more,’ Andy said, holding up both hands agreeably. He rapped on the counter to attract the attention of one of his team, a spotty young lad who looked like he ought to be in school, who sidled over to take my order.
‘It’ll all come out eventually anyway,’ I sighed as I put my wallet away. ‘Let’s face it, you can’t keep news of a spy under wraps for long.’
Andy straightened up in his seat and stared at me intently.
‘A spy?’ he asked urgently. ‘Here, in the Compound?’
Buggeration.
‘No, no,’ I said, clearly flustered but trying to play it cool. ‘I think you misheard me, son. I said… Fry. Stephen Fry. Yeah, apparently he’s coming to Palangonia on a book tour or something. It’s all very hush-hush.’
Andy looked at me sceptically.
‘Stephen Fry,’ he said, eyes narrowed. ‘Right. But you said the news had left you with a lot on your mind. So how does that work?’
‘Well, he uses all those big words, doesn’t he?’ I explained as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It stresses me out, if I’m honest. Anyway, I’ll let you crack on. Have a good one, yeah?’
I took my breakfast and hurried over to a seat by the far window and sat there watching life in the square outside go by. The fried-egg sandwich tasted like ashes in my mouth – and not just because the head chef, Alf, chain-smoked over the pan while he was cooking. A spy in the Compound – could it really be true? Who would ever want to sell mankind out to the bloody L’zuhl? Oh, sure, there had been some notable defectors – not least the Great Betrayer, Richard Madeley, the popular TV host who had decided, as the horde of alien lizard men laid siege to Earth, that he would be better off joining the winning side. Prat. Last I heard he’d been appointed to the role of L’zuhl propaganda minister. For me, you just don’t do that.
Who could it be? Gerry? Surely not – no one would ever hand over state secrets to a man with hair like that. Then my heart stopped – could it be me? Was I the spy? I quickly batted the idea away. The only notable thing I’d been able to observe during my time on Palangonia was the complete lack of forward thinking from the club hierarchy. And anyway, I’m not cut out to be a spy. Not a real one. James Bond though? That’s a different matter.
In 1994, I’d thrown my hat into the ring to replace Tim Dalton after he unexpectedly quit the role. I was managing Newcastle at the time and things were going great guns, but nevertheless, the role of Bond is not one you pass up when the opportunity presents itself. The producers kindly offered me an audition, after I put together a little video of celebrity testimonials endorsing me for the part, with contributions from footballing heavyweights like Tony Parkes and Howard Wilkinson, all the way up to Hollywood A-listers like Griff Rhys Jones and Chris Tarrant. I decided that Bond needed a fresh approach so I outlined my vision to them during the meeting.
‘The way I see it,’ I told them, ‘the whole MI6 thing is a bit old hat. I propose that, instead of a super spy, Bond is a fully CRB-checked under-11s football coach who leads his team to glory while also defeating corruption within the highest echelons of the junior league structure.’
I could tell they were interested – they said, ‘Well, let’s get this over with,’ which was a clear indicator of how keen they were: the sooner my audition was in the can, the sooner the announcement could be made that Kevin Keegan was the new 007. (Oh – and that was another condition: I asked them if we could change his codename to just ‘7’, in keeping with my old shirt number.)
Anyway, as soon as the audition was in the bag I headed over to St James’ Park to break the news to the chairman, Sir John Hall. He was stunned by the revelation, coming as it did in the middle of a league campaign, but he said he would not stand in the way of such an opportunity. Cracking bloke, Sir John. He began to draft a press release and I went downstairs to break the news to my lads. I bumped into Andy Cole, my top man, and – knowing what a huge fan he was of the series – I wanted him to be the first to know.
‘Heard who the new James Bond is, Andy?’ I said cheerfully.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, Pierce Brosnan apparently. Heard it on the radio on the drive in. Should be good.’
Horrified, I dashed down to my car and put on the radio. I had to wait forty minutes for the next news bulletin, which was tedious in the extreme – though that’s not a dig at Ken Bruce, who is an absolute master of his craft. Anyhow, when the news bulletin finally came round and they confirmed that Brosnan, whoever the hell he was, had indeed been given the role of Bond, I was utterly crushed. I went back up to see Sir John with my tail between my legs and I haven’t watched a Bond film since. Shame.
As I mulled over this bitter memory in Mr O’s Place, someone suddenly sat down opposite me. I looked up from my sandwich and was surprised to see Rodway looking back at me.
‘Morning, gaffer.’
‘Aye, morning, son,’ I replied gruffly. He was no doubt here to grouse about being left out of the previous game – how was I to break the news to him that he’d be missing the next one too? And the thirty-four after that?
‘You look terrible,’ he said, pinching one of the sausages from my plate. ‘Even worse than I did during the week.’
I was miserable – it felt like everyone was out to have a pop at me and now here was Rodway sticking the boot in.
‘Et tu, Rodway?’ I asked, sarcastically.
‘No, I ate one,’ he said, wolfing down the sausage. ‘Any road, I’m sure we’ll get a result on Wednesday, boss. The team from Blipplip are the whipping boys of this league. I mean, their species is just microscopic bacteria – we’ll literally walk all over them. Keep the faith, gaffer. We believe in you.’
It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there. Here was this wayward kid who I’d been quite prepared to dump on the scrapheap and now, with me at my lowest ebb, he was giving me a pep talk. I could see from looking at him that he’d made a conscious effort to clean up his act – he looked fresh, healthy and fit. He was back to the Rodway I’d signed almost a year ago, a street urchin who had been orphaned during the L’zuhl invasion and had stowed away on an evacuee shuttle to Palangonia. This kid was the future of football, I’d known it from the moment I clapped eyes on him mugging a defenceless old man to steal his wallet. I’d said to Gerry as Rodway kicked the ailing man to the ground, ‘Hell of a left foot he’s got on him.’
‘Listen, son,’ I said. ‘I’ve got… something to tell you. Something you won’t want to hear.’
‘If it’s about Gerry’s naked sleepwalking then don’t worry – Gillian warned us all about that months ago.’
‘No, not that,’ I said, though now I felt depressed all over again. It’s worse. Palangonia FC has been canned.’
Rodway frowned, confused.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘They’ve kicked us out of Galactic League C? For one defeat? Can they even do that?’
‘No, the Compound Council have chucked us in the bin,’ I explained. ‘There’s a… well, there’s something going on. Some problem the military top brass have got their knickers in a twist over, so the budget is being redirected to General Leigh, the prat.’
‘What
