“I’ve got to be honest, it was starting to get embarrassing,” said the Scum boss from his New York home.
“While the rest of the league were physically at the auction, responding to dynamics of the event I was picking up the odd player through silent bids and patchy Whatsapp messages. How do you think I ended up signing Mitrovic?
“How everyone else continually failed to beat someone bidding from 2,000 miles away is really beyond me. Although saying that, I hardly won anything when I actually attended auctions.”
Kenna HQ has dismissed concerns the choice of holding auctions in the pub leads to reduced decision-making capabilities in managers present.
“Kenna managers are dedicated to the league and not easily distracted from the seamier diversions of London life,” said the Kenna chairman in a press conference this lunchtime called outside The Holborn Whippet.
“This is the world’s leading London pub-based fantasy football league and we take that title very seriously. It’s not like we’re all abusing alcohol or getting high.”
STACY Amplebean was working late in her new temping role.
She had found an admin job with a football league to earn some extra money. The work was okay, the money was good, and the people were nice.
In particular, she was a little fascinated with her supervisor Asier. They had worked together quite closely over the last few days and she was taken by his simple but forceful Latin looks. He was in his late thirties he looked like he still kept in shape. He had been a professional footballer.
It was shortly after six o’clock and it was just Stacy and Asier left in the office. Even though it was September the weather was still warm, and Stacy had taken to wearing a short skirt and little top to work in the stuffy storeroom taking inventory.
She was making small talk to pass the time: “People in the office say you were a defender and your tackle is very hard.”
Asier stopped and turned, looking a little sly. He said: “Did they tell you how hard?”
“I suppose I’ll have to find out for myself,” Stacy replied, tilting her head a little to one side.
Asier gave a small laugh and raised an eyebrow. Stacy immediately stopped resisting an urge she’d had for the last week, stepped towards him and kissed him softly on the lips.
As she pressed her body to his, she felt just how hard his tackle was becoming. “Del Horno by name…” said Stacy, before dropping to her knees.
Having undone his belt buckle, she slid his trousers and underwear down. The movement ended with Asier springing back to attention like a corner flag recovering from an errant sliding challenge.
Stacy began to softly caress him with her hands. “It’s true what they say then,” she giggled.
“Now it’s my turn, Miss Amplebean,” he said. Stacy knew exactly what he meant, having heard the reference to her surname many times.
“I didn’t know your English was so accomplished,” she replied, stood and lifted her skirt to reveal a small patch of white cotton already a little moist.
In his experienced, Basque hands her panties put up as much resistance as Real Sociedad under David Moyes.
Before long he was massaging her, his fingers working as deftly and with as much timing of a fin de siècle Arsenal back four springing the offside trap.
Stacy moaned, breathing harder, and thought of Nigel Winterburn.