After all those years of asking players for their number, it looks like someone decided to get even. Read on, as things get well weird in...
The PRISONER "I am not a number, I am a referee, man!"
A light blue Morris 1100 hurtles down Island Road. At the wheel, a furious Joseph McFuddle, columnist, local referee and redundant shipwright has just resigned from Give 'Em Beans! after being referred to as a barmpot and left out of the 'Best Feature' section of the Readers Poll in the last issue. On returning to his flat, a noxious overpowering gas seeps from somewhere behind McFuddle as he searches for his FA Trophy Final 1990 video. "What a smell. I wonder if it was that gallon of mild last night or was it the Chinese? Probably a combin..." As oft times before McFuddle slumps unconscious to the ground. Awakening some time later, Joe stares around his flat with some disquiet. Something isn't quite right. He approaches his five foot high stack of Barrow programmes. "What the 'ell's goin' on 'ere? These programmes are all in order and me picture of Clive Thomas... that's a new frame it's in!" Joe looks up to the light, still trying to make sense of these anomalies. "...and that gondolier the Furness Referees presented me with - it looks as if it's made of real glass!" Bewildered, Joe throws back the curtains and a bizarre sight confronts him, sending a shock wave right through his gut, just like that match at Askam that day - 'Sunday, Bloody Red Card Sunday' as it is now referred to. For there, instead of the usual and reassuring vista of the derelict docks and the gas tank farm, Joe is astounded to be gazing upon a tranquil and picturesque village scene! Still reeling, and searching for some semblance of reality, Joe turns on his radio... click...! "'So as John Brady puts the ball on the penalty spot, he takes a few paces back and...' 'Afraid I'll have to interrupt you there Leo and whisk our listeners up to Brunton Park, where, as I understand it a dog has just ran on the pitch! Can you hear me Nick Barnes?' 'Yes, indeed as you say a Border collie dog of about five years of age has run onto the playing area and ha, ha, ha, ha! It...'" Click!... "Well, good old Radio Dumbria's still there, but they don't usually mention Barrow at all; what the ruddy hell is going on?" Joe says aloud, his voice and mental state beginning to crack. He gathers his wit and heads for the door which opens automatically! Further surprises await him outside. "Morning Number 8!" greets a woman as Joe walks down a street in this strange mock Mediterranean hacienda. "Good morning Number 8!" This time a man is cheerfully bidding and like the first well wisher he is kitted out in a referee's uniform. For the first time Joe gazes down at his own garments and instead of his usual Poundstretcher casuals Joe is further bemused to find he is also wearing a referee's kit, but unlike his own, where his mother had sewn his FIFA badge (£7.99 BG Sports) his breast pocket sports a circular badge with a large '8'. Joe continues down the street past more well-wishing referees and pauses outside an impressive looking building crowned with a large green dome. Vaulting the steps one at a time, Joe bursts through a succession of double doors until he finds himself in a large, hi-tech circular control room. Centre stage of the video screens and other hardware is a spherical black chair which swivels 180° to reveal a human figure shrouded in its inky interior. From the unseen face a voice welcomes our hero... "Come in Number 8, come in old chap, we've been expecting you. Would you care for a cup of tea?" Joe peers into the shadowy orb. "Where the ruddy hell am I?" he asks. "In the Village." "What ruddy village... Cartmel? Is the big lad still banging the goals in? Any road up, what do you want?" "Information, we want information. Why did you resign?" "Resign!? Well... well; everything... the insults... the poll... Brian Kidd... the Southport game... everything! And who the ruddy hell are you, by the way?" "I am the new Number 2." "Well, I won't ask who Number 1 is, because nobody knows that this season!" "You are Number 8." "Number ruddy 8 - what's that all about?" "You first appeared in issue number eight. So why did you resign, Number 8?" "I am not a number, I am a referee man!" Joe turns and storms from the control room, maniacal laughter ringing in his ears. Using his years of refereeing experience, he runs about like a headless chicken and does the first thing that enters his head, going plummeting down the nearest street towards a distant beach. In the control room a figure emerges from the darkness of the globe chair into the harsh neon light to reveal the grotesque and grinning features of... the Editor. Reaching for his desk mounted mobile phone, he glances at a surveillance monitor and speaks crisply into the mouthpiece... "Black alert, repeat, black alert... Number 8 out of control on the beach. Release Cyril." From the depths of the nearby sea, a huge slick balloon-like blob is released to surface some fifty yards from Joe as he thunders through an ornate archway onto the deserted sands. At once Joe spies his advancing adversary but just like trying to keep up with the forwards in a game he is officiating, his efforts are in vain. The blob-thing knocks him to the sand and using its oozing bulk half suffocates the prostrate figure. From somewhere within the green dome a detached voice intones "Escort Number 8 back to his villa, Cyril." Joe offers no resistance as the blob-thing ushers him back to his private hell. As the door closes automatically behind him, he sits dejectedly on the bed and as oft times before in times of stress and trauma he takes a dog eared 2" x 2" photograph from his plastic wallet. He studies the photograph for a minute then asks himself "Self, what is happening to me?" He touches the surface of the photograph. It depicts the late, great Bobby Moore presenting a trophy to the frequently unavailable Glen Skivington. A tear drops from Joe's cheek onto the smiling face of Skivvy giving it a kind of animation, a reality... but what is real in this present nightmare scenario? "It's worse than Frickley!" utters Joe as he slumps into a fitful sleep. "Good morning Villagers, it's 6am. Rise and shine; it's a beautiful day!" Brass band