Scott Marshall

[Spelthorne Bee]

It was a warm day in August, just before the start of the new season. Scott was beside himself with excitement. Darren Powell had just been sold to Crystal Palace which meant he was now the only centre-half left at the club. Surely, NOW, he would get to shine, at last. His kilt was neatly pressed and in the top drawer of his dresser. Best be prepared for Mr Vogts' visit, he thought. And, should that fail, didn't he usually feed the neighbours' Irish wolfhound when they went away on holiday? Hadn't he, as a child, dutifully eaten all his leeks? There were therefore several opportunities for an international call up, when, as now seemed inevitable, he broke into the Brentford team and took Division Two by storm.

He remembered last year, and how they had moved someone from midfield to take his rightful place - for the second time, he reflected bitterly. Well, not this time, he thought. Although there was an Icelander at the club, he was a goalkeeper, and injured at that, so he had at least a few weeks to establish himself. And now there was that new Mr Downes as manager, so perhaps he could persuade him.... Scott allowed himself to drift into a daydream.

Times hadn’t been good of late. That Mr Coppell didn’t seem to know who he was – he wouldn’t even let him drive the team bus. Before that, although he was always careful to be polite to Mr Lewington, he didn’t seem to get noticed. And then there was that white haired gentleman before him, who had been so nice to him to start with but then also ignored him. Scott wondered what had happened to him – he had heard that he still had something to do with the club, but he wasn’t sure as he hadn’t seen him around for such a long time now.

All through those dark days, Scott never lost heart. It was hard though. Players got injured or suspended, and still he never got his chance. In came an on-loan player, a junior, or they’d move someone from left back, and still Scott didn’t even get to warm the bench (where he would have been able to demonstrate his ability to remain static to the full). He consoled himself with the thought that at least he had a squad number, unlike that Leon Townley all the other boys kept talking about.

But as August turned into September, and the club brought in non-contract players, Scott started to feel as though his chance had slipped away, yet again.

And then one day, as he was skulking around the playground, Mr Downes came up and spoke to him “Derek”, he said (well, he hadn’t spoken to him so long that Scott didn’t expect him to remember his name), “I’d like to try an experimental formation on Tuesday and play three centre halves”. From past experience, Scott knew what was coming next – Mr Downes had met someone in the bus queue the other day who had size ten feet but didn’t own any football boots, and he’d be asked to lend them his pair so they could play. This time however, Mr Downes continued with something unexpected – “… .and I’d like you to be one of the three”.

Well, Scott couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He asked Mr Downes to repeat what he said, just so he could be sure. He skipped home to tell his family, and went out and told all his friends and neighbours. When the day came, such was his excitement, that he practically ran all the way down to Bournemouth, pausing every now and again to stand stock still lest there should be any forwards nearby.

And when he got there, things got better. Mr Downes didn’t say it was April Fool’s Day or anything. He really and truly got to put on his Brentford kit and walk out onto the pitch with the team – and this time, he didn’t have to pay to be a mascot to do it! Now, at last, his dreams would all come true…..




And that, m'lud, is how Brentford came to let in as many goals in one game as in the previous seven put together.

 

[Downbeat Bee]

Didn't go to the game last night so can't comment on that. Don't wish the bloke any ill will, but I don't rate him at all.

 

[Edmundo]

Hmmmm. Before his injury, Scott Marshall was putting in the sort of performances that justified his transfer fee. He's been out for eighteen months and now he's getting mowed down by a bandwagon of people who want to blame him for the errors of others. Downes for choosing the system, Anderson for going walkabout at key moments and his fellow defenders for errors that led to two of the goals - the third was a penalty that had nothing to do with Marshall either. What's more the bandwagon ignores the three key tackles that Marshall put in in the second half, without which we would have been defeated in normal time.

I'm not Marshall's biggest fan, nor do I think he played a blinder yesterday, but I find the criticism of him ill considered and wonder at the motivations of people who seem to have been waiting 18 months to have a pop at him.

 

[Amsterdam Bee]

here here Edmundo.

I reckon a fit Marshall would be an asset to this club.

OK, pacy he ain't, but we have a team of teenagers at the moment and I can't for the life of me think how having an experienced head like his around the place would be a bad thing.

I've heard that he's an excellent professional aswell so I wish him all the best.
I hope he proves his doubters wrong this season.

