You only sing when you're ploughing - Part 1 in a litany of flith!

[Vic Flange]

Sing out loud

The football song (or chant, as it is known by some with less than angelic voices) is an integral part of the modern game. Mass singing of popular ditties hit the big time in the 1960s when mop-topped scousers swayed rhythmically on the Kop during half-time mass singalongs of Beatles offerings. However, as the Beat-less moved on into the realms of pseudo-psychedelia, the Kop-tops finally latched onto the moribund “You’ll never walk alone” as the anthem of their team. The song went on to spawn a thousand variations at grounds across the world, including the inevitable “you’ll never work/walk/wank again” versions.

Not all football songs were as emotive; some were just plain monotonous chants. Millwall fans incessantly drone “No one likes us, we don’t care”, which raises the question why, if they really don’t care, they harp on about it endlessly! Portsmouth fans mimic the Pompei Chimes in a parrot-like fashion. Leeds fans ensure you remember who they are with their extremely irritating “We are Leeds, We are Leeds, We are Leeds, etc.”, and fans of Arsenal pucker up and sing out about their less than savoury love of small boys in tight shorts.

However, there is one football song that truly tugs at the heartstrings; that brings a lump to throat and a tear to the eye of even the most hardened hard-man from hard city. The tune it is set to comes from a mysterious and distant age, and carries with it a haunting sense of foreboding. As if that is not enough, the words – the modern words, that is, used in a football sense – tell a tragic tale of despair and loss; the misery, pain and struggle required to create the foundations upon which men can rebuild their broken lives; a dirge to the human qualities long since forgotten or abandoned in an increasingly materialistic world.

Even in translation from the Serbian mother tongue, the tale that is told fills the coldest heart with woe, as the singers intone: “Come sister, shave off that beard and put on your cardboard shoes, our friends and family are dead, our country ruined. Take a bite of the turnip and a drink of turps, my heart is as empty as the Deterlinari stadium”. The song goes on to describe how a weary few, battered and bruised but not defeated in spirit, take turns on the sister, and breed a superior bunch of men who then take back their heritage, restoring their culture and national pride. The final line of the song, however, hides a dark secret. The sister who begat the warrior men had a club foot, and forever the Novi Sad football team, the fruit of her loins who play at the aforementioned Deterlinari stadium, will subsequently be crap, and will serve as a reminder of the black days the region once went through.

I know all about this song because I have heard the maudlin bastards singing it in the run up to the pre-season friendlies, week in and week out. Christ alone knows what joyous variations we’ll be hearing as the season proper starts.

[Vic Flange]

The road to Novi Sad

Serbia is a country riddled with songs, sayings and poems, and the national psyche is built around this oral tradition, especially when it comes to football. Indeed, that’s the reason I ended up here. To cut a long story short, a large-breasted language student I met in London was travelling out to study the songs and folk traditions of the country. Her breasts, coupled with a need to escape gambling debts in London and the promise of cheap beer lured me to the country. I escaped the debts, the big breasts escaped me, and the cheap beer resulted in arguing about the finer points of football with a barman called Zojan in some back street watering hole. He knew little about football, but did have an overwhelming passion for local club Novi Sad; enough to get me slagging them off just to annoy him. To be honest, I didn’t have a clue who they were, but as with any team, all the usual jokes fitted – stadium has structural fault, all the seats face the pitch; they put 10 grand’s worth of manure of the pitch every week, and so on. I even perfected a line in praising fierce local rivals Veternik just to really piss him off.

One night, when well taken in the cups, things took a turn for the worst. I was slagging off Zojan and his beloved Novi Sad as usual, when some local turnip farmers, high on vodka and diesel fuel and dressed in their best cardboard hats, interjected, and before you could blink a stand-off had developed. I remember repeating the phrase “Not good” over and over again to myself as they closed in, armed with hoes and rakes and other turnip farming devices that could do untold damage to the rectal area if used aggressively. These marked them out as the better off farmers in the region, because the peasant stock had pointy sticks and that was about the sum of it. These boys probably had a box at the stadium!

Luckily, Zojan stepped in, not for friendship but because of the bar bill I owed, and I escaped with simply handing over my watch, wallet and shoes to the locals. I was done for, with no money and no shoes – but I had kept my teeth because one of the farmers had misplaced his pliers. Oh happy days! Zojan informed me that his father was Boris Krakov, the manager at Novi Sad, and as I owed him for my ever increasing bar bill we might be able to do something of a deal. A handshake and a glass of turnip brandy sealed the bargain. That’s how I agreed to become their new programme seller!

It didn’t seem a bad job; if anything, I reckoned I had got off lightly. I got paid enough to keep living a wastrel’s life, I could see the games for free as long as I got my allocation of programmes sold in time, and I only needed to turn up to work once a fortnight, about an hour before kick off. As I congratulated Zojan on giving me the best job in town, the smug expression on his fat Serbian turnip-shaped face should have alerted me to what was to come.

[Vic Flange]

Out of the frying pan, into the shithouse

There is an old saying in Serbia: “Better to be rich and healthy than poor and sick, and better to be poor and sick than Vasa Orlovic”. I should have thought harder about this as I watched the middle aged but decidedly sickly looking Assistant Manager of Novi Sad swing open the metal door to the small dark room under the main stand. Why I had to be here to sell programmes before the pre-season friendlies had even kicked was beyond me. He flicked on the light switch and a dusty bulb spewed a yellowish light across the grubby room. There was a table dotted with rat shit, a chair that had shed most of its stuffing onto the damp floor, a typewriter that belonged in a museum, and a huge bulky object under what appeared to be a soiled and stained bed sheet. Some of the stains looked, well, suspicious to say the least. Suspicious and violently unpleasant. I took a deep breath and froze. I thought he was going to bugger me. However, what he did was even worse. He whipped the sheet away to reveal a rusting heap of crap that closely resembled an archaic 1950s printing press. The sickening reality began to hit home. I had to write and print the bloody programmes before I could sell them.

There is an old Serbian song that goes: “Every man has a song inside him, Mother fetch the hook and I will drag it out, out into the morning sun”. I realised that I was going to have drag the very song out of every player and staff member at Novi Sad if I was ever going to afford a beer, let alone another pair of shoes. Where to start? Vasa had simply walked away, laughing. The stench of dampness and stale cats’ piss was getting to me, and judging by the coughing and spitting noises I could hear, some very sick people were taking some exercise outside. I decided to go and take a look.

The first thing that struck me was the size of the Novi Sad squad. The stadium wasn’t big, but I figured they could fill half of it with players and staff. I counted what I thought was 65 players, ranging in age from mid teens to near 40s. The staff count was 16. Perhaps I had been hasty. Was Novi Sad a sleeping giant. Perhaps they had just fallen from Grace. I asked around to try and unravel the club’s history, but no one really wanted to even acknowledge my presence. I seemed to be in everybody’s way, lost in an ocean of faceless players and staff, all seemingly clueless and stinking of cheap brandy and turnip stew. The reality was that no one knew what the hell was happening. I wasn’t the only novice there that day. It turned out to be Boris Krakov’s first day too. It was not only his first day, it was also his first post in football management. WTF was going on?

The board were hopeful of his ability, the fans wanted him to rebuild the squad, and Vasa Orlovic – who obviously got passed over for the job – probably wanted to ride him so hard his head popped off. And me? I was here to chart, on a fortnightly basis, the man’s slippery demise into the netherworld of football management failure. Time for a beer, I thought, and went looking for the bar.

The barmaid was grubby and smelled of pipe tobacco. She had the first few hairs of what was sure to become a tremendous moustache on her upper lip, and her tits already drooped to her waist. I bet myself she’d lose her looks before her teenage years were over. She told me her name; it sounded like Phlegm, but that obviously wasn’t right. I didn’t want to ask again so I just called her Angel. I figured she’d be dead soon, so it seemed appropriate. All she could tell me was that Novi Sad had won the Second Division in 1961, and she’d bang like a shithouse door for a bag of turnips. I was about to query how many turnips constituted a bagful when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and stared into a face heavy with worry and an undeniable sense of futility. The man spoke: “Hello, I am Boris Krakov, do you know where the toilet is, I need a dump?” I merely smiled, and said: “The toilet? I think you’re in it!”

