The Ed got an invitation to Old Trafford in October
1999. He's been there before, as
you'll know if you read his account elsewhere on this site.
However, this time his visit was somewhat more incident
packed. So much so that we've made it into a sort of film
script, that kind of thing being very popular nowadays. This
is how he got on, in the only very slightly
fictionalised...
SPICE, ANGELS and DEVILS
An Old Trafford Adventure: The Movie
Scene One:
Old Trafford, Manchester, Saturday 16 October 1999, 3.50pm. The Chairman's Suite high in the stand. Present are United chairman Martin Edwards; Bobby Charlton and his daughter Suzanne; Victoria Beckham (Posh Spice); former player Eric Cantona, and Graham Murphy, editor of Give 'Em Beans! Half-time in the Premiership match between Manchester United and Watford. United are winning 3-0. However, something has disturbed Martin Edwards significantly. We see that the red background over which the introductory credits have rolled is in fact his face in extreme close up. As the camera pans back we can see the arteries bulging in his forehead. It looks like he is fit to burst. He is absolutely apoplectic.
Edwards: You stupid anorexic waif. I can't trust you to do anything right, can I? I should have known you'd get it wrong.
As the camera pans back further it becomes clear that the object of his rage is Posh Spice. She begins to plead with him, bursting into tears.
Posh: B-but Martin, don't shout (sob!). Look, Bobby and Suzanne are here...
Edwards: So how much was all this going to cost me? (he jabs his finger at her) Go on, tell me, how much? I'm not made of money, you know! And don't turn away from me! I can't see you when you stand sideways!
Posh: B-but Martin, you said... (sob!) you said...
Edwards: I know what I said, I meant...
Meanwhile news of the commotion has reached her husband, David Beckham in the changing rooms below and, breathless from having run up the many flights of stairs to the top of the stadium, he stumbles into the executive suite.
Posh: David, sob, David, sniff, don't let him speak to me like that. Well, don't just stand there. Do something! Are you a man or a muesli?
Beckham looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. But, aside from an embarrassed shuffle of his feet and a nervous wringing of his hands, he doesn't do or say anything.
Posh: You see, that's why you have to leave this club! I can't stand being treated like this any longer! Geri Halliwell never said anything as bad as that to me! And he won't give you any more money.
Edwards: (calming a little) Oh, get away. What are you talking about? This is me in a good mood. We're three-nil up aren't we? You wouldn't want to see me when I'm mad. And anyway, your hubby does pretty well from this little game, well enough to dispose of a few primates when the fancy takes him.
At this remark, Graham and Eric exchange quizzical looks, and then glance at Beckham who merely shrugs.
Posh: (seeing Edwards composure returning, and rallying) Oh yeah, so how come Roy Keane earns twice as much as my David?
Edwards: (ballistic again now comparisons of wages have been brought into it) Why you... How dare you bring that up again? In fact, I've just about had enough of you rubbing it in, pencil neck. 'Cause that's just it, isn't it? That's all these players are interested in these days; money, money, money. They never stop to think how hard it is to run a club like this and how I have to get their damned money in the first place. Why do you think we're going to Brazil in January? Not for the sun and samba, I can tell you. It's for the money. And if we get enough, your husband might just get a raise, but you've probably blown that now after this little episode. Now go on, just GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, before I have you thrown out!
Posh turns on her expensive platform heels and after almost tripping over a la Dick Emery, sa-shays out of the room. Graham and Eric look mesmerised as they watch her rear end swaying, gradually disappearing into the middle distance. Nervous laughter all round as Edwards regains his composure.
Graham: Er, Martin...?
Edwards: You know, I wouldn't believe Sir Alex at first when he told me what a pain she was. But at least now you've all seen it for yourselves. Anyway, I must apologise to you all for that unfortunate distraction. Now, where were we...? Ah yes, Graham, your cheque. Come, let's all adjourn for some refreshment.
As they start to move into the lounge next door, Edwards hands Graham a cheque. Close up on Graham's face expressing puzzlement, and then a look of realisation.