 

[Bush Tuckerman]

I'd have to say I've never seen him in a bees shirt yet, but I remember rating him quite highly some years back!

I am certainly not going to have a go at the fella, only two months ago I didn't think we had a hope in hell this season, and I have been proved wrong there so far.

My verdict is still out, as stated he has been out for a long while so it is going to take a while for him to get back to full form...look at Babbel and Blomqvist for instance!

And no I'm not rating him alongside those two, but all three deserve time to get back to full form and show what they are capable of!

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Sorry Edmundo for offending your sensibilities. I didn't realise I was criticising Scott Marshall (well, apart from the fact that he isn't blessed with lightning pace). After he's got back to fitness, he does appear to have been rather overlooked though? Put it this way - it's not me but a succession of Brentford managers who have instigated a regime of anyone but Scott.

I also don't remember (perhaps I'm mistaken) a clamour for his return to the side from this or any other fans forum at any time over the past year or so.

 

[Edmundo]

Over the past year or so, he hasn't been fit. That might explain why he was "overlooked". At the forum in Stripes recently, Wally explained that he still wasn't ready for 90 minutes of league football, explaining why he wasn't yet in the starting line up. I guess this is why Wally gave him 100 odd minutes last night.

A match fit Scott Marshall will be a major asset to the Bees (if an expensive one!).

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Ah well, time will tell whether he will or won't be an asset to the side - certainly neither you nor I. If he plays, then I hope to God he is. What with his transfer fee and wages, he's certainly cost us enough. I've never wished ill on a first team player, it would after all be counter productive.

Injuries apart (and they haven't stopped him popping up in the stiffs from time to time) he must feel like the forgotten man at times (those times being between midnight and eleven fifty nine, Sunday to Saturday).

Once again, I offer my abject apologies if my feeble attempt at lightheartedness offended you (and who knows, countless others?). Thirty plus years of watching Brentford has finely honed my sense of the absurd, and a player sitting on the sidelines for three years before getting a call up and then having a 'mare fits in nicely.

Alternatively - bllx. Holier than thou stinks.

 

[West Ealing Bee]

Ah well, time will tell whether he will or won't be an asset to the side - certainly neither you nor I. If he plays, then I hope to God he is. What with his transfer fee and wages, he's certainly cost us enough. I've never wished ill on a first team player, it would after all be counter productive.

Injuries apart (and they haven't stopped him popping up in the stiffs from time to time) he must feel like the forgotten man at times (those times being between midnight and eleven fifty nine, Sunday to Saturday).

Once again, I offer my abject apologies if my feeble attempt at lightheartedness offended you (and who knows, countless others?). Thirty plus years of watching Brentford has finely honed my sense of the absurd, and a player sitting on the sidelines for three years before getting a call up and then having a 'mare fits in nicely.

Alternatively - bllx. Holier than thou stinks.

You didn't offend me Spelthorne but I have to strongly disagree with your opinion.
Last night's defensive performance was collectively awful. You can'tpick out individuals when we were cut apart time and time again in the first half. We were much better in the second and I believe Marshall played fairly well in that 45 minutes.

I'm not sure what you are on about in terms of a forgotten man. He was a regular before his back injury, in fact I'm not sure he's ever been left out when fully fit, and only came back this year. He has played in the reserves to build his fitness and will probably come into the team if Sonko were to leave.

The comment about spending 3 years on the sidelines is bizarre, as I have said above.

When reading you initial post I thought it was fairly amusing, but I don't agree with your opinions.

 

[Beebop]

I agree that there was a collective responsibility for the 1st half debacle on Tuesday and I was worried by Marshalls inability to head the ball forward instead of upward but he did make one or two telling tackles,when being the slowest,he was the last line of defense.I did notice that toward the end he was holding the small of his back and continually stretching his legs.Hope that this is just precautionary.

 

[finchbee]

Not that I dislike Marshall, and I am glad to see he is back from Long term injury but I always felt his lack of pace was a worry, very experienced though

 

[Fat Bee Slim]

And that, m'lud, is how Brentford came to let in as many goals in one game as in the previous seven put together.

And u claim that in writing the above sentence you were not aware of criticising him?!

I'm completely confused by all this. The guy's been out injured for 18 months, as far as we've all been told. Yet u seem to know better than this. Can you tell us where u got the information that he'd been "overlooked" rather than injured please?