[Vic Flange]

Putting the crap in scrap

Whether Boris got to eventually take a dump on that first day I’ll never know. I finished my beer, made one last flirtatious comment to Angel, and scuttled off into town. I tracked down two scrap metal merchants who looked more like hired muscle than businessmen, and we set off back to the Deterlinari stadium. My goal was to make enough cash selling off the printing press to get out of the region. Like any plan thought up in a second and without any fallback scenario in place, it was a corker. Things were going swimmingly. Their initial snorting and utter contempt for the pile of crap I was trying to offload on them had melted to a slight flicker of interest once I had passed around the Marlboro and a couple of chipped teacups liberally laced with turnip cognac! Just as the discussion on prices was getting interesting, in walked Vasa Orlovic. He claimed he heard voices and was checking everything was secure; I actually think he was coming in to take a leak in the slum laughingly referred to as my office.

I passed the scrappies off as potential match ball sponsors and hustled them outside. What a result. I now owed two scrap metal thugs for a wasted morning, and Vasa was going to be watching me like a hawk. Escape plans were temporarily put on ice. I had two immediate concerns. The first was how to bag a shot at Angel before she finally passed into that munt-pig state where she was no longer passable as a female; the other was to put together a match day programme for the opening day fixture against Vrbas, our first opponents in the Serbia and Montenegro Second Division North. One additional slight concern was Vasa Orlovic. Something told me he was the real man in charge, and a real pile of trouble too. He certainly seemed to have the whole place – including the staff and players – in his pocket. Still, at least I wasn’t the most hated man in Novi Sad. That honour fell to Boris Krakov.

The first programme would be a no-brainer. It would contain an interview with Boris to introduce the new manager and his plans for the future, and a look back at the pre-season friendlies. I hoped Boris had whittled the 65 out-of-shape chancers down to a more manageable sized squad. Of course, there was the small issue of balancing youth and experience, especially as each match squad required the specified three players that were under 21. Boris needed a computer to work out the squad - I just needed a beer. I had two choices; drink all day, or start work on my profile of Boris. The bar was being run by Angel’s ugly (make that uglier) auntie, so I headed off to the training ground.

[Vic Flange]

Less is more

Boris was peering into a sea of 65 blank faces and scratching his balding head. I could see he was struggling. The staff looked on impassively; Vasa Orlovic had made sure they weren’t going to help. I sat directly behind him and whispered: “Set some criteria to thin this lot out or you’ll never get started”. He remained impassive for about ten seconds, and then sat upright as if someone had shoved a cattle prod up his arse. He started barking out commands, splitting the group down by position, age, type of contract and so on. It was naivety gone mad, but it was as good an approach as any. He was going to have to off-load a lot of these players, especially as the wage bill was sky high, but he didn’t have time to assess them all individually.

Players with youth contracts were stuck straight in the Under 18s. The crowd was reduced to 58. I figured he was doing good so wandered off to think about raising the cash to escape. When I ambled back about an hour later, the crowd had shrunk to 28. I asked Boris: “What are they like?” In response, he coiled his hands together, with one finger slowly sliding out of the clenched fist like a turd edging out of an anus. I nodded an acknowledgement of what he was trying to communicate.

From what I had seen with my somewhat uneducated eye, the 65 players boasted three potential footballers. Two of these were the Bogunovic brothers, the younger being the first choice goalkeeper, and the older a moderately impressive looking striker. The third worthy of note was Horvat, an attacking left footer. Horvat was attracting attention from Mallorca and Red Star, so that was only a matter of time. The Boggy brothers, on the other hand, were local lads and seemed happy at the club. They knew about nothing other than shit and turnips, so the Deterlinari stadium suited them. Was this the right squad? Boris said a few more had to fall by the wayside, but that we would all learn by his mistakes. I thanked him for counting us all into his mistakes. He muttered “Fuck off” and lit a cigarette.

The Serbian world of football has a massive youth culture, so the free signings available are plentiful – crap, but plentiful. I asked Boris if he had any intention of dipping into the slime-filled waters of the transfer market. He laughed and pointed out: “I don’t know how much crap I have yet; so I don’t know how much more crap I need”. He had six friendlies to answer that question, and I didn’t envy him. As I got up to leave, he asked: “Are there any players from your country worth looking at?” I thought for a moment. Who would come to this godforsaken shit-hole of a country and play against turnip-eating lunatics for the equivalent of £600 per week? Not even Paul Furlong!

[Vic Flange]

Let the kicking commence

With the exception of Boggy the Younger in goal, Boggy the Elder up front, and Horvat on the left wing, it was hard to see how Novi Sad were going to make an impression. Boris also added to the confusion with an extremely aggressive tactic, although the real heart of the team seemed too defensive. With a flat back four, supplemented by a defensive midfielder, I did anticipate a slow and methodical approach. However, the three midfielders formed an attacking trident up the pitch, with two very fast strikers (speed taking precedence over finishing ability, it seemed), the hell-for-leather approach was given a trial.

The first friendly was away at Sevejno, a non-league semi-pro outfit. The crowd of 72 was treated to a handful of Novi Sad fans singing that bloody dirge – it was the first time I had heard it. However, their misery was silenced after 18 minutes when Boggy the elder popped up with an extremely fortunate tap-in after a goalkeeping error. Horvat limped off after 26 minutes, and at half time Boris changed the entire team. The second half saw better control, with left footed striker Darko Drinic picking up a long ball at the half way line, taking it past a defender before slotting it away from a tight angle on the edge of the six yard box. Drinic was involved in the 75th minute, again carrying a ball to the six yard box, this time putting in an inch perfect cross to Vladimir Markovic for a simple tap in. The final whistle saw Novi Sad walk away 3-0 winners. Luckily, Horvat had only picked up a slight knock. He also picked up bids from both Red Star and Mallorca for £65,000; both of which Boris had the balls to reject (although it seems that Red Star are still in the hunt).

Another away day saw a visit to non-league Radnicki Zorka. A Novi Sad 6-1 victory might have brightened up the gloom, were it not for the fact that Radnicki were down to 9 men before the first half had ended. Boggy the elder opened the scoring with another less than convincing strike. The second half, however, belonged to Ilija Babic and Darko Drinic. Ilija took over as the centre prong of the trident, and scored a long-range effort before being set for his second by Darko. In the dying moments, Darko stamped this authority on the rout by sliding a late goal home from a tight angle. However, whilst the score line seemed impressive, the 85 fans in attendance knew they had seen a 9-man lower league team play poorly against a bunch of wastrels.

The third friendly was the test, at home against first division opposition. Zeleznik’s appearance saw over 5,000 pack into the Deterlinari stadium, and Boris decided to give them something worth seeing. He paired Boggy the elder with Darko up front, and Ilija as the middle prong of the trident. The result dripped of inconsistency. The game dragged slowly like a sack of shit being hauled through treacle, and when Markovic scored a fluke goal in the 85th minute, Zeleznik grabbed an easy equaliser in the 87th minute. However, the blight of the match was that bloody song, droning on and on. “Sister, do not scream, for the men have jam and dried snails. Eat and be happy, for your womb will be filled with a brighter dawn”.

It was on the bus to Big Bull Bacinci, another semi-pro non-league outfit, that I decided to try and press Boris about how he saw the coming season. Whilst the friendly results thus far were not too bad, I sensed he also realised that a lack of consistency could be a problem. He explained: “It is like having a fat wife. Sometimes, when you are drinking much, and can see the photograph of her sister on the fireplace, you can stay hard all night. Other times, you cannot look upon her. My job is to keep the team drunk and looking at the fireplace”.

The match against Big Bull was a non-event. Ilija set out to make up for his poor performance against Zeleznik and scored an early goal, before blowing two clear-cut chances. When Branko Markovic, the defensive midfielder, had a few long-range efforts scrambled off the line, it became clear that this was a mismatch in every sense. Sadly, the Novi Sad players thought so too, and before you could say “walkover” they were chatting with the crowd of 63 and trying to buy a few turnips. As the bargaining reached fever pitch, and the going rate for a marrow topped out at three horses and a virgin, Big Bull defender Vukmir took advantage of the lethargy, walked into the penalty box, and nodded an equaliser past the sleeping Boggy the younger. At half time I was introduced to Nikola Topic. I shoved my hand up her jumper and found out she was actually a 19 year old striker with a girl’s name. Still, fair play to her, after two second half goals and an assist, she pulled Novi out of a hole.