Scene Two:
Flashback to: The Give 'Em Beans! editorial office, Wednesday 13 October 1999, around 11.30pm. A small box bedroom in a semi-detached house in Wrexham, lit only by the glare from the screen of a blue Apple iMac computer. We see Graham Murphy crashed out over the keyboard of the machine which looks out of place in a room cluttered with cardboard boxes full of back issues, pieces of paper, discarded floppy discs and other assorted detritus of the fanzine editor's life. A dog-eared poster of Beans! issue 001 cover 'Is Cowps God or What?' hangs on the wall, having lost the blu-tack from its top left hand corner. We hear the incessant ringing of a telephone from the downstairs hallway. Suddenly, Graham's reverie is disturbed by a blood curdling shriek summoning him to the phone. It is his wife, who he affectionately calls the Welsh Dragon.
Welsh Dragon: Oi! Dickweed! Rouse yourself! Why you can't get your stupid friends to call you on that mobile with the ring you're so keen on, instead of waking us all up, I don't know.
Graham stirs, staggers out of the room and downstairs. He flicks a lightswitch on the wall and as his eyes get accustomed to the light, he picks up the receiver and says 'Hello?' Split screen to Eric Cantona on a film set.
Cantona: Bon nuit, mon ami. C'est moi, Eric!
Graham: Eric...? Oh Eric, hey Eric, how ya doin'? Where are you?
Cantona: I 'ave been in your country to play in a testimonial for Alex Ferguson.
Graham: And to what do I owe this pleasure?
Cantona: 'Legend of a Superstar'. Issues trente-un - Septembre '97; trente-deux - Novembre '97 et trente-trois - Janvier '98, I know zem issues by 'art. You must remember ze fuss. Not one of zem Southern media scumbags could understand how an, er... 'ow you say zis?, obscure non-League fanzine 'ad secured ze exclusive rights to zis 'istoric document. And zem imbecile solicitors of mine, zey didn't even know you 'ad my permission.
Graham: Yeah, the stupid ƒ*¢#*®$! You know zey, er... I mean, they even wrote me a threatening letter?
Cantona: Well, mon ami, I 'ave never been able to sank you enough for your biography. Eet was tres sympathetique avec sensitivement. Ze best I 'ave ever read... of anyone. And I'd like you to come wiz me to Old Trafford on Saturday as my guest at ze Watford match.
Graham: Well, Eric, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I can. I'm going to be driving across country to Gainsborough for Barrow's UniBond match. It would mean a total re-organisation of my diary.
Cantona: Ah, non. You 'ave to come. Avec la belle docteur, la petite Debbie. I 'ave seats in ze Chairman's Box, you know!
Graham: Really? Well, yes then, okay. It's an honour, truly. But I'm afraid Dr. Debs won't be able to make it.
Cantona: (looking crestfallen) Ah, merde. Oh, you must implore her, s'il vous plait!
Graham: I'm sorry, she's out of the country. She's in Vienna hosting a seminar. It's groundbreaking stuff, she tells me. Its called 'Criminal Psychosis in the Office Environment: Paper Cuts as a Causative Factor of Paranoid Schizophrenia.' She's presenting it with her very distinguished colleague, Dr Raj Persaud.
Cantona: Aiee, zat old fraud. Bien. A bientot.
Scene Three:
Saturday 16 October 1999. Montage, with background music of 'Heartbeat City' by the Cars, of Graham scribbling through the word 'Gainsborough' in his diary, blowing off the dust on his best suit, putting some back copies of Give 'Em Beans! in the boot of his black Mercedes with the registration plate BEA17S, and taking calls on his mobile as he drives down the M62. Cut to the VIP car park directly opposite the entrance to Old Trafford at around a quarter to midday. Graham drives into the car park and flashes his pass at the attendant. He gets out of the car, locks it and walks over to the ground. Close up on his face registering a little apprehension, and then surprise, as we pull back to show the numbers of fans already lined up down one side waiting for the turnstiles to open.
Crowd: It's Ryan, it's Ryan! Giggsy!
For a second Graham thinks the crowd may have confused him for the little Welsh winger. The shouts ripple through the crowd as a top of the range four wheel drive turns into the tarmacked apron of the car park. It stops opposite the door marked RECEPTION and a couple of hundred people surge forward. Giggs steps from the driver's seat and waves.