Your "attempt at humour" was quite funny at times, but I think it's more than a bit harsh to a decent pro who WILL, trust me, be an important member of our team WHEN HE'S BACK TO FULL FITNESS.

PS For what it's worth, I personally don't blame him for any of the goals on Tuesday. First one- Smithy fouled, ref doesn't give free kick. Second one, Ijah goes walkabout, hard and low centre follows that could've been put in by anyone. Third goal = Chorley beaten for pace, brilliant finish by the attacker.

LAY OFF SCOTTY UNTIL HE'S BACK TO FULL FITNESS, THEN SEE WHAT HE CAN DO.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Ok - it's a fair cop. I had had a tincture or two last night. Fact is, Scott isn't Hreidarsson with whom, as his replacement, he would naturally be compared. Nor, frankly, is he either Mahon or Ingimarsson who filled the spot next to Powell once he had until his original injury. He IS slow though - but then, Terry Evans was no greyhound, and he didn't do too badly.

Was I fair to him? probably not. Were the three goals his fault on Tuesday? certainly not. Did he have the misfortune to come in, after three years out of the side, into a defence that was often at sixes and sevens? Absobloodylutely.

Regarding the precise nature and duration of his injuries, well - I'll hold my hand up and claim a degree poetic licence in my defence.

Been a lonely (although moderately well remunerated) three years for him though. Must be a bummer to come into a side just as they decide that they'll practice seeing what'll happen if they don't defend. Particularly when you, as the third of three at the back, embody the "experimental" bit of an experimental defence

 

[West Ealing Bee]

Did he have the misfortune to come in, after three years out of the side, into a defence that was often at sixes and sevens? Absobloodylutely.

What are you on about, he has been out of the side for 18 months, as has been posted above by about 4 people, including me. Where are you getting 3 years from?

This time 3 years ago he was just signing for us.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Scott Marshall (again)

Scott settled down with a nice cup of cocoa and thought back on the past three years. True, they’d been tough, but in a way he was glad he’d spent them with Brentford. He shuddered to think how Southampton would have dealt with the succession of injuries that had befallen him recently. He remembered how there, after an injury, the club simply let him start training again as soon as he felt better.

Here, things were done in a much more thorough manner. They’d send him straight to see a doctor, a comforting white-haired figure with a bushy black beard and a big red nose, both of which seemed to Scott like they might almost have been attached with a piece of elastic around his head. Scott made a mental note to ask him next time whether he was related in any way to the white haired gentleman whom he’d first met – there did seem to be an uncanny resemblance.

Whoever he was, one thing was sure - the doctor was certainly a medical genius. He would only need to take one look at Scott to be able to make his diagnosis. Although Scott had felt fit at the time, he had actually suffered from a succession of ailments which the doctor, from behind his dark glasses, had pinpointed immediately – West Nile fever, Ebola, diphtheria, Dengue fever…… the list went on. And the doctor’s genius didn’t stop at the diagnosis – Scott had been cured of all of these simply by taking two aspirin and told to stay away from the ground for a few months.

True there had been the one time when he’d come back after a layoff and Mr Coppell accidentally let the baseball bat he was carrying drop five times across Scott’s knee – that HAD hurt, and he really couldn’t walk very well for a while. Apparently the doctor was away in Spain at the time.

Scott drained the last of his cocoa…. Yes, all things considered, he supposed he had been lucky.

 

[Michael3]

Spellthorne

What's with all the stories? Don't you get out much? It seems to me that you have far too much time on your hands if you can be bothered to write such fiction, try getting your facts right first. .........you never know who might be reading this.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

As the train pulled out of Boston Manor station, Scott allowed himself a wry smile. Things didn’t seem to be turning out so badly after all. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a woman across the carriage from him shifting nervously and pulling her child closer to her. Had he been talking to himself out loud, he wondered? It’d been happening a lot recently . He made a note to be more careful in future.

Things hadn't seemed so rosy Saturday lunchtime. He’d jumped at the chance that was offered of a place in the starting line-up. It was unfortunate that the fixtures were switched at the last minute and Brentford were playing Tranmere instead of Plymouth where the club had so thoughtfully booked him a hotel room. He might have made it to the game in time nonetheless if his room door hadn’t unfortunately been accidentally locked from the outside.

