Football Manager 2011 Based Story: "The Woodlands Chronicles" Episode One
Football Manager 2011—a mere game created by humans but with such an impact that the producers of the game enlist it as “The biggest job on this earth”.
It has taken the world in storm! The people who start playing this game don’t even care about girlfriends or eating hours anymore. They have loved this game and have grown with it, literally. This game, I tell you, is the main culprit behind the break-ups and hiccups of young age. Many people have documented this game in their own style with marvelous stories. Here, I bring you one man who went berserk with Football Manager stories that you can seriously see some glimpses of English literature in his prose style with some sophisticated style.
Ladies and Gentleman, it’s an honor to present Mr. Iain Macintosh here. Who is Iain Macintosh? Follow this link where you can read an old interview about him at the site where I represent Bundesliga, Back Page Football.
Iain Macintosh can be followed on twitter @IainMacintosh.
Here, I would present his online story based on “Football Manager” experience as Iain himself starts the episodes with these lines:
“What happens when one man takes a game of Football Manager 2011 too seriously? This happens, I’m afraid.”
Wilfred Ang was used to an eclectic clientele. The Long Bar at the Raffles Hotel was rightly renowned as one of Singapore’s classier establishments, but that didn’t always mean a classy customer. Sure, the vast majority of the people he served were lovely, and decent tippers too. But there were others. The drunk bankers showing off in front of visiting friends. The obnoxious ex-pats, the giddy tourists shouting about their Singapore Slings. Wilfred dealt with their idiocy as he always did, with a warm smile and the gentle indulgence of someone who knew that a couple of security guards would be by his side at the touch of a carefully concealed button. And they could do incredible things to people with their thumbs.
This man was different. Darkened by the sun and drawn in the face, he was doing his best to make an expensive suit look cheap. Very cheap in fact, given that the security tags were still attached to one sleeve. Underneath the jacket was a stained, white football shirt with something written in German on the front. His hair was tousled and greasy, his stubble three days old at the very least. He looked dangerous, but more dangerous to himself than others. The kind of man who might start drinking and not stop until his central nervous system hit the reset button. The kind of man who might start smoking and not stop until he’d turned his ashtray into a mini-Matterhorn. The kind of man who, on balance, was unlikely to wash his hands properly after a wee.
He walked slowly to the bar, staring Wilfred down all the way, one hand rubbing the back of the other one gingerly. He didn’t seem drunk or obnoxious and he looked like the last man in the world who could ever be described as giddy. Wilfred coughed nervously.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Drink,” said the man. “I need a drink.”
“Singapore Sling, sir? They’re very popular.”
The man looked at him in disgust.
“Do I look like the kind of man who drinks Singapore Slings?”
Wilfred thought about this carefully. Technically, his customer looked like the kind of man who would put a straw in a car battery and drink the contents if he thought it would get him drunk. Experience, however, and careful monitoring of the tips jar had taught Wilfred that honesty was rarely the most profitable policy.
“Perhaps a cold beer, sir?”
“Yes,” smiled the man. “Beer. I like beer.”
Wilfred took a glass from the shelf and held it to the tap, almost at a right angle.
“Are you new in Singapore, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said the man slowly. “I feel new. I feel very new. But I don’t know when I came to Singapore. I feel like I’ve been asleep for a very long time.”
“Ha!” laughed Wilfred. “I know that feeling. Party last night, was it? You should have seen me the morning after New Year. Ha ha! Year of the Horse? I certainly had breath like one!”
The man stared at him. Wilfred immediately stopped laughing.
“I remember a party,” he said distantly. “I remember drinking champagne. But Deano had pissed in it. He’d pissed in my bubbles. I didn’t mind. But Deano wasn’t really there. Carlton wasn’t either. I missed them. Why did thou forsake me, Ron?”
Wilfred smiled thinly, put down the half poured beer and edged towards the panic button.
“I don’t remember where they went. I don’t remember where I went. I walked all through the winter, until the leaves returned to the trees. All I remember is the taste of mouthwash, the smell of the sea, the sweet, sweet embrace of sleep and then…nothing. I woke up this morning in a hotel room, naked but for a fez and a particularly stubborn rash. It’s been a difficult day, one that I‘d rather not tell you about. However, I now have a suit.”
Wilfred stared pointedly at the security tag on the sleeve.
“And I also have $20.”
Wilfred looked at the money, then at his tip jar and then returned to the taps. He finished pouring the beer and passed it along the bar. The stranger took a long, deep glug.
“Better. I feel better. What day is it, please?”
“It’s Friday. Friday the 18th.”
“I’m going to need more information. Of which month?
The man’s face fell.
“Good Lord, I must have really been out of it. Still, the only way is up.“ He took another swig of beer and laughed for the first time. “The things I must have missed! How did England do in the World Cup?”
Wilfred looked confused.
“The Football World Cup,” the man repeated. “How did they do?”
“They…erm,” Wilfred mumbled. “They didn’t qualify, sir.”
“Don’t talk rot,” laughed the man. “Of course they did! Spanked Croatia home and away in the groups! I tell you what, in Fabio Capello we’ve finally we’ve got a manager who knows what he’s doing. And with Wayne Rooney, well, now he’s married and he’s got a kid, he’ll settle down and start focusing more on the football. Look it up on the internet, will you? I’m dying to find out.”
“Sir, Fabio Capello hasn’t been the England manager for a while now. He quit when the papers discovered he’d been trying to talk John Fashanu out of international retirement. Are you talking about the 2010 World Cup?”
Colour visibly drained from the man’s face.
“What World Cup are you talking about?”
“The 2014 World Cup, sir. The one England didn’t qualify for. The one that France just won!”
To read more in to what happened next in to this episode, click here.
All you Football Manager fanatics, watch this space for second episode coming tomorrow here on Bleacher Report. Till then, do share this first episode with people around you who love this game and do visit Iain Macintosh’s site to know more about this episode.
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