Crowd: Giggsy! Ryan! Over here, over here, pleeeezzzze!
Autograph books, programmes, shirts, souvenirs, bits of paper, pens are thrust towards him, held on outstretched arms. The scene is almost biblical. Giggs moves towards the multitude and starts signing. But after five minutes he gets bored and turns to enter the reception area. The crowd wait patiently for the next player. Suddenly there is a huge roar of derisive laughter as a bus pulls up at the stop outside the car park and Andy Cole, fresh from his latest driving ban, gets out and walks towards the players' entrance. He doesn't acknowledge the crowd and dives straight inside. Then Roy Keane emerges from his car to a great cheer. He returns the crowd's wave before he, too, disappears inside.
Steadicam from Graham's point of view as he walks down the tunnel, turning left after twenty yards and up to the second floor, then across the restaurant to the private entrance to the Chairman's Suite almost on the centre line of the pitch.
Graham: (to camera) Wow, what a view! The grass a perfect shade of green in the autumn sun, the sprinklers lazily spraying water across the pitch and look at this... a huge new tier of seats under construction at the far end of the ground. And in here... very comfortable, luxury armchairs, TV's for action replays and exclusive interviews with the players, a drink whenever you want one and the table set for a three course dinner, which we'll have before the game kicks off. But what a sanitised way to watch a game of football, separated from the crowd and the atmosphere by a huge panoramic glass window.
Graham's soliloquy is interrupted with the arrival of a devastatingly attractive waitress.
Waitress: Can I get you a drink, sir? Wine, beer, whisky, gin, vodka?
Graham: (eyes on stalks) ƒ*¢# me!
Waitress: Of course, sir, that's why I'm here. Now why don't you have a nice drink, and I'll be right with you.
Graham: (recomposing himself) Er... yes. Sure, beer's fine, thank you. Don't be long.
Waitress: (winking) Mr Edwards will be here soon, sir.
Eric Cantona enters.
Cantona: Ah, mon ami, bienvenu! Comment allez-vous? Ca va?
Graham: (clearly not understanding a word, if he had he would have made a more sensible answer than) Uh, oh hi!
Cantona: Allez, I'm taking you on a tour of ze ground.
Eric grabs Graham by the arm and drags him out, Graham protesting and spilling beer on his cuffs. The tour takes in the Manchester United Museum, the changing rooms, and then they walk along the corridor to the tunnel and out onto the pitch by the dugouts. There Cantona points out Alex Ferguson's seat, where Graham has his picture taken.
Cantona: Did you know zat when Sir Alex first joined United, 'e 'ad to ask for ze pitch to be levelled so 'e could see what was 'appening on ze far side?
Roy Keane appears, followed by the huge brooding hulk of Massimo Talbi, the Italian signed a couple of weeks earlier who had taken Mark Bosnich's place as first choice goalkeeper.
Official: Roy and Massimo can't stay long, they have to get ready.
Keane: (quick as a flash) Oh right. I'll be off then.
Graham: (aside to camera) What a wag!
Keane: Ahh Graham, bejazus, great to see you, how's Barrow getting on? That's the trouble with being a fanzine editor, y'ur face gets too well known.
Graham: Oh fine, Roy, fine, now the UniBond have let us in.
Keane: I'm pleased to here that, so I am. Oh yeah, that's what I was going to ask you. You know that mobile of yours... I really like that tune that you've got it to ring with. D'y'ur know where I can get one like that?
Graham: Ah sorry Roy, I don't; it was a present from the former Editor. Say, how's the knee, by the way?
Keane: Oh it ain't so bad, you know, it's fine and then it's not fine, you know how it is. Trouble is that little ß@$*@®¶ Ferguson won't pick me! What a fine mess to be in, to be sure; a canny Scot that doesn't want me to play and a money grabbing Englishman who won't give me a raise! (in an aside to Graham, conspiratorially, almost under his breath) I won't be here next season.
Keane signs Graham's programme. The Italian follows but is a little hesitant. Clearly he doesn't understand much of what is going on. Graham offers him a pen. Just at that moment, a huge crescendo of noise erupts all around and a dark shadow blots out the sun. This causes Talbi to drop the pen in shock and surprise. As he bends down to pick it up, he is rocked by a spasm of pain.