Scott felt into his jacket pocket and patted the lucky dried llama foetus he’d bought the last time that had happened. That too had been an unfortunate episode. He had wondered why Brentford were playing in the Copa Libertadores, but the white-haired gentleman had assured him everything would be alright as he ushered him onto the plane to La Paz. Scott appreciated his concern – he’d even gone to the trouble of accompanying him all the way onto the plane and handcuffing him to his seat in case of turbulence.

Frankly, Scott was unimpressed with the locals, once he arrived – they really didn’t at all informed about the game and why it had been cancelled . Notwithstanding, he’d had plenty of time to explore the sights of La Paz once he’d discovered that his ticket was non-flexible and the return flight wasn’t for another two months. Scott paused to reflect on Brentford’s professionalism – now THAT was warming down.

So that was how, one day, he found himself wandering around the witches market and picked up his talisman. Scott laughed inwardly at his friends (the woman grabbed her child and moved to the other end of the carriage – damn, he must be more careful) who thought it was a fake. True, it did look very much like a plastic Donald Duck, but Scott knew what he’d paid for it. At that price, it had to be the genuine article.

More to the point, as he fingered his lucky charm once more, hadn’t Brentford lost on Saturday, without him? What’s more, his next door neighbour had been taken to the West Middlesex (and on his hundredth birthday, at that) and his grandmother had the ‘flu. His time had come.

This time, Scott tossed his head back and permitted himself a full-bodied laugh. The train pulled into Earl’s Court, and the carriage emptied

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Oops

Sorry....

There are no direct flights from London to La Paz therefore the above story cannot be true.

Should've checked my facts.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

The thing about fiction is...

... it should be based on facts.

Hang on, how does that work?

Time for bed, methinks

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

That's a couple of prejudices out of the window

Didn't make it to the game tonight, unfortunately.

(Scrub that, it'd be a cold day in hell before I go to a midweek away game v Cardiff. I can take abuse - bring it on - but not physical violence)

Sounds like we could do with someone with a bit of experience at the back (hmmmm.... would that be Scott?). His problem is, of course, that he's no Hreidarsson to whom, as his replacement, he would naturally be compared. Enough time has passed to let him be judged on his own merits, and yes (he says through gritted teeth) I think that means I feel he should get a run.

Of course, that would mean that my revelations about Scott the astronaut, Scott the polar explorer, and Scott the forensic detective would have to be shelved, perhaps indefinitely (DON'T CRITICISE - except in private - THE GUYS WHO, AS FIRST TEAMERS, ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE REACTION FROM YOUR WORK COLLEAGUES ON A MONDAY MORNING).

This may not be totally unwelcome. Unfortunately, Scott the particle physicist does seem to have slipped through the net. Please accept my profuse apologies.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

It was with an immense feeling of satisfaction that Scott powered off and snapped shut his laptop. Finally, he’d finished. He was proud that he would now be able to give something back to the club that had shown so much faith in him.

It was after all they who had suggested that he take a sabbatical to do some research. They’d left the subject entirely down to him. They didn’t specify a time for his return. They even found a place for him to study. It was lucky for Scott that they did, as the nearest available turned out to be the University of Phnom Penh.

Scott had deliberated long and hard over the subject of his research. The inspiration had finally only come as the flight to Cambodia banked and passed over a football pitch. Even at 30,000 feet, Scott felt a great wave of lethargy sweep over him. That was it!! Why did he suddenly, and seemingly inexplicably, start to move so much more slowly when there was a forward nearby? Scott was determined to find out.

The University library became his second home. He avidly devoured all the available literature. And then, one day, as he was poring over the four month old copy of the Beano which had just arrived, the thought hit him. What if… what if he was composed of Higgs bosons? True, they were only theoretical sub-atomic particles, and their existence was certainly contentious, but perhaps they did exist and there was some strange interaction between them and strikers which led him to become infinitely heavy in their proximity?

Fired up with this insight, Scott didn’t get to bed at all that night as he feverishly began to put down his thoughts in words. And now, just a few short months later, his work was finished. Take that, Steven Hawking, he chuckled to himself.

It now only remained for him to prove his theory. It was with some trepidation that he’d telephoned the club to tell them what he had to do. He needn’t have worried as, once again, they came up trumps. Not only, after he’d explained that he needed to lie at the bottom of a three thousand foot deep pit filled with water, had they suggested that he stay there for six months rather than the two days he’d originally asked for, but they’d even offered to dig the well themselves.