The next match at Jedinstvo was a different affair. The team played in the Serbia and Montenegro Second Division East, and as such could be considered to be the equals of Novi Sad. Boris made a few changes, leaving Boggy the elder out. On the journey, he also intimated at one point that Horvat could go for the right price. He seemed to be taken control at last. Milan Visekruna started in place of Boggy the elder, and scored a sensational long range goal after 11 minutes; the first sign of class from Novi in all the friendlies so far. Jedinstvo took advantage of a defensive cock-up to equalise, before Darko scored another trademark tight angled goal. The crowd of 86 grew agitated as Jedinstvo, including ten on loan players from Red Star, pushed for the equaliser. The home fans became confrontational, chanting: “Turnips? We throw them away half eaten!”. Things could have got ugly if anyone had been bothered. Then Darko latched onto a through ball from Ilijah and scored, effectively knocking the resistance out of Jedinstvo.

One elderly crone lifted her top to reveal two sagging and wrinkled breasts with hairy nipples. On one was written Novi, and the other bore the word Sad. It would have been even more impressive if she had got them the right way around!

Perhaps the team was ready; perhaps Boris was the smart one all along; perhaps Nikola Topic was a girl; perhaps Novi Sad were going to win the league. I must have been thinking out loud, because a small boy mouthed the word “cunt” at me and walked off. Oh well.

The final friendly was a local affair. Kabel, a non-league club from the town of Novi Sad, including six on loan players from Vojvodina, the largest team in the town of Novi Sad, were hosting Novi Sad, the most shambolic team in town of Novi Sad. All we needed was some hooligans from Veternik, the scummiest team in the town of Novi Sad to turn up, and we’d ourselves one hell of a Balkan crisis. As one local pointed out on the terraces before kick off: “I hate these fuckers more than the Croats”. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Kabel, Vojvodina, Veternik or Novi Sad, so I just smiled and a lit a cigarette. Luckily, he was actually talking about the match officials. The match itself was the usual lack of consistency. Until Ilijah popped up with a goal after half time, it carried all the hallmarks of a bore-draw. A second from Visekruna made the ordeal more palatable.

[Vic Flange]

A squad of shit

The next day, Boris called me to his office to unveil the final 22, and he obviously didn’t care much for the wrath of the fans. Both Horvat and Boggy the Elder were excluded, and Boggy the Younger only made a subs position. I looked at the list in disbelief, making a mental note about each player.

GK: Mario Kraguljac (Crackerjack)
An 18 year old local lad with a hell of a lot to learn, and scabby hands.

GK: Dejan Bogunovic (Boggy the Younger)
A 22 year local boy with a promising future in goal.

DR: Zoran Galic (Zorro)
A 28 tear old offering much needed experience at the rear (ooh err matron).

DR: Mirko Babic (Mirkin)
Needs to be a bit more consistent to get regular football.

DL: Milan Stevancevic (Chancer)
A 22 year old defender; slow but strong, will be well fucked if caught up field!

DL: Sasa Antic (Geriatric)
An attacking fullback with a good turn of pace for a 30 year old.

DC: Boban Jozic (Josser)
Earned his place on performance, not stats.

DC: Dejan Serf (Peasant)
A 17 year old who will have to think football, not turnips.

DC: Bogdan Tatic (Big Head)
If he plays as good as he thinks he does, we’ll be laughing!

DC: Jovan Ninkovich (Ninko the Kid)
A 16 year old with a chance to prove he’s not as crap as he looks.

DMC: Branko Markovic (Branko)
The playmaker – we hope!

DMC: Stojan Djukic (Stodge)
A 17 year old with the physical attributes but lacking in skills.

MR: Sava Jankovic (Janker)
Fast and wide 26 year old who couldn’t finish to get a blowjob.

MR: Nenad Lazarevski (Lazarus)
A 17 year old who can only improve (really).

ML: Vladimir Muratovic (The Impaler)
Talented but weak, and with enough aggression to get by.

ML: Zoran Repac (Enigma)
A definite for the axe until he did enough to push out Horvat!

AMC: Ilija Babic (Ilija)
Not an obvious choice, but this 24 year old lets his goals do the talking.

AMC: Borivoje Filipovic (Knobber)
Fast and furious attacker who might turn up a few gems.

ST: Milan Visekruna (The Pig)
He’s shit, shit, shit … then he does something special.

ST: Darko Drinic (Darko)
A hand in everything, and everything in hand!

ST: Nikola Topic (Nikola)
Is she a man or a lady?

ST: Vlada Markovic (The Invisible Man)
He scores, he sets them up; who is he?

I looked once more at the list, and couldn’t believe this was the best of 65 players. It was more like a list of those we should be selling off. Still, Boris was the boss; it was his neck on the block. I took one last look at him, to make sure he wasn’t going to burst out laughing, and then left. I could only imagine the stadium filled with angry voices as Novi Sad fell at the first hurdle. As I wandered toward the main gate I thought I saw Vasa in the shadows, shagging a goat. Nothing seemed strange any more.

[Vic Flange]

The morning after the night before

Waking up that day was like coming too after a car accident. It was the best approach to lie still and see if there was any pain or obvious injury before trying to move any limbs. The room was quiet, but it stank of stale bodies, beer, cigarettes and what I thought was sweaty horses! I would have opened my eyes but the grimace as I fought against the pain in my head – like a blunt drill working through my temples – kept them firmly closed. I thought there was someone or something next to me, although I couldn’t be sure. I held my breath to see if I could hear them breathing, but nothing. Either I was alone, or in bed with a corpse. Strangely, the latter seemed more likely, and also more appealing!

What the hell had happened? Had my dubious past caught up with me? Was that ugly woman really a witch? Had I been beaten senseless by a squad of dwarf hookers? Could you put heroin in turnips? One thing was certain; I had been through a trauma, with or without a corpse beside me. I gently moved my hand. There was certainly something in the bed; a cold hard lump. I gently applied pressure. It didn’t feel human. The smell of horses rolled back into my nostrils, and the wave of panic washing over me jerked me awake. I sat upright and whipped the sheet back, my stomach knotted and fighting back the wave of hot acrid puke that was about to spurt over the decaying feline cadaver. Luckily, the puke never came, because oddly enough, it wasn’t a dead horse, but a pile of football programmes. In fact, it was a pile of programmes that didn’t sell from the opening game of the season. In my haste, I had run off 6,000 copies expecting a full house.

The cover pictures haunted me; on some there was Boris, with a grin that made him look like an imbecile who was so stupid all the other imbeciles noticed. He was shaking hands with The Turd. The Turd – or Zoran Djurdjevic – was a new signing, made just before the start of the season. The Turd was a gamble and a half. In fact, he was more of a gamble than meeting a 6 foot tall, 250 pound miner called Brian the Bastard and betting he was a poof. He came from non-league Car Konstantin and was a left winger. Boris was looking for cover for Horvat, who he had intended to sell before the transfer deadline. Car Konstantin had screwed Novi Sad out of £90,000, and Vasa Orlovic had cautioned against the purchase. Unless he came up trumps, Boris Krakov was screwed, which probably meant Vasa would take over as manager. Then he would probably screw me and leave my body in the turnip fields. The best laid plans, as they say, had well and truly come off the tracks. Horvat hadn’t been sold because Boris priced him too highly, and the club was well and truly in the red. I think the Serbian word for the situation was “bollocksed”. When I mentioned this to Boris, and he just farted and walked away. On other programmes was a picture of The Chancer holding a plastic onion the size of his head.

In the programme was the first interview with Boris, introducing him to the fans. He referred to tactics constantly with his dodgy ugly wife scenario. He described players as wild boys with beating hearts and a passion for physical exertion. They were actually a bunch of lazy freaks from what I could see. He also called the Deterlinari stadium: “the womb from which a new footballing Jerusalem would be induced”. Some fans had made it clear that they doubted whether he had a grip on reality.

A few days before the opening game, the draw had been made for the Serbia and Montenegro Cup Qualifying Round Vojvodina region semi-final. They weren’t going to chant that in a hurry. We received an away draw against Radnicki Novi Beograd from Belgrade. We also played them in the league two days later, again away. This was followed by an away league game at Proleter Zrenjanin – at least that let me off writing programmes for a bit.