Talbi: (groaning loudly, putting one hand behind him on the small of his back) Mama mia! I justa putta ma backa out, I-a tink.
He puts his head in his hands. And misses. Thus Mark Bosnich regains his place in the first team. Meanwhile the dark shadow that caused Talbi to drop his pen is revealed as a Lear jet taxi-ing to a halt in front of the Stretford End. The door opens and out steps David Beckham, fresh from house hunting in New York. He looks very cool in a pair of designer shades and a three piece suit, his trademark lock of blonde hair flopping over his forehead. It makes a change from the headscarf and sarong.
Beckham: (gasping rather breathlessly) Sorry I'm late. We had to pick up the guys, and it took longer at the realtors than I expected. You've no idea how complicated it is buying a penthouse apartment with a view over Central Park.
Graham: Tricky, isn't it? I was over there the other week trying to find an office for Beans! North American operation. Mind you, that was only renting, but it's still harder than plugging the leaks in Barrow's defence!
Beckham: Ah, Graham! I didn't recognise you without your replica away shirt. You do look different! How are Barrow doing? Did they get into the UniBond?
Graham: They did, David, they did. And they're doing okay. Say, I couldn't get your autograph, could I? It's for the kids.
Beckham: (ironically) Of course it is.
They both laugh.
Graham: Hey, is it true you're leaving United? Maybe you could come and play for Barrow if you want to get away from here.
While Beckham gives him a look that says 'Are you serious?', Graham rummages around in his pocket for a piece of paper until he finds one with a Barrow AFC letterhead with a list of Terms and Conditions of Employment printed underneath. He folds this sheet so Beckham won't see these words, and passes it to him. Beckham produces a gold pen from his pocket and signs his autograph with a flourish. Graham winks to camera and quietly folds the signed document into his top pocket.
Graham: Thanks, mate. How's Posh?
Beckham: Oh, she's much the same as usual, moaning about me coming up here every week. I was playing for United when we first dated so I don't know why she's suddenly started going on about it.
Graham: She thought it was West Ham United, David, not Manchester. That's the trouble with women, no sense of geography. Don't let her map read for you!
He stops abruptly. At that moment, Posh Spice is swaying down the steps of the plane on three inch platform heels like a princess wearing a white leather floor length coat with fake fur collar. The coat is open to reveal a white trouser suit, the top half of which is unbuttoned to reveal a matching diamond studded bra.
Graham: Good job it's reasonably warm today, or you'd have caught your death of cold.
Posh: Ah, Gordon! How are you? Glad to hear Barnet got into the UniBin.
Graham: Er, sorry Victoria, are you talking to me? Oh yeah, right, yes... er, thanks. Did you move into the new house okay? (aside to Beckham) I told you geography wasn't one of her strong points, not to mention her memory for names and faces. But when a woman looks like that you can forgive her almost anything. Now I know what you see in her.
Posh: Yes, of course, but then when you can afford to pay someone to do all the packing and unpacking, moving house is no more stressful than a trip to the local supermarket.
Beckham: And she hasn't done much of that in the last three years either.
Posh: (reprovingly) David...!
Beckham: Sorry, dear.
Graham suddenly senses he could be on to an exclusive story here. (Introduce morphing effect of his nose transforming into that of a sniffer dog and back again). Meanwhile in the background we see Bobby Charlton and his daughter, Suzanne, struggling with Brooklyn's pushchair down the steps of the plane.
Graham: So what's the truth about Becks moving to a London club? The papers are full of it.