As Scott left his study for the last time, he reached inside his shirt pocket. The crisp, cool feeling of the envelope which held his airline ticket offered a sharp contrast to the humid heat of the corridor. Scott thought that the white-haired gentleman who had delivered it that morning had looked strangely familiar, but he couldn’t place where or when exactly he’d seen him before. Anyway, Scott thought as he locked the door, it was going to be an early night tonight. It was a long way to Tierra del Fuego.

 

[mortis]

A tad harsh at times but strangely entertaining.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Scott has to get a call up soon, therefore the following has been rushed through. I only hope he gets back in time!

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

(5)



It was Scott’s favourite time of the day. He moved over to the porthole of his living quarters and peered out. Soon, as the sun set, the copper coloured daytime sky would be replaced by an intense ink black. Scott settled down and made himself comfortable. After a time, as night fell, he focused his attention on the corner of the sky where, he knew, a star would soon rise. Only it wasn’t a star – it was home. So far away, he mused. As tbe bright object rose in the night sky, Scott felt humbled. On that little dot, people – people just like him, although perhaps not quite so slow moving – were living, dying, being born…. and, as he checked his chronometer, somewhere on that dot in the sky, Brentford were just kicking off against Wycombe.

With that thought, Scott felt a sharp stab of guilt. He’d let the club down badly this time. It really hadn’t been his fault, but that was really only partial consolation. When they’d arranged for him to join the first manned mission to Mars, they’d firmly believed it would only be for three days. Scott remembered how the white haired gentleman had told him so even as he strapped him into his seat just before lift-off. It had been a desperate shock for Scott when he found out, soon afterwards, that it was not three days, but three years, that he would be away. He knew it would be a shock for the club as well – he would, after all, not be able to play in the following Saturday’s fixture – but they took the bad news much better than he’d expected.

Scott inched his way to his sleeping quarters and zipped himself in. Although he was so many millions of miles from home, he was comforted by the thought that he still moved much slower when Brentford were playing. It felt as if it was his link to Earth. As he drifted from wakefulness into sleep, he remembered that tomorrow he really must have a good look around for the manual which explained how he was supposed to get back.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Scott’s senses were operating at their keenest. Not only, as he drove across the seeming pancake flatness of the plain, did he have to keep alert for the barely discernible rills that formed its punctuation marks - rills which marked long dried-up watercourses but that would break an axle even of the sturdy jeep he was driving unless taken at a crawl – but he also had a body to find. Fortunately for Scott, he only had to imagine himself on a football pitch to ensure that he did not travel too fast.

He had the map reference, and a glance at his GPS showed that he was close. As he scanned the horizon, he saw something white glimmering under the unrelenting midday sun. He veered towards it, and as he approached his conviction grew that he’d found what he was looking for. It was a skeleton, and as he got nearer it became obvious that it was a human one at that.

He pulled up beside it, and took in the scene. A deep depression in the skull immediately suggested to Scott’s practised eye that foul play was involved – with a blunt object at that. In the harsh desert climate, carrion would quickly be stripped down to the bones, and Scott knew that, despite the apparent emptiness of the desert, the nomads who criss-crossed it seeking the meagre pastures for their herds would have spotted the body had it been there for a long while.

Scott’s initial assessment was therefore that the time of death was at most six months ago. It was his job however to determine precisely how long, what was the cause of death, and find any clues as to who might have committed the crime – for he was now sure that murder, or at least a violent death, was involved.

As he busied himself about his tasks, a part of his brain reflected on how things had changed recently. The club had been very keen to provide him with a career for life after football (in fact, the suggestion had first been made as he came back into the changing rooms the day he made his debut), and, after many hours in the public library, Scott had plumped for retraining as a forensic detective. He read that a slow, methodical approach was vital, and Scott knew immediately that he was already halfway there.

Once he’d completed his initial training, Brentford had even found a placement for him, which was why he found himself attached to the Mongolian Police (Gobi Desert division). Initially, he had thought that this was only for three months, but it subsequently turned out that this was a mistranslation of the Mongolian for “ten years”. That and the fact that his passport and return ticket had unfortunately been stolen on the day of his arrival in Ulaan Bataar – Scott had first noticed they were missing not long after he thought he’d seen a strangely familiar white haired gentleman disappearing around the corner of the street – meant that he’d been here longer than expected.

