The Terror Squad Returns

Before my typhoid brain disorder, I had been training quite frequently with the rag-taga-muffin group of footballers known fearfully across the district as the Terror Squad. They train at ridiculous hours of the morning, something like six am, basically the crack of dawn, before going out to farm. In recognition of me starting to turn up and maybe since I’m the only one with two boots of the same pair it was announced, following a proper meeting, with pen and paper and everything, to install me as manager. I plan to drill them in the hallowed traditions of English management. That is, play 4-4-bleedin’-2, ‘hoof it’, ‘if in doubt kick it out’, ‘go in hard’ and, if all goes pear ‘glorious’ failure is always a decent option. I envisage making the patch of stones, gravel and sheep poo that is roughly football field-shaped a bastion of invincibility. I imagine being hoisted aloft and borne through the streets of Humjibre with people chanting my name. Though avoiding a lynching should of course be my first priority.