Posh: Well, Gary, I'll tell you if you want, if you really, really want. I had a bit of a dilemma really. Though I'd like to live close to my Mama because I love her, that would have meant Hertfordshire, but what I really wanted was to spice up my life so that meant there was no choice but Noo Yawk. We can't really live in the north, and if you don't live there it's a bit awkward if you have to travel up every week for your job. Did you know Manchester is past Birmingham, a long way past, and that's oh, hours from London and our house in Hertfordshire, which is actually a long way north of London already. I saw a sign on the motorway that said Carlisle and Glasgow, wherever they are. Another country perhaps, is it France? I told David he really can't expect to make his living so far from civilisation. He's just got to stop and move over. Never give up on the good times, that's what I told him. Just do it. It's never too much. Tell Alex Ferguson it's time to move over. Ask him who do you think you are? Stop denying. I know you really want to. Just ring Looker Valley at Chelsea United and say you'll be there. But will he listen to me? Can Geri Halliwell really sing? And did that other ginger twat really fall for her? There's something kinda funny here.
Cantona: Ami, depechez vous... we need to be getting back to our seats.
Posh: Oh hang on, there's someone else on the plane I'd like you to meet.
Graham: Sorry love, no time, we've got to get to our seats now. It's time for lunch. (aside to Eric) Whew, thanks, Eric. Wow!, she never stops talking, does she?
Scene Four:
Old Trafford, Manchester, Saturday 16 October 1999, 3.35pm. The Chairman's box. Martin Edwards, Bobby Charlton and his daughter Suzanne are in one row, and in the row in front are Posh, Cantona and Graham. The match has so far turned out to be something of an anti-climax. Montage of passes going astray, shots going well wide, goalkeepers wandering around their penalty areas blowing into their gloves interspersed with shots of Posh yawning, Cantona reading the programme, that sort of thing. Cut to shot of Edwards, with quizzical expression, cocking his ear and looking around as if he is being distracted by some background noise somewhere. Suddenly he taps Graham on the shoulder.
Edwards: Graham, you wouldn't happen to have a copy of the latest Give 'Em Beans!, would you?
Graham: Of course. That's five million pounds to you, Martin. No, only joking. 50p please.
Edwards: Er, I'm sorry, Graham, I don't have that sort of cash on me. But I can write a cheque.
Graham: (sarcastically) I suppose when you've just put forty million in the bank from selling six per cent of your shares in Manchester United it might be a bit hard to put your hands on the odd 50p. Well, I suppose so, Martin, just make sure it doesn't bounce, that's all.
Edwards takes his cheque book and pen out of an inside pocket and begins to write. Suddenly everyone present except Graham leaps out of their seats and shouts "Yeeessss!"
Graham: Er, Martin...
But everyone is too jubilant to take much notice of him. This scene is repeated as United score again, and again, making three goals in as many minutes. Graham, as a true Barrow supporter pre-occupied with getting his cheque, remains totally indifferent to the goals, but nevertheless stands up and joins in the applause and general back slapping, however, if only for the chance to hug Posh.
Graham: Er, Martin...
Edwards: That's more like it. Brilliant, eh?
Finally, the half time whistle blows and after applauding the teams off the pitch they begin to file out into the lounge for refreshments. But they have barely started to move when American singing group the Weathergirls come dancing in, all waving their hands in the air and singing "It's raining men, halleluyah."
Edwards: I thought I could hear something. That's what it must have been. What the hell are they doing here? Posh, is this your doing?
Posh: I thought you wanted me to arrange some half-time entertainment, that's all.
Edwards: Entertainment, if I wanted entertainment I'd get some proper music. Mantovani, the Cliff Adams Singers, or maybe that Go West. Whatever happened to them? Now they had some nice tunes, with a good beat (starts singing 'The King of Wishful Thinking').
Posh: What are you talking about?
Edwards: I'm talking about proper music, not this damned... damned... fag anthem, you over made-up piece of string. Get them out of here!
He is practically yelling in Posh's face as he points a quivering arm at the three women, who by now are really picking up steam as they belt out the second verse of their anthem. But they soon realise that something is wrong and one by one they stop singing and are ushered out. Their faces register a mixture of bewilderment, anger and embarrassment. By now Posh is crying. She blows her nose with a dainty sniff into a tiny pink handkerchief.
Posh: B-but, you said... (sob!)
Edwards: I know what I said. What I said was...
Scene Five:
Flashback to: New York City, Saturday 16 October 1999, 4am local time. David and Victoria Beckham's luxury penthouse suite at the Waldorf Hotel. In one corner there is a crib in which baby Brooklyn is sleeping. With only about six hours till the kick off in England, the Beckhams are cutting it very fine to be able to get there on time. David is getting dressed while Posh is in the bathroom. Posh's mobile phone goes off. Its ring is the chorus from 'Two Become One'.