Scott bagged up the last of the evidence and climbed into his jeep. As he did so, a familiar lassitude swept across him. He checked his watch. Yes, in the capital, not five hundred miles away, a football match was kicking off.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Scott picked up the Sunday paper which had just thudded onto his door mat and went back to the kitchen. A nice hot bowl of porridge awaited him there. It was little things like that which he had really missed over the past few weeks. The Nepalese weren’t big on porridge.

As he pulled out the Sports section and began to read it, what he saw caused him to splutter. A dollop of porridge landed on the paper. He wiped it away, and looked again. There, in black and white, he read “Brentford 1 Wycombe 0”.

Scott was nonplussed. When, on Wednesday he’d finally made it back home from the pre-season training camp the club had so kindly sent him on and telephoned them to tell them of his availability for Saturday, they’d quite clearly told him the match had been postponed. And now, he found the match had been played after all.

Scott could barely contain his anger. It was just typical of the cavalier way the Football League treated its members, he thought. Matches postponed and re-arranged at short notice, changes of venues – Scott had experienced the League’s fixtures secretary’s incompetence on many occasions during his years with Brentford.

It just marked the perfect end to a horrid last few weeks, he reflected. And yet, the Everest expedition that the club had sent him on for his pre-season training had started out so well. As he made his painful way up the last few hundred yards of the summit ridge, every slow step a struggle, every yard seeming like ten, Scott was awe-struck once again at the club’s wisdom. Clearly, the intention had been to re-acquaint him with the feeling which accompanied him every time he stepped out onto a football pitch.

It was on the way back down to base camp that the trouble began. A yeti had stolen Scott’s tent and all his equipment and supplies. If only it hadn’t stolen his camera as well, Scott might at least have been able to get a picture of the white-haired creature (so strangely familiar, he thought) as it disappeared down the mountain. One thing was certain – the booted footprints in the snow looked nothing like any of the other pictures purporting to be yeti prints Scott had seen.

The rest of the journey had been a nightmare. The oncoming monsoon brought with it heavy snowstorms at that altitude. Scott had been forced to spend two weeks bivouacking in a snow drift during the worst of the storms – with only the Chomp bar he’d found in the lining of his coat for food. When he eventually got moving again, it was only the slowness of his progress that formed a tenuous link with home and the world he knew.

And when he did finally stagger, half dead, into the monastery that was his first encounter with civilisation for several weeks, his troubles were still not over. The white-haired monk who had showed him to a room had not seemed to hear Scott’s cries for help when he discovered the door was jammed shut. It had been a further fortnight before he had got out of there…..


…. and now this! Still, Scott reflected as he buttered his toast, things could only possibly get better now he was back.

 

[pandora]

please god
enuff already!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Scott, his ear pressed against his portable radio, did not notice the powder-blue Landcruiser come to a halt. Tuned to the BBC World Service, he was a study in concentration. It may not have been strictly relevant to his tasks here, but Scott knew that he had a higher duty – one to the club thanks to whom he was here at all. Faintly, he heard “…terborough five, Brentford….” before a howl of static drowned out the rest of the football scores. Scott sighed resignedly, turned off the radio, and stepped out into the late summer heat. As he did so, a familiar feeling of tiredness swept over him. A football match was taking place nearby. Scott pondered on how such a normal event could be taking place in such abnormal circumstances. But only briefly – he had a job to do, after all.

Pausing only to straighten his necktie in the wing mirror, Scott strode into the complex, flashing his pass at the Iraqi Revolutionary Guards as he passed by them. Being a UN weapons inspector had its privileges, was his first thought. His second was to wonder why armed guards were deemed necessary for an old peoples’ home – until he remembered home, and a certain white haired old gentleman he had once known. Hmm... not so stupid, after all, these Iraqis, he thought.

The last few weeks had certainly been eventful, Scott thought to himself. The very day after he had heard on the news that there was talk of inspectors going to Iraq to look for weapons of mass destruction, two things had happened: firstly, he had finally found the Brentford training ground (Scott had felt very upset with BT and how they had systematically managed to garble or lose all the previous messages directing him there). Secondly, upon his arrival, he had been immediately ushered by Mr Downes to meet none other than the personal representative of the Secretary General of the UN.

The white-haired gentleman from the UN had explained to Scott how he was urgently required in Iraq, so urgently in fact that he was needed even before any resolution had been passed by the Security Council. Scott had, naturally, questioned why he, specifically, had been chosen, and had been told that most facilities for the production of weapons of mass destruction were situated under sports facilities, particularly football grounds, and his specialist knowledge would be invaluable. Scott had felt so honoured by the request that was speechless. Otherwise, he might have managed to point out that it had been so long since he had actually seen a football pitch that he could no longer feel entirely certain what one looked like.

