoke, one of our loudmouths lit something which produced serious smoke and in response the hooligans from Cardiff lit their own flares. They must get them into the stadium in their arses, I thought, for me it was always a mystery. As far as I could see no one actually watched the football match for the first twenty or even thirty minutes. The stands roared with curses at the Welsh and the guest sector kept pace. In general it was just the usual thing for such matches and that was mostly what any decent audience was going to watch. After all you can't really watch football when there is such line-up as Millwall vs Cardiff City. It was definitely not Barcelona vs. Real Madrid.

Towards the end of the first half, when the flares seemed to have run out for both our idiots and the dear guests of «Den», the smoke finally cleared and it became clear that there was nothing but complete rubbish taking place on the pitch.

As a coach Iron Mikey turned out to be quite brutal. I do not know how he motivated our blokes or how he pumped them up, but it all came down to the ruthless extermination of enemy midfielders, to endless jabs and fighting for the ball in the centre of the pitch. The entire tactic of our team today was hitting the ball as powerfully and far away as possible, everyone seemed to have forgotten about some sort of passing in the game. Overall it appeared to be more like rugby than football.

We have to give due tribute to the Cardiff players, they probably also missed playing such a game and gladly accepted the proposed rhythm and intensity, taking hits and tackles hard in the legs, using their elbows and knees, like in Thai boxing. Well, you can probably understand them, as their coach had also been a defender and a bone breaker in the past. At the beginning of the season he was still trying to teach his "masters of the leather ball" to exit a defensive game through short passes, something which Guardiola was also looking for, but when in the first few matches this «tiki-taka» brought them a series of goals into their own net, he returned, so to speak, to the roots.

At the break, the team line-ups were incomplete when they left the pitch. Their team removed two players and we only took out Davey Roberts, but five more were hanging on yellow cards.

My ward got kicked in the legs a couple of times, but he seemed to be doing a great job and didn't get into any fights. I simply couldn't miss the second episode of the show called "the setup from Iron Mikey" and found my way into the locker room.

Our new coach was pleased with the "dedication and team pressure". I didn't even know Mikey knew such words. He was especially pleased with how the "Welsh faggots" ran to their dressing room with their tails between their legs and seemed afraid to come out for the second half. Well, that's what he said for good measure. Ours, of course, had also paid a price. Adam Varga couldn't even step on his left foot and Parker had a deep cut to his eyebrow, but Mikey was relentless, and his pumping up of the team ended with a roar of "For Harris!" What the blame of the blokes from Cardiff was for the resignation of the coach is something history is silent about but they had to be held responsible for this.

Just before going back out onto the pitch I caught Mikey's arm.

"My friend, get my cannibal off the pitch," I whispered softly, so that no one could hear me. "They'll rip his legs off."

"Don’t worry Alex, don't piss yourself!" He smiled again. "Fabrice is a smooth bloke! We’ll play well!"

He’ll play well of course.

The second half matched the first. However, their coach had managed to bring his blokes to their senses during half-time, so City finally started playing football. We were saved by the fact that they had one less player than we did, although even with unequal squads they showed us what the difference is between playing football and "team pressure" from Iron Mickey.

At the fiftieth minute they brought their striker into a killer position, but how he did not manage to score remains a mystery. Then a dangerous shot was made after a corner kick and at the end of everything, their captain fired a free kick into the crossbar, but somehow the score remained even.

In the final minutes, our «coach» finally got a red card and went to the locker room, having had time to «talk» to their assistant manager on the way. In general, Iron Mikey's coaching debut went off quite well and even though the score remained nil-nil, the fans really liked the match. It was all particularly touching.

I prayed all through the second half that my charge wouldn't get his legs blown off and that he wouldn't respond to one of their racist defenders. Thank all the gods, Fabrice managed to hold off and only got one yellow card, and it seemed that he stayed on his feet after the match without any assistance.