Beckham: Christ, that bloody tune... can't you change it for something decent? My friend Graham from Give 'Em Beans! has got a good one.
Posh: Oh just get it, will you? I don't want it to wake the baby.
Beckham picks up the phone. Split screen to Martin Edwards, in his luxurious office suite high above the pitch at Old Trafford, yelling into his mobile.
Edwards: (brusquely) Hello... HELLO! Posh, is that you?
Beckham: No, it's David, who's that? If it's about the drugs, the prostitutes and the Argentinean centre half I've no comment.
Edwards: Becks, stop being so melodramatic. No one's interested. It's me, Martin. Is Posh there?
Beckham: Yes sir Martin, yes sir, she is, sir, she's in the bathroom, sir, three bags full, sir, what can I do for you sir, anything I can get you, sir? Can I get sent off for you today, sir?
Edwards: No you fool, you get booked against Dynamo Zagreb. How many times do I have to tell you? Jeez! Ask for the organ grinder and you get the ƒ*¢#¡>¿ monkey!
Beckham: (puzzled) How did you know about that, sir?
Edwards: (losing patience) How did I know about what, Becks?
Beckham: The organ grinder and the monkey. Only he wasn't an organ grinder sir, it's much classier than that here. No, we had some guy playing the violin for us at dinner, but we chucked him a monkey and he went away.
Edwards: You threw a monkey at him?
Beckham: (patronisingly, as if talking to a child) No, sir... you know; a monkey - half a K.
Edwards: Arthur Kay? Who's he? Was that his name?
Beckham: Eh, was that whose name?
Edwards: (now thoroughly confused) The monkey's... d'oh! No, the organ grinder I suppose, I mean, the violinist... Oh, I don't know!
Beckham: No sir, I've already told you, there was no monkey. That's just the five hundred quid we gave the violinist to shut up. But I haven't a clue what he was called. I think he was Italian though, so it was probably Alfonse or something like that, I guess. I could find out for you, sir, if you like, but it's probably leaving it a bit late now...
Edwards: Oh for godsakes, Becks, I couldn't give a damn about his name. He could be Mickey Mouse de Beauregarde Rothschild or Cruella Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea Hopkins for all I care... I suppose it was Posh's idea to tip him that much, was it?
Beckham: How did you guess? 'Look, just give him a few of these C notes,' she said, 'that's about a monkey' and before I had time to think she'd snatched my wallet off me and handed over a wad of dollar bills. (lowering his voice) Between you and me, sir, she might not be able to sing, but she's very good on her slang terms for money; after all, it's a subject very close to her heart.
Edwards: Well, its nice to see you both spreading so much sweetness and light about the place, not to mention MY MONEY! (sighs) Now I know I'm paying you too much!
Beckham: Er, um... well, sir, ah, now you mention it...
Edwards: (abruptly) BECKS!
Beckham: Yes sir?
Edwards: Just belt up and get the boss, will you? And tell her not to talk about your wages!
Beckham opens the door of the bathroom just enough to hand the phone to Posh, and as he does so a vast volume of steam gushes out. Cut to Posh in bathroom, who as the steam disperses, we see is naked apart from her cap (That's a shower cap. Ed. This may be a gratuitous nude scene, but it's not that gratuitous).
Posh: Oh, Martin, it's you. So have you decided? Remember what we said... sixty grand a week or we call Italy!
Edwards: After what I've just heard, I don't give a damn if you call Barrow in Serie A of the Unifilla. Becks will just have to make do with his 28 thou. That's more than enough to pay his speeding fines and keep you both in apes, especially now it looks like I'll have to give Keane his fift... oh, $#¡*!
Posh: I don't think you meant to say that, did you Martin?
Edwards: Now look, this isn't what I'm ringing about. Have you set off yet?
Posh: Yeah, we're just on our way, we're flying across that country next to England, the one where the paddies live and they're all called Murphy and they play a lot of rugby, what's the name of it... ohhh yes, I remember, Wales. We'll be in plenty of time for the kick off.