The club had been very good about it, Scott thought. Very good indeed. After all, no sooner had he mentioned this to Mr Downes that he was whisked straight to a waiting car to Heathrow, where a chartered flight to Baghdad was waiting for him.

So now, here he was. Scott was determined to do his job – for the United Nations, for world peace, but more importantly, for the club that had placed such faith in him. As he thought of them he wondered – had they managed to score six and win?

 

[Michael3]

I'm sure i speak for a lot of people when i say please can this boring loser stop wasting space by writing this cr@p! GET A LIFE! there are better things to be doing at 1am!

 

[Amsterdam Bee]

blimey mate! thats a bit harsh!! Some of this is quite funny. In an entirely unrelated to reality kind of a way of course....

 

[The H]

Scott Marshall looks a different class in the reserves this season.
I'm sure he'll do the business when called upon.

 

[Bee H]

yeravinalarf !

Scott Marshall looks a different class in the reserves this season.
I'm sure he'll do the business when called upon.

He certainly looked a different class at Bournemouth, very much akin to the performances of Gus Hurdle & Murray Jones in fact !!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[WarrenBee]

Re: yeravinalarf !

He certainly looked a different class at Bournemouth, very much akin to the performances of Gus Hurdle & Murray Jones in fact !!!!!!!!!!!!

And that's being kind to him.

 

[WarrenBee]

Re: yeravinalarf !

He certainly looked a different class at Bournemouth, very much akin to the performances of Gus Hurdle & Murray Jones in fact !!!!!!!!!!!!

And that's being kind to him.

.

Come on you Bees.

 

[yateleybee]

If you don't like it, don't read it. Not difficult mate. Anyway, i love it keep up the good work S B.

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

Events seem to have overtaken me. Scott's place on the bench on Saturday means that the following may be the last....

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

It was after seven o’clock. The lights had long ago been switched off, the nets taken down and stowed away, and there was an eerie quiet as Scott sat, alone, in the gloaming.

How much things had changed in the past forty eight hours, he thought. Two days ago, as he’d come into sight of Sugar Loaf mountain, his thoughts had only been to rest up for a few days before tackling the last leg of his solo round-the-world yacht trip. His hopes then had centred on a less eventful layover than the previous ones. A vandal had cut down his main mast in Cape Town, his spinnaker had been stolen in Perth, and Scott had discovered two days out of Auckland that the white-haired gentleman who had insisted on visiting him in his yacht there (hadn’t he seen him around before on his journey?) had replaced all his charts with Ordnance Survey maps of Devon.

At the outset, when Mr Coppell had explained the straitened circumstances, Scott had been only too happy to go along with his suggestion. To save the club, Scott would sail round the world, and the sponsorship would be provided mainly through his buying shares in a listed company, with the club keeping the money and any profit on his return being split evenly between Brentford and himself. Scott had no doubt that shares in a blue chip company such as Marconi could only increase dramatically and must benefit both himself and the club.

Schools of dolphins had accompanied him as his boat skipped along the waves down to the Cape. He’d suffered in the Southern Ocean as the winds forced a more southerly route on him which meant a constant lookout for icebergs, and he’d been becalmed for four weeks in June, his yacht hardly making any progress for days on end, while the World Cup was taking place.

He had to admit that he’d felt a tinge of sadness when, as he docked in Rio, Mr Downes himself was there to usher him on a plane back to London. After all, he had not completed his round-the-world journey, and that hurt a little. But Brentford needed him, and that was that.

He’d watched the game from the bench. He hadn’t been called upon, but nevertheless felt he’d played his part. Now, if only he could figure out how to get off the seat which had accidentally been covered in superglue…..

 

[Spelthorne Bee]

I feel that due honour should be paid to a man who, without a doubt, is Brentford's most multi-talented representative, ever. Circumstances may conspire to prevent me from revealing the whole range - what of Scott in the Kolyma goldfields, Scott among the headhunters of Borneo, and obviously (too obviously) Scott of the Antarctic?

Now, if we could only all witness his footballing talent as well.....

 

[WarrenBee]

Spelthorne,respect is bestowed upon you for your literary masterpiece.But for fuc*s try and get out a bit more.



Come on you Bees.