I tried to let sleep wash back over me. I still felt sick, although more relieved that I was sharing a bed with waste paper rather than a stiff. Perhaps later I would get up, wash, dress and go into town for a few beers. Perhaps I would bump into a few of the locals, chat about the team and …

[Vic Flange]

Up like a rocket, down like a stick

Fuck! The team! It had all started so well in the opening game against Vrbas. Two minutes into it, Darko broke free and fed a low cross in from the left for a simple tap-in by Ilijah. The Pig looked like he would pull a diamond from his backside, but the woodwork denied him. Then in a crowded penalty box with the ball bouncing around like a fat lady’ breasts on a treadmill, The Impaler latched onto it and stuck it in the net to make it 2-0. The Novi Sad defence didn’t look too comfortable, but it was all attack so things were nowhere near as black as they could have been. Come the hour, come The Chancer! My fear had been that the carthorse would get caught out up-field, and on 36 minutes that fear turned into reality, as Rasic left him for dead before slotting in a simple goal to bring Vrbas back from the dead.

The second half saw Vrbas pushing ever harder, until the 67th minute when Rasic skinned The Chancer for a second time and levelled the game. A small child smoking a cigar dashed to the dugout and quickly woke Boris up. He pulled off The Impaler, chucking new boy The Turd into the game. He bolstered the defence by replacing Josser and Peasant with Mirkin - obviously to add a bit of organisation – and Big Head. Now Big Head would live or die by his football, rather than his talking. Novi Sad had 21 minutes to pull their not inconsiderably fat arse out of the fire. Vrbas had the best of the play, and thankfully a wayward shot by two goal hero Rasic when he again broke free of The Chancer kept Novi Sad in it. The draw looked odds on, until in the 92nd minute, The Pig picked up the ball, took it to the touch line, and advanced the length of the pitch. He looked up on arriving at the corner flag, and saw Darko, Ilija, Janker and even Big Head all waiting to put it in the net. He crossed.

He only had to keep it square. The ball sailed off at an acute angle, over the line, over the terrace, out of the stadium and off down the road. There was short break while unused sub Ninko the Kid got his moped and rode off to find the football. Luckily, he brought it back just before the referee insisted the game continued with a cat in a sack as the ball. Not that we like cats in Novi Sad, but as Boris pointed out, the cat in a sack was one thing the team hadn’t practiced! A 2-2 draw might not seem too bad, but from 2-0 up, it meant an evening of Novi Sad fans singing bloody dreary songs about abortions, sea monsters and turnips. The only positive thing was that Branko received a well deserved Man of the Match award.

The result brought home a harsh realisation. The defence was leaky, the midfield was less than dominant, and the strikers only turned it on for a few minutes each game. The young team had skill; it just couldn’t use it for 90 minutes on the trot. It didn’t help that every time the ball went forward, the entire team pushed to the front like the elderly in a queue at a cabbage stall having a half-price sale! All it took was one route-one ball out, and the opposition had a bloody good chance of scoring.

After the game, having a few beers and trying to work out whether Angel tucked her nipples into the waistband of her rag that masqueraded as a skirt, Boris confided in me: “I must swallow my pride. The team needs the more experienced players. I also need to curb the instinct to attack.” I thought for a minute, and then suggested, with a heavy degree of sarcasm: “Try the long ball game”. He nodded enthusiastically, mumbling “Yes, yes, the long ball game”. I tried to point out that I was taking the piss, but he was already off and running. I thought to myself: “Boris Krakov, you are a twat!”

[Vic Flange]

And you know where you can stick your cup!

Radnicki Novi Beograd was a team from Belgrade, and acted as a feeder club for First Division Zeleznik. The squad included 14 on loan players, which meant we’d have to avoid the mistakes made against Vrbas. The Chancer was dropped as Geriatric was fit again, but Darko had an injury. The Novi Sad squad also included Horvas, The Turd and Boggy the Elder. The approach was more defensive, and Boris had decided to employ the long ball game as a temporary measure! Crackerjack also moved to the bench, allowing Boggy the Younger to start between the sticks.

Five minutes into the game saw the first fruits of the new approach; a long ball found Horvat who moved into the box and crossed. The ball evaded the man, and Janker picked it up on the right and crossed. Again it missed everyone. Horvat and Janker crossed from one side of the pitch to the other a few times in a comedy moment that summed up how crap we were, until a Radnicki defender glanced it away, fortunately into the path of Branko who was coming in like an express train – well, like a freight train. He drove it with strength and accuracy into the back of the net. Ranicki dominated the rest of the half, with a few Novi Sad chances falling to Horvat who shot at goal with all the conviction of a grandfather gently passing a ball to a three-year old. I was not the only one surprised to see him start the second half.

On 62 minutes, Branko drifted a long ball to Horvat, who closed in the goal. The Radnicki keeper went out to meet him, expecting to pick up a soft pass. However, Horvat crossed to Boggy the Elder who simply rolled it in to an empty net! Three minutes later an Ilijah corner was nodded in at the near post by Boggy the Elder, and at 3-0 up with 15 minutes to go, Boris decided to make a few changes. One of these was The Turd, replacing The Impaler who had been quiet throughout the match. The game limped to a close, with Boggy the Elder denied a hat trick by a dubious off-side decision. Man of the Match went to Boggy the Younger, who had kept Novi Sad in it with some essential saves in the first half. To make our joy complete, local rivals Veternik had crashed out to Big Bull! As the final whistle sounded, the five or six Novi fans who had made the trip to Belgrade danced on the terraces, but in postures as if they were carrying heavy sacks – a reference to the fact that they were carrying off all the turnips. You know what they say about small things and small minds!

Our final qualifying game was at home against Dinamo Pancevo. On paper they didn’t look a bad team, but we had to take heart from the fact that they were a semi-pro non league outfit. Still, that could wait. The team spent Friday in Belgrade trying to swop their football boots for luxury items such as soap, stale bread and plastic ornaments. The Chancer managed to swop his for a twelve inch high plastic onion. It didn’t really matter, he had no chance of playing anyway. On Saturday morning we returned to the Studenjaka stadium for our second game in two days against Radnicki. However, the game had been moved to accommodate the cup game against Dinamo the following Tuesday. Luckily, we didn’t find out until we got to the stadium. I laughed, pointing out that I had finally found another football association as utterly inept and incompetent as the English FA. The Serbians just looked at me with a sort of: “I’d love to kill you” look, and got back on the minibus.

Then it occurred to me; a day travelling back to Novi Sad, a match on Tuesday, two days to write a programme. Shit. Still, all was not lost. I had expected Novi Sad to be alive with football fever on day one of the season, and had done a print run of 6,000 programmes, anticipating a full house. I had about 4,800 of them left. A new cover, and my work was done! Most of the players were sleeping. I took out my camera and scoured the dark interior of the bus. I had a choice of cover pictures of Vasa or The Chancer. He looked good holding that plastic onion; there was no real debate!

Winning the game against Dinamo would put us in the Serbia and Montenegro cup proper. It was an important game. Most fans would not have been there on the opening day, so I figured I could get shot of the extra programmes, and to most it would all be new!

Prior to the game, The Invisible Man pulled up lame, so The Pig got his arse on the bench. After 12 minutes, a bit of penalty box pinball saw the ball fall to Branko, who tucked it away neatly. I wondered if anyone would remind him he was a defensive midfielder, but with two goals in two games, that could wait! Horvat got himself in good positions a few times, but failed to score. I wondered if he’d get a goal in his remaining time at Novi Sad. I knew Boris had received faxes from Schalke 04 and Betis earlier that day, and they had to have something to do with him. Word was all over town – not that Horvat was away, but that Boris had got a fax. You don’t get faxes in Novi Sad very often.

In the 73rd minute, Boris the Elder took a free kick from about 35 yards, which the Dinamo keeper could only parry. Josser seized on the rebound, and it was 2-0. Time to bring on The Turd, Knobber and The Pig, and Horvat left the Novi Sad turf, maybe for the last time. The game ran out of steam. Dinamo couldn’t force themselves into it; Novi Sad had done enough.