Edwards: Don't give me that. Becks just told me you were in the bathroom. Now listen and listen good, Spicey. If you're coming in that jet I want you to stop over in Washington and pick up Bobby Charlton and his daughter, oh, whatsername, oh you know... the weathergirl... ah, that's it... Suzanne!"
Posh: Okay Martin, you're breaking up a bit, but I think I gotcha... Pick up Bobby Charlton and the Weathergirls, right? Martin...? MARTIN...? Hmm, must've gone into a tunnel. (turns off phone) Hmm, Weathergirls, eh? I would've thought Mantovani was more his sort of thing. He's not... is he? Nah, couldn't be.
Beckham enters the bathroom. He is wearing Posh's thong.
Beckham: Look what I found over the back of the chair. What do you think, honey?
Scene Six:
Cut to: Half time in the executive box again, shortly after Posh Spice has swanned out. The same close up as ended Scene One, taking in Graham's face expressing puzzlement, and then the look of realisation that Edwards has only partially completed the cheque he has just handed to him. A close up of the cheque shows that, distracted by the events of the last ten minutes, the goals and then the furore over the Weathergirls, he hasn't written in the amount in words at all and in the box where he should have written 50p, he'd just written '50' without the 'p'. Suddenly, POOF!, there is a flash of smoke, and out of nowhere, or possibly out of the pages of the programme that lies open on one of the seats, a small red devil appears on his left shoulder. The devil is actually quite cute with a trident in one hand, pointy ears and funny little tail. Graham looks at the devil on his shoulder, down at the programme and back at the devil. He is too shocked to speak and also worried lest anyone else in the box notices the devil, but they are all filing out for half-time refreshments. The devil notices Graham's quizzical look.
Red Devil: (hissing into Graham's ear) Go on, go on, what are you waiting for? We've been waiting ages for a chance like this to put one over on 'em!
Graham: (waving his hand in front of his nose to dissipate the smell of garlic from the devil's breath) Eh, what do you mean?
Red Devil: Listen, you probably think its glamorous doing this for a living. Well, let me tell you, it's anything but. The pay's lousy, they only drag you out on match days and the rest of the time they keep you in a cupboard with all the old kit, and as I'm sure you're aware there's plenty of that, what with all the different designs and colours they've been through. There were twelve of us when we started this, there's only five of us left. The rest of 'em drowned in the bloody stuff. So go on, go for it. You'll never have a chance like this again. Look, all you have to do is write in the amount of 'FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS' on that line there and add another four noughts there and there's half a mil you can give to the liquidator of Barrow AFC. Think of that, all Barrow's problems solved at a stroke. Ol' moneybags here will never notice the difference. And you'd be doing us a favour too...
Graham: Er, how's that then...?
Now Graham really is very close to being convinced, not that he needed that much persuading, anyway. After all, this would be the culmination of all his dreams and with Beckham's Barrow contract in his pocket he is already half way there. Now he's on the verge of having a cheque for half a million in his hands. But just as suddenly, on his other shoulder, a figure appears dressed all in white and with a light around its head.
Graham: Oh, typical. (does double take) OH NO...! YOU! Oh yes, it's my conscience all right, but its no angel.
Welsh Dragon: Yes, that's right, it's me, your worst nightmare. And that light round my head that's no halo (breathes fire, Graham flinches). So what do we have here, then? Would you listen if I said 'Don't even think about it'? Or is it too late for that now?
Red Devil: Aw push off, sister, he's had enough of listening to you. He's going to do something that will make him feel like a man for once.
The Red Devil is doing his best to sound confident, but it is clear he is getting a trifle agitated. The Dragon blasts him with a tongue of flame and carries on as if he isn't there.
Welsh Dragon: Well, if you do forge that cheque, remember, you'll have me to live with for the rest of your days. I'll burn all your fanzines and never let you go to another Barrow match again as long as you live. You might save your precious football team, but what good would that do, if you can never see them play? I'd give it some thought if I were you. Oh, and don't think I don't know what you were going to get up to with that waitress. Are you listening to me? Graham? Don't try it, I'm warning you...