music begins to play as Joe awakens to find the nightmare continuing. He looks round his doppelganger flat and prepares a simple breakfast of that product that Cloughie used to advertise. No, not meths... WheetyBangs or something. Drinking down the last of his tea he goes outside to face another day in the Village. "Good morning Number 8!" pipes a portly middle aged man. Joe finds himself searching for the man's number badge. "Morning Number 72." he replies, inwardly scolding himself for playing their wretched game. "But the game is for the full ruddy ninety" Joe replies to his inner self. Strolling self-consciously through this new environment, Joe passes the village green where some of the residents are acting out a bizarre chess match with people as the pieces. Stopping to watch for a minute Joe is reminded of the slow pace and woodeness of the players of Graham Trenchcoat's controversial 'Total Centre Half' theory, which was subsequently replaced by the 'Full Metal Full-back System' with equal success. "I hope to Cowps he's not here as well," muses Joe, when suddenly his eye is taken by an attractive blond among the speccies at the opposite end of the chessboard. Trying to control his excitement at seeing a familiar face, Joe makes his way swiftly to the side of the stunning beauty who is absorbed in the game. "Hello there. I wonder, have we met?" he opened cautiously. The girl turned to meet his intense stare; Joe searched for her name. "I don't think so, Number... Number 8. How do you do? I'm Number 99; pleased to meet you." She held out a perfect hand. As Joe clasped it into his sweating mitt, her name split into his memory like a laser beam. "Lisa... it's Lisa, isn't it? It's me... Joe! You remember... you, you sold those tickets at the soccer... Barrow soccer, a few years ago. I always used to buy some off you!" Lisa's face turned pale and then crimson. She pulled Joe to her and hissed into his ear. "Shut up you fool! Meet me tonight at eight o'clock at the stone boat!" With a flourish of her colourful poncho she was gone. "Hey..." called Joe vainly after her. "Is that a real poncho... I mean, is that a Mexican poncho, or is that a Sears poncho?" That night on the fo'c'sle of the absurd stone boat beach fixture, the two exiled Barrovians met. "Thank Cowps you came, Lisa. Do you remember me from Roker St?" "No, not really; but the accent... unmistakable!" "But I thought we had something back then, on the terraces. Eye contact, body language, sexual chiropody!" "Don't be daft! I used to come on to all the blokes just to sell me tickets." "And are you captive in this place?" "Of course. I just woke up here one morning about two years ago now, but I've been hatching a plan to escape. Do you want in?" "Does the Pope play at Anfield? What's the crack then?" "I work in the Village social club behind the bar. On Monday night the mild barrel will run out. The cellar man is a friend, he will put on a new barrel and arrange for the old one to be taken down to the beach at 4.30am precisely. I have been studying navigation for some months and have been plotting a course from this place which I believe is somewhere in Lithuania to Buccleuch Dock in Barrow. The barrel should accommodate two people easily. Still want in?" The thought of being sealed with the lovely Lisa in a barrel reeking of mild sent Joe's mind into overload but he managed to control the foaming of his mouth to utter "What time, Lisa?" "4.45 prompt, Tuesday morning. Bring provisions. Don't be late." Again, she was into the night like a will o' the wisp. Joe's spirits soared and sleep came easily that night. After what seemed like weeks, Tuesday morning came. Joe's trusty stopwatch got him to the beach at 5.05am, as day was breaking. There it was... the barrel only yards from the outgoing tide! Sprinting to the mighty cask, panic seized Joe as there was no sign of the girl. But pinned to the vessel was a note. 'Dear Joe, They are on to me. I can't make it. All the necessary equipment is in the barrel. Steer due west, then round Piel Island. My brother is a delivery driver in Barrow. He is expecting the barrel Thursday morning. He will take it anywhere in Barrow for a small fee. Please come back for me. Good luck. Lisa' With tears stinging his eyes, Joe clutched the fifteen quid's worth of Scratch'n'Wins Lisa had sold him that night alone together on the stone boat. "I'll be back, my sweet nothing," he vowed as he clambered into the keg and set sail for Barrow. The trip that Joe had initially looked forward to was a grim ordeal, but having been a follower of the soccer for many years, Joe was used to such suffering. True to Lisa's calculations, 47 hours later he was aware of a scraping sound followed by a resonant thud and a sharp rap on the bulkhead of the barrel. "Where to, mate? Lisa said you'd be arriving. You can't come out yet. It's best if we don't see each other." "Fair enough, lad. Take this craft to 9E Brig St." Within fifteen minutes Joe is heading for the very nerve centre of the Give 'Em Beans! Corporation, five quid lighter, but hell bent on revenge. "Honestly, Joe - for the last time we don't know anything about this village place and if you don't want to write any more garb... er, I mean, articles for us; fair enough, after all it's only a bit of fun anyway." In the cold light of day the Editor's reasoning was logical, even probable. Joe sat forward in the luxurious leather upholstery of the office and sank his aching head into his cupped hands, his cranium a myriad of unanswered questions and puzzles. The Editor glided from behind his desk to place a hand on his troubled ex-employee's shoulder. "Come on Joe, buck up son. I'm sure you'll sort it all out in time. There'll be some rational explanation for what's happened. By the way, mate, why did you resign?" Joe looked up, trying to form some sort of reply from his scrambled being. In the distance he could hear the chimes of the town hall clock announcing to the metropolis that it was one o'clock. Suddenly something struck Joe as odd... "The chimes... one o'clock. But today is Friday, the shipyard buzzer should usually accompany the chimes!" Leaping to his feet, Joe pulled back the crushed velvet drapes to gaze upon a tranquil and picturesque village scene! Issue 017 - August 1993