The Detelinari was buzzing; the first round proper! Everyone, included Vasa, was heading in to town to get pissed. I nipped into the bar to see if Angel was free, She said she couldn’t come out; her mother had arranged for several “uncles” to call by, and bills needed paying. I told everyone I would meet them at the bar. I had one job to do. After they had all left, I flagged down a passing horse and cart, and loaded the spare 3,000 programmes in the back, now with a mix of covers. I couldn’t repeat that trick, they’d hang me by my feet and beat my genitals with sticks. During the match, I had persuaded Vasa that the reason some sections of the crowd threw their programmes on the pitch was an Argentinian World Cup-style paper cascade. “They don’t rip them up first?” he asked. I shrugged; everyone knew the Serbs were lazy bastards.

When I got home I unloaded the programmes, stashed them on the bed, paid the driver with a half-smoked Marlboro and the lend of a porn mag, and headed off to the bar. I would dump the programmes in the river tomorrow; tonight I had some celebrating to do!

[Vic Flange]

Just like Arsene, but he likes women

The visit to Proleter was a time for heads to clear. They were top of the table, but after one match that only meant they’d had a good win on the opening day! Darko had recovered, so Horvat dropped to the bench. He was still with us. Boris had upped the price by £5,000 and both clubs had walked away. Boris also dispensed with the long ball approach. A first minute Ilijah corner saw Boris the Elder nod past the keeper. Novi Sad maintained the ability to get early goals. It was whether we could defend later on that was questionable! Novi Sad controlled much of the game, until against the run of play Proleter equalised with a near post header from a corner. It was time, Boris decreed, to go long! The Turd came on, and Peasant replaced Zorro at the back. The ball fell to Ilijah six yards from an open goal, and with the cunning and skill of a cunning skilful person, he lifted the ball over the bar, and into the open mouths of the unbelieving Proleter fans. Still, all was not lost. Proleter switched to a 3-4-3 tactic, making the long ball more effective. Almost immediately, Boggy the Elder broke free, latched on to a long ball from midfield, and tucked it away. Proleter had proved by their tactic change that they weren’t in the mood to draw, and they certainly weren’t in the mood to lose! Their pressure told after 83 minutes with a superb equaliser. Hanging on for a draw seemed the best option, and Boris told the team to play defensively. They did, all except Branko. Considering his instructions are defensive, long ball passing from deep, not getting forward; essentially a play maker in front of defence to get the ball out, he has different ideas about what that means. In the dying moments, he picked the ball up in his own penalty area, and dribbled the length of the pitch, taking on three defenders, and then coolly slipping the ball into the net. Goal of the month. Goal of the season.

A few days later, on the way back to Belgrade again for the ill-fated game with Rednicki Novi Beograd, we learn that our first round cup game is against local giants, Vojvodina. Essentially, with Kabel and Veternik disappearing in the qualifying rounds, and with Novi paired with Vojvodina, there could only be one team from the town left in the cup. The feeling was that team would be Vojvodina. Boris thought otherwise, and so did I. We only had the rest of the team to convince. We also noticed in the paper that Oliver Lilic, one of the reserve players, was shooting his mouth off about first team football. I showed it to Boris, and without passion he simply picked up his pen, and drew a cross through the picture of the player alongside the story. Although Boris had talked of off-loading Horvat, and he was still around, I didn’t hold out hope for Lilic!

An early goal for Darko and a nodded on corner by The Impaler put Novi Sad two up, which was a relief as Boggy the Elder was out injured. Radnicki pulled one back before half time, as the game was anything but pretty, played in torrential rain with a pitch more akin to a mudbath. On the hour Radnicki equalised, and Nikola and Knobber came on, alongside the now perennial second half substitute, The Turd. The game could have gone either way in the mud, with both teams hoofing the ball from one end to the other – there was nothing here for the purists.

If you want to see beauty, go to a strip club. If you want to see football, expect to witness grown men rolling about in the mud and hoofing a ball around the park so long as they get the three points. Knobber’s first touch was not as beautiful as a stripper, and his cross to Nikola was no where near as good as watching a pole dancer peel of her pants, and her goal was not in the same class as a hooker’s shaven horrors, but as far as getting three points went, it put us back on the right road. We knew from the cup game that Radnicki would not lay down and die, and for a while all the Novi players were behind the ball with the exception of Darko and Nikola. However, with ten minutes to go and Radnicki down to ten men, Novi Sad managed to push out, and a Darko cross was picked up by The Turd, and his thunderbolt goal allowed the noose around Boris’ neck to slacken just a little.

Even at 4-2, Novi Sad were under the cosh, and a second goal from Kovacevic brought Radnicki back into it. Backs to the wall type defending, however, saw the full time out, and Novi Sad remained undefeated in the league! Okay, it might only be for three games, but it was a start. On the bus back to Novi Sad I asked Boris if with his undefeated record, he would like to emulate Arsene Wenger. He snarled: “No, never, I like women”. I shrugged and went back to reading the paper. I noticed that Lilic wasn’t alone in complaining about a lack of first team football; Dragan Brmbota had jumped on the bandwagon too. I said nothing, mainly because Brmbota was a promising talent, and his wife had a lovely arse.

[Vic Flange]

Back to the grind

The next weekend came the home game against Elan. This time I was forearmed with knowledge, and only printed 1000 programmes. The attendance was 1,700 and the programmes sold out early! The star attraction was an interview with The Turd. There was a man who should let his football do the talking. He came across like Beckham’s stupider brother. He’d started his career with Radnicki Nis, and in four years played 1 game for them. However, a year on loan at PKB Padinska Skela has seen him score 13 in 25 games. Two years with Sindjelic Nis had been more fruitful; 30 goals in 54 games. His time at Car Konstantin had been less than spectacular with only 4 goals in 21 outings. Did he feel pressured to perform given his high price tag? He looked bewildered, scratched himself, and made a gesture that indicated he wasn’t sure. Did he enjoy the tactical approach that Boris Krakov used? A shrug. Favourite colour? Orange. Favourite food? Turnip. At last, we had found the level. He admitted that he sometimes wore his girlfriend’s underwear. I changed the subject. He insisted on showing me; he had a pair of stained bloomers made from what looked like canvas. I went outside for a cigarette, and decided to make the interview up. After all, the smart money was on him not being able to read so he’d never know.

Boggy the Elder and the Invisible Man were still out with injuries, so Boris favoured The Pig and Darko up front. I thought Knobber and Nikola had done enough to make the starting 11, but they remained on the bench, as did Horvat. The first half was nothing to write home about; Ilijah had one long range shot that was easily saved, but Elan had shaded the game without creating any real clear-cut chances. The second half saw Nikola and Knobber on for Janker and The Pig. It was vital that Novi Sad had more shots on target than the solitary Ilijah effort of the first period. The second half started better, with a throw-in from Geriatric finding The Impaler, who lost the ball. However, he stayed with his man, won it back and flicked it forward to Darko who closed in on goal and smashed the ball into the top corner from the edge of the box. On the 70th minute, Elan broke into the Novi Sad box, with substitute Tibor Barna delivering a cross from the right hand side. The first player to it was Boggy the Younger, who under no pressure managed to punch it into his own net! Ilijah went on to miss two chances before he was replaced with 10 minutes to go by The Turd. However, the game rumbled to a halt in much the way it had started, with 1-1 being a fair result. Novi Sad were still unbeaten, but a little less convincing.

Three away games were looming. The first was against bitter rivals Veternik; the second against local giants Vojvodina in the cup; the third was against the title favourites Mladost Apatin. It wasn’t a bad time to play Mladost Apatin, as they had yet to record a league win! You just had to hope that the backlash didn’t start with us.

[Vic Flange]

On the road again

The club was losing money faster than someone who loses money very quickly, so the team bus was laid up for the visit to Veternik. It was only on the other side of town, so a fleet of bicycles were borrowed from local residents and the team set off to a ticker-tape parade – well, a few disgruntled locals threw rubbish at them as they cycled by. I had obtained most of the bicycles, and ensured that we were one short. As the man responsible for the error, I followed behind in a horse-drawn cart, relaxing on a pile of rotting vegetables as the driver told me in broken English of the scene up ahead. He muttered: “Agghhh, shit hit him. He wobble. Man angry, empty piss pot on them, small child spitting”. I figured we were getting into Veternik territory. The night before, Angel told me of a previous manager at Novi Sad who had lost the first game against Veternik. The fans had stripped him naked, painted him with hot tar, and dragged him through the streets tied to a donkey. The police had found him in a ditch the next morning, with one of his testicles removed. The offending gonad was in a paper bag, in his mouth. Realising who he was, the police officer simply moved on. He had lived, but had to leave town. I feared for Boris. She reassured me; it had been a home game. For an away game, he would keep his full complement of testes!

The day started off with an offer from Vucje for reserve team player Stevan Niciforovic. The coaches felt he was not good enough to stay, but Boris had to try and squeeze an extra bit of cash out of them! At two o’clock the signing of defender Srdjan Aleksic was announced on a free. The defence had been inconsistent, and Boris felt some experience might be the key. After the bicycle charade, the team seemed eager. They were, I discovered, eager to go home.

Boris opted for an unchanged team from the previous bore-draw. He seemed convinced that had been a glitch and nothing more. Srdjan Aleksic (Alex) made the bench, which was a gamble, but he surely couldn’t be worse than Peasant, who he replaced? Boggy the Elder and The Invisible Man were still out with injuries.

The pitch was like a bog. Conditions were going to be difficult. The game was clumsy, until the 18th minute when Danilo Tadic picked up the ball on the left, moved into the box and slotted it past Boggy the Younger as if he was a statue – a statue made of crap! The silence from the Novi Sad end of the ground was all encompassing. After the celebrations had died down, I heard – for the first time – the song of hatred; 2,500 Veternik voices joined as one, crowing: “Sing when you’re ploughing, you only sing when you’re ploughing”. It was a punch in the knackers for Novi fans.

Veternik had a few more good chances, and more by luck than skill the first half ended 1-0. Boris ensured that his half time talk was simple. “The conditions are crap, so pass long, and be aggressive. Be gung-ho and get back into the game”. Five minutes after the restart, Branko picked up the ball in midfield and set off on a run. It looked like he would trying to dribble the length of the pitch but Darko had an other idea, knicked the ball off his foot and passed to Janker, who tapped in for his first ever senior goal. The 32 Novi fans went wild. If the conditions were shit, then The Pig relished them! On 63 minutes he picked up a free ball deep in the Novi half, and picked out Darko who took the ball to the box. The Pig had set off in wild pursuit, anticipating some scraps to feed on. Darko’s shot was parried by the keeper, and returned to the feet of the striker. He simply crossed it toward the on-coming Pig, and suddenly Novi Sad had taken the lead. Not content, The Pig set off on a run down the right hand flank a few minutes later, with a cross past the keeper to Darko, obviously to return the favour. Before the ball reached him, Ilijah nipped in with a tap in, and Novi Sad has a two goal cushion. The fans went mental. The cry went up: “You can stick your fucking tractors up your arse”!

Two minutes later, Tadic, who had been the major danger for Veternik, scored his second, and a further two minutes saw him add his third. With the score at 3-3, and with 19 minutes to go, Boris decided on a few changes. It was obvious that hat-trick scorer Tadic had to be marked heavily. New boy Alex was the best marker in the squad, but it was a huge gamble. However, it had to be done if the threat Tadic posed was to be eliminated. The Turd came on for The Impaler, who had been quiet, and Alex took over from Mirkin. On 82 minutes, Janker was moving into the Veternik box. However, he had ignored team mates and was going nowhere. Veternik’s Milisavijevic didn’t recognise this, and pulled him down. It was the best Novi Sad could have hoped for, and when he was shown the red card, you couldn’t help but feel that there was a glimmer of hope. The Pig slotted away the penalty; the celebrations were muted as no one wanted egg (or shit) on their faces. The referee added five extra minutes and Veternik took the attacking option. However, the long ball ensured they were pinned back, and with Alex doing an effective job on Tadic, it left the less than inspirational Ivelja on his own. He hadn’t managed a shot all match, and even the Novi Sad defence could keep him covered for five minutes. A 4-3 victory meant the tar pots were covered for another day in the streets around the Deterlinari stadium.

News came through that Mladost Apatin had broken their losing streak, defeating Becej 4-1. It made the trip the next weekend a little less palatable. However, in the meantime Novi Sad had the cup game against local giants Vojvodina, who were also currently undefeated in the First division. Because of the financial hardship the club faced, the decision was made to once again cross town on bicycles. Also, an appraisal of youth players saw Bojan Tintor sent packing, with 12 other players offered to clubs at around 10 per cent of their value. As Boris said: “It is time flush away the crap”. Then, he promptly signed Bojan Cosic (Terminal Disease), an otherwise unwanted defender. The signing was much against the advice of Vasa, who was seeing power shift toward Krakov because of the team’s undefeated status. Before we set off to Vojvodina, I asked Boris if he thought we could win. He shook his head.

Changes to the team were Alex in for Mirkin and The Turd in for The Impaler. New boy Terminal Disease was on the bench, replacing Ninko the Kid. In the pouring rain, Vojvodina commenced a lesson in football. A fourth minute goal that would have not looked out of place in the English Conference showed that Vojvodina were different class, and a rout looked on the cards. However, Novi Sad managed to fight bravely, and nearly equalised when Ilijah forced a magnificent save with a powerful long range shot. Coming off the pitch at half time only 1-0 down was almost like a major victory. The problem for Boris was what to do. Carrying on in the same way would see Novi Sad lose; the need to score was paramount. Janker was in no condition to continue, so Knobber took his place, and Josser had offered little resistance so Terminal Disease, although lacking fitness, entered the fray.

The second half was a mess. Vojvodina had one wayward shot, Novi Sad had one on target that was easily saved. The second half rout or fight-back, depending on which side you were on, never materialised. The cup dream was over, the team was knackered after two hard games in three days, Mladost Apatin had won again, and Novi Sad had three days to recuperate before facing them. Alcohol was required. The journey back across town was marked by the voices of the disenchanted: “Sister, let me tie your hands together, to stop you hitting out. Growing inside you is our glorious future. Bit hard on the turnip so you don’t scream, in case someone should pop in through the back door”.

[Vic Flange]

Off to see the favourites

And so it came to Mladost Apatin. Alex, Terminal Disease, Janker, The Turd, Boggy the Elder, Knobber and The Invisible Man were all unfit. It didn’t look good! Come the day of the match, Boggy the Elder was in contention and got a place in the starting line up. Mirkin returned for Alex, and the might of Mladost Apatin was faced by a downcast and dreary bunch. On the plus side, we had got the mini bus back, and it was still raining!

Mladost Apatin were the superior team in the first half, and Novi Sad seemed almost be their own worst enemies, losing the ball cheaply and trying long range shots from positions were even the most foolhardy would think twice. Mirkin went off injured at half time, and Janker – who got clobbered in the first half – wasn’t going to last more than 10 minutes of the second. Terminal Disease was holding the defence together, and when a clearance from the box found Darko on the halfway line, he cleared off and made it 1-0. A few minutes later Darko found himself once again clear, and only the post denied Novi Sad a second. The second half was going Novi Sad’s way, until Zoran Ciric equalised against the run of play. While Darko has working his arse off, Boggy the Elder was having a day off, and was waiting to be switched for Nikola when he found himself in the box. Goran Habenschuss went through him like a dose of salts, and the referee pointed to the spot. The Turd despatched the penalty, and when Darko picked up a cross field ball from Boggy the Elder a few minutes later and beat the goalkeeper with an audacious lob, it became a case of Novi Sad trying to see out the remaining 13 minutes without conceding twice!

Nikola came on for Boggy the Elder, and Janker was replaced by Enigma. The team switched to a defensive style, with everyone behind the ball, and in a boring but necessary rear guard action, left the field 3-1 victors!

Three games on the road against bitter rivals, local giants and promotion favourites ended with six points and an exit from the cup. Boris would have taken that at the beginning of the week. On the negative side, the club was losing money, and the team really did seem to lack any consistency. Novi Sad was top of the table, which was thrilling. However, everyone knew it was going to be bloody hard staying there. On the return journey I told Boris that the media was predicting we could move further up the table. He nearly choked with laughter, asking how much higher they wanted us to go!

[Vic Flange]

Digging deep … and not for turnips!

The team needed a rest. They were not the fittest bunch by any shakes, but a few days was all they had, because of the cup games. It was a home game against Bezanija who currently lay second in the league. A home win would buy us a bit of a gap; a loss would see us spend a mere three days at the top of the table. With cup football a long forgotten memory, it at least meant we could get back to weekly matches.

I figured that we could anticipate a gate of around 2,500, following the team’s heroic exploits on the road. Filling the programme was simple, with reports on the games plus an in-depth report on Milos Ponjevic and Stojan Pilipovic, rising stars in the Under 18s squad. In fact, both the Under 18s and Reserve squads looked good, and I knew Boris was considering shuffling the pack a bit to try and find a better level of consistency. With more than 60 players, there had to be a worthwhile combination in there somewhere. Alex and Terminal Disease had showed that they could do the job, The Turd was beginning to impress, and Branko was bossing the midfield like a Serbian general, only without the usual atrocities.

The game would have left many believing they were watching the two bottom clubs, rather than the top teams! Suffice to say that after 90 minutes, Novi Sad had 7 shots, two on target, and Bezanija had four shots on goal, none of which were on target. The subsequent 0-0 draw was only remarkable in that Alex walked for two yellows on 90 minutes. At least it shows that Novi Sad are not alone in playing crap every now and again. The other downer was another miscalculation on the number of programmes; about 1,000 of them ended up in the river. The positive side is that we remained top of the league.

The next weekend saw another away day, to Becej who were 9th in the league. The first subtle changes started to appear. Dragan Brmbota (The Backside) made his first start in the league, and Ilijah was dropped for Nikola. The Turd retained a starting place for the third game running. As is now becoming predictable, the early stages of the game had nothing to recommend them. In the 28th minute, Asceric of Becej picked up a loose ball on the halfway line, and was alone going nowhere. He reached the corner flag, and was still alone. There was no one to cross to, so he simply walked the ball around three defenders and slotted it past the inanimate body of Boggy the Younger. Approaching half time, The Turd had to work overtime to prevent a wayward ball going out for a throw, and once saved he moved up the left touchline, eventually dropping it on the foot of Darko, who chipped the advancing keeper, allowing Boggy the Elder to nod the dropping ball in for an equaliser. The second half was only shaken from its slumber by The Turd, who spurned three excellent chances. A 1-1 draw was not what we needed, but as every other team in the league drew, excluding Mladost Lux who beat Elan, it wasn’t the end of the world.

Before the minibus left, I found a small local bar and quaffed a few beers. The locals were happy to talk football, and I explained how frustrating the lack of quality in the Second Division North was. I told them that I hungered for better quality football. One man, with a moustache like a small dog, asked how that could be achieved. I explained: “Maybe a First Division side like Partisan or Red Star will come in for Boris Krakov, and I’ll get a chance to move with him”. The bar exploded with laughter; a rain of spittle hitting my face as men fell like skittles, hands clasped on stomachs, shoulder heaving as their monstrous bellows echoed off the walls. The man opposite, Dog Moustache, suddenly stopped laughing, stood up and left. The acrid smell hit my nostrils, a tinge of ammonia in the air. I looked down and saw he had urinated where he sat. He had literally pissed himself laughing. I paid for my beer and left, people still sniggering as I closed the door.

[Vic Flange]

Last of the Serbian sunshine

With each second division section being made up of ten teams, we were facing our last game in unknown territory against Mladost Univerzal Lux Lukicevo. Their song went: “And it’s Mladost Univerzal Lux Lukicevo, Mladost Univerzal Lux Lukicevo F C, it’s by far the hardest name, to ever fucking chant!”

Everyone hoped we wouldn’t see another draw, and Novi Sad bossed the first half, putting the defence under real pressure. When Janker’s cross found Boggy the Elder in the box in the 45th minute, the chip was going nowhere but in the back of the net. A 1-0 lead was less than we deserved, but it was good enough. The second half saw a different Mladost Lux team run out. Their attacking heads were well and truly screwed on, and only two deflections off the woodwork saw Novi Sad retain the lead. However, in the 64th minute the pressure told, and Zdrnja grabbed an equaliser. Boris responded by switching to more attacking formation, trying to fight fire with fire. A 4-2-4 tactic saw Horvat, Darko, Ilijah and Boggy the Elder up front. It was shit or bust time. The chaos was unbelievable as both teams adopted the same approach, and in the 92nd minute when Peasant, who came on as a sub, managed to knock the ball away from a forward who was, at the time, going nowhere, he somehow tapped it straight in the path of Zdrnja, who made it 2-1 to Mladost Lux.

The inevitable had happened. We were stunned – not that we lost, but that it had taken so long for it to happen. Boggy the Elder got Man of the Match, but I figured he’d still get a kicking when he got back to town. Bezanji lost, so we stayed top of the league, but with a quarter of the season gone, we were looking more fragile than a glass hammer. The clouds rolled in, and Novi Sad players, staff and supporters knew how lucky we had been. None of wins had been that convincing; none of the draws that unlucky, but ironically it was a bitter twist to finally lose a game we should have walked away with.

There was a two week gap before the game against Vrbas. Novi Sad had opened the season with a 2-2 draw against them at home, and so the away fixture was not being looked at in a positive light. The new look back line of The backside, Ninko the Kid, Alex and Terminal Disease got its first outing. Ninko had a good match, pushing forward at every opportunity, and on the 15th minute he picked up a wide ball, carried it to the halfway line and released Darko. He put in a pinpoint cross to Boggy the Elder to open the scoring. In the 25th minute, The Turd was pushed in the box, and put away the resulting penalty. In injury time at the end of the first half, a defensive cock-up saw Vrbas break, and after Boogy the Younger parried an initial shot from Rasic, the ball fell back to him to put it in the far corner. Going in at 2-1 up wasn’t too bad, although Novi Sad had dominated, and midway through the second half, The Turd stepped up for the second penalty of the game after Boggy the Elder was brought down. The penalty was saved, but The Turd latched onto the rebound and buried it. In the 82nd minute, a back pass saw Boggy the Younger travel an unfeasible distance out of the box to pick the ball up. He actually should have caught a taxi, it was that far. Divljak couldn’t believe his luck, intercepted the ball and rolled it into an empty net.

Whilst 3-2 was obviously a good result, both Vrbas goals came from Novi Sad cock-ups, and the feeling toward Boggy the Younger was obvious as he clambered into the mini-bus, the other players and coaching staff spitting on him and snarling. He had hit the wall, he wouldn’t be going much further.

The next game, a home match against Radnicki Novi Beograd, was one to look forward to. We had beaten them both in the cup and the league away from home. I filled the programme with a load of photos of the celebrations after both games. It saved writing anything, and meant I had more time to try and chat up Angel. Things were bad; I needed some perverted action soon, or I might start attacking the local horses!

Novi Sad dominated the match, with a capital D! Two goals from Boggy the Elder in the first and sixth minute indicated a rout was on its way, but a 29th minute penalty from The Turd was the last shot on target. 3-0 was a respectable score, but it could have been 10-0 in all reality. The interesting point from the game was that crackerjack was sent back to the reserves, with Slavisa Krstic (Krusty) being brought in as substitute goalkeeper. He even got 15 minutes at the end of the match. Boris was obviously considering Boggy the Younger’s future. Another new face from the reserves was Vladamir Milicevic (Fatty), although he didn’t impress much.

After the game, news came through that Bezanija’s Milan Cvetanovski (Cretin) had signed for Novi Sad, and would be joining in the transfer window that opened on 15 December.

[Vic Flange]

Looking at things with a better mood

Beating Proleter 3-2, away from home, had been one of the season’s highlights for me. The home game against them should have been a corker, but what we got was another 0-0 bore draw. There is little to say to justify either team’s game. These types of results seemed to come along regularly in Serbian football, and after two wins on the trot, it served as a reminder of the fallibility of Novi Sad.

The away game at Elan was one we needed to win to try and open up a gap between us and the other teams. It was a safety cushion we needed. So when Glavardanov put the home team in front after five minutes, a wave of despair did seem to hit the bench. Luckily it didn’t ooze onto the pitch, and one minute later a bullet header from Boggy the Elder brought Novi Sad level. After this, Novi Sad came alive, and only acrobatic goalkeeping and the woodwork stopped us from extending the lead. Then on 73 minutes, Darko – having returned from three matches out with injury – scored a trade mark goal from a tight angle. Suddenly it looked like we had the gap we needed. In the 82nd minute, however, Misimi advanced on the frozen Boggy the Younger and rolled – and I mean rolled, like at the pace of a really old and fucked up snail – the ball into the net. A 2-2 draw highlighted the cost of Boggy the Younger being in the team. He was the best we had, but he wasn’t good enough.

When the mini-bus returned to Novi Sad, we saw the lads dragging the tar pots into the street. A home game with Veternik was approaching. As the bus pulled up near the stadium, a small boy looked at Boggy the Younger and drew his index finger slowly across his own throat. The ramifications of losing were clear.

There was the home game against Veternik, an away game against Bezanija and then the six week winter break and the transfer window. Boris wanted fresh blood, and packed the two scouts, Slobodan Zecevic and Vladan Tomic, off to Finland and Slovenia respectively. Novi Sad led the table by two points from bitter rivals Veternik (as if the next game wasn’t bad enough) and Bezanija. This meant we played the second and third placed teams before the break. I needed a drink.

As I walked into town, Vasa Orlovic stepped out of the shadows. He was still a snidey fucker, but could not do much while Boris was taking the team forward. Remembering the early days, I asked if he was going out to bugger a goat. He coughed, a lump of phlegm landing in his palm. He put his hand on my shoulder. What a cunt! He whispered: “Mr Flange, remember who you are, and who I am. I will see you disappear too easily, you understand?” I nodded. He suddenly walked away and started talking to a group of children playing football, kicking the ball against the makeshift goal of an abandoned van. I stopped and took off my jacket, and wiped the snot off it. Then I sat down and smoked a cigarette. I had to get out of this shithole. As I stood up, I thought I saw Vasa sodomising a small fat kid. Oh well.

I drank until the evening became a blur. At one point I remember a plump but not unpretty prostitute sitting on my lap. She almost seemed too clean, too pretty, too polite. I groped under her skirt, and was delighted to discover she didn’t have a cock! Things were looking up!

[Vic Flange]

The horror … the horror

Finding a not too ugly hooker in Novi Sad is like winning the lottery, so I made certain that she was handsomely paid. Waking up next to her was often disconcerting; admittedly, she wasn’t much to talk about the next morning, but with a head full of turnip cognac she had a certain something; an inner sexiness that set her apart from the hairy and cankerous cart-horses that usually frequented the seedier parts of Novi Sad. She also had what at times teetered on innocence, almost like she wasn’t really a hooker, but a lost soul seeking affection in the arms of another human. She’d also let you slip it in the back door for a few potatoes, so it worked on many levels. I asked her name. She blushed, and asked what I wanted to call her. I settled on Muntpig. She thought it sounded exotic. Isn’t language a wonderful thing?

The game against Veternik approached, and Boris was forced into a few changes. With new substitute keeper Krusty out injured, the manager decided against recalling Crackerjack and dragged yet another new face from the reserves into the first team. Milutin Tatic (Tactile) was a 20 year old local lad who had actually played 14 games on loan with the mortal enemy, Veternik, when he was 16! I was sure he was a ponce too, but the others didn’t seem to mind his foppish ways or his flirtation with the enemy all those years ago.

Fatty was dropped, having failed to shine on his first outing, and the Peasant made way for Alex, who was proving to be extremely inconsistent. The Turd was banned, so The Impaler – who had been moaning to the press about a lack of first team football – returned to the team. The programme featured an interview with Horvat, and had questioned whether he wanted to move away from the Deterlinari. Schalke 04 and Betis were still sniffing around him, although he expressed enthusiasm about his future with Novi Sad. Perhaps the silly fucker thought they’d win something! Interestingly, the interview also revealed that although billed as a promising striker, he’d never actually scored for Novi Sad; his one career goal coming during a loan spell with obscure local amateur team Slavija Novi Sad. Vasa Orlovic sat in on the interview, and spent the whole time picking his nose. Afterwards he pointed out that the fans might want to know more about him. I shrugged and walked away. Bollocks to that!

The Veternik match started amidst awful weather. Boris decided to get terminal Disease to mark Danilo Tadic out of the game; a tactic that paid dividends in the first game against them. On five minutes, Ninko the Kid picked up a lose ball, and found Darko beating the off-side trap and running into space. As the keeper closed him down, Darko showed extreme generosity and passed to an incoming Ilijah who tapped the ball into the open goal. The home fans went wild, spitting and snarling at the Veternik scum who wore t-shirts bearing pictures of tractors, fridges, light bulbs and other luxury items to annoy the Novi Sad fans.

After 13 minutes, Ilijah was once more involved, winning the ball off Facko in the centre circle, before making his way up the pitch and letting loose 20 yards out of goal to score a blinder. Pandemonium ensued, with one Novi Sad fan urinating into a beer glass and hurling it into the away fans’ enclosure. The police moved in and starting beating the away fans with what looked like pickaxe handles. The glory days had arrived at the Deterlinari. Fans ripped up seats and put them into bags to take home after the match.

On 45 minutes, Tadic managed to slip away from Terminal Disease and crossed to Djordje Ivelja who fired the ball point blank and Boggy the Younger. Alex picked up the deflection and hoofed it up field to Darko, who slammed his shot off the post. The first half ended, and the Ivelja effort was Veternik’s only shot on goal. As the players left the pitch, smoke bellowed for the stands. However, it was only the Novi Sad fans setting each others’ coats on fire for a laugh. During the break Angel appeared from the bar and tried to grab my testicles. I had stopped flirting with her since Muntpig had come on the scene, and she was getting a bit frothy at the gash.

The second half started with more Novi Sad pressure, and on 51 minutes Darko picked up the ball on the edge of the penalty area. Unablke to progress, he flicked it out to The Impaler who hit his cross with too much gusto. Boggy the Elder was on the right flank, and nodded it back into the box were it fell in front of the advancing Ilijah to snap it into the net for his hat trick. The crowd of just over 2,600 erupted, voice joined in one as the bellowed out: “Go and fuck your fathers, you Veternik bastards”, over and over again as all manner of objects – nails, bottles, dog turds, used condoms – rained down on the away fans. Novi Sad coach Nebojsa Jankovic walked to the Veternik bench and punched Aleksander Dimitrov, the Veternik assistant manager. The officials took one look at the baying crowd and pretended not to notice.

One minute later the ball fell to Branko, and only an acrobatic save from his long range piledriver kept the ball out. Novi Sad pressured continued, and a 67th minute off-side decision ruled out what looked like a fine goal from Boggy the Elder. Luckily for the assistant referee, the fans were believing a win was a certainty. I wasn’t counting my chickens!

On 70 minutes, Horvat came on for The Impaler, and The Invisible Man replaced the exhausted Ilijah, who left the park to a standing ovation. On 84 minutes, Tadic slipped Terminal Disease for only the second time in the game, and squeezed in a shot. Boggy the Younger saved, but couldn’t hold the ball which fell again to Tadic, and he scored from close range. A muted cry went up from the Veternik fans, who had become downbeat as the smell of boiling tar started drifting in from the street. Boris breathed in the smell and laughed. He was starting to believe it wouldn’t be for him today. Four minutes of added time had to be played, and when Tadic once more got away from Terminal Disease, Ninko the Kid earned a yellow by hacking him down. By the time the final whistle sounded, the Veternik fans had left and the party was well under way! The news came in that Bezanija had lost to Vrbas, so Novi Sad topped the table clear by five points over Veternik, who had the same total as Bezanija, our next opponents, and the last game before the winter break.

[Vic Flange]

Just let it slip away

The day after the Veternik game, the board announced that they were very pleased with Boris Krakov’s performance; a message that must have wounded Vasa. As if to celebrate, Alex fractured his arm and would be missing for 3 weeks, which only really meant one game because of the break. The not so welcomed news was that Atletico Madrid were after teenage winger Pilipovic. He was one of the Under 18 stars I had covered in the programme, and he was now in the reserves. Boris wanted to start playing him as a substitute in the first team after the break, but his fear was that someone would swoop for him while he was still on a youth contract. Boris offered him a new contract, and told Atletico to fuck themselves unless they paid up £250,000 rather than the £22,000 they were offering. I could see his point; Novi Sad were nearly a quarter of a million in debt, and a few thousand were no good to man nor beast. With the transfer window approaching, it was essential to shift some of the dead wood.

The day before the Bezanija game, the shit hit the fan. Atletico came back with an