Fade to black on close up of Graham's face looking perplexed and eyes flicking from side to side as if watching a tennis match as the Devil and the Dragon exchange arguments, insults, tridents and balls of flame over his head and around his shoulder.
Scene Seven:
Fade into: The foyer of the Radisson Hotel in Manchester later that evening. Graham and Eric are sitting drinking. Graham sips from a cocktail, a Golden Cadillac. Cantona has a glass of milk.
Graham: So you see Eric, that's how I blew the chance of getting half a million for Barrow AFC. I gave him back his cheque. Just too honest for my own good.
Cantona: Ah mais oui, but you still 'ad ze contract, n'est-ce pas, ze one Daveed Beckham signed?
Graham: Nah, not worth the paper it's printed on. I forgot that since the club are in liquidation, they're not allowed to sign any players on contract.
Cantona: Sacre bleu! And you missed zem win 3-0 at Gainsborough, aussi. I guess eet wasn't your day after all.
Graham: Yeah, and you blew my chance with that waitress too, don't forget.
Cantona: Ah, c'est vrai. Je vous demande pardon.
Graham: (despondently) Oh, don't worry about it, Eric. C'est la vie.
Cantona: Prendre courage, mon ami. I know how I can make it up to you. Eet's a great story. Eet would make a superbe film. Let's do eet. Ze profits we'd make would surely bring Barrow back into ze black. Hey, pas de probleme, what wiz my contacts in ze industry. 'Oo do you want to direct... Spielberg, Cronenberg, Soderbergh? I know zem all.
Graham: Battenberg...? Iceberg...?
Cantona: 'Oo do you want to play you? More importante, who'd play moi? I know. I'll ring Gerard.
Graham: Gerard?
Cantona: Depardieu. Ah, non, n'est ce pas, un moment... je joue moi-meme. Naturellement. Quelle bon idee.
Graham: (having to be careful how he says this) Okay Eric, you play yourself. But what are we going to call it?
Cantona: I know, we'll call eet 'Man U Mission - Ze Movie'.
Graham: I think its been done, Eric. Besides I wouldn't want our audience thinking that we knew anything about rave music. I think we can settle for 'Spice, Angels and Devils - an Old Trafford Adventure.'
From somewhere in Graham's vicinity a mobile phone starts to ring with the tune of 'Oh No, I Don't Believe It' from the Mothers of Invention album 'Weasels Ripped My Flesh'.
Graham: Oh, is that my phone? Pardonnez-moi, as you'd say.
Cantona: Neat tune.
Closing credits start to roll, over a scene of Graham fumbling in his pocket for his phone. As he does so, the original version of 'Oh No' fades in, eventually taking over from the ringing tone. Once the credits have reached all the stuff that nobody ever stops to watch like 'Third Best Boy' and 'Catering Department Purchasing Trainee', the tune is followed by its orchestral arrangement from 'Lumpy Gravy', until finally we come to...
SPICE, ANGELS and DEVILS - An OLD TRAFFORD
ADVENTURE
CAST of CHARACTERS
CAST of CHARACTERS
Graham Murphy •
Martin Edwards •
David Beckham •
Roy Keane •
Massimo Talbi •
Ryan Giggs •
Andy Cole •
Car Park Attendant •
Official •
Crowd •
Waitress •
Red Devil •
Welsh Dragon •
Bobby Charlton •
Suzanne Charlton •
Eric Cantona •
Posh Spice •
The Weathergirls •
Pierce Brosnan
Harrison Ford
Dean from The Cops
Jim from Coronation Street
Tony Soprano from The Sopranos
The charmless Irish twat with the bubble perm from Cold Feet
(can't think of a Welshman who looks the part).
The bloke who looks like Ainsley Harriott from that kids
programme where they pour gunge over their teachers.
Bruce Willis
Robert Carlyle
The Count Basie Orchestra (on triangle)
Adriana Sklenarikova
Danny de Vito
Rene Russo
Gregor Fisher
Cameron Diaz
Himself
Herself
Themselves
a wholly owned subsidiary of the Give 'Em Beans! Corporation.
THE END
Developed from issues 042 - November
1999,
043 - January 2000 and 044 - March 2000
