Vasa Turns Up The Heat

“Sister, dry your tears and wipe that snot off your face, our region will be the pride of the mudflats; wash yourself with the turnip wine, it’s starting to stink worse than a fisherman’s bilge tank!”

My mind was on other things, such as ensuring my bollocks stayed attached to my body! Obilic proved themselves to be the cheap men of the First Division with a derisory offer for Branko that was rejected out of hand. Then Big Head complained that he wanted first team football. I spent every day avoiding the ground and typical Novi Sad hangouts. Muntpig disappeared that night, and I hadn’t seen her since. I found myself thinking about Angel’s shaved snatch, but there was no way I was going to the ground. I saw Zojan at the bar, and he just laughed. He obviously knew. Then it dawned on me, they all knew. Chuff!
Boris had been so pleased with Big Head’s demands for first team football that he had offered him out on a free, and he was signed up by Mladi Radnick. However, as the transfer window had slammed shut on the chances of offloading players, he was stuck at Novi Sad until July! Or should that be Novi Sad was stuck with him? Either way, they were both stuck!

The first time I went to the stadium was for the friendly against Nis. I kept my head down, and spent much of my time in the dank shithole that served as my office. I hadn’t bothered with programmes; I was only expecting about 50 people. An hour before kick-off, the door swung open and Vasa Orlovic walked in. He looked at me, snorted, unzipped his trousers and started to urinate. I jumped up to punch him in the mouth, but he muttered: “Have you seen your friend, Slobodan Zecevic?” I stopped. He shook off the drips, zipped up, and then whispered: “I can help you. Perhaps if you help me, I can help you. I should be manager here, the programmes should make the fans understand. I can help Slobodan to not see you … or may I help him to see you. You understand?” There was no point in answering. He turned and left. I had to go outside. The office stank. I chatted briefly to the woman on the gate. 53 spectators. Damn, I was out by 3!

By half time, Novi Sad were leading 3-0; two goals from Boggy the Elder and one from new boy Cretin. It didn’t really matter. Nis were non-league and the team was only looking for fitness. The game finished 6-1, with goals from The Invisible Man and two from The Pig. It was worrying that we conceded one against such poor opposition, but all in all, the match went well. Terminal Disease twisted an ankle, but the team was otherwise unscathed. Afterwards I went to the bar to get a beer. Angel ignored me; she knew I’d been with Mrs Zecevic while I was giving her the cold shoulder. Boris came in sat down. I gestured for another beer, which he took without speaking. He took a mouthful, gently put down the glass, and slowly turned to me. He spoke softly: “Mrs Zecevic; Slobodan’s wife.” I nodded. He continued: “One question … was she tight?”

 

NB. As I said before, this is not my own work. It is Vic Flange’s. The original work can be found on TheDugout, right here. TheDugout is dying, so I’m rescuing the story and giving it the attention it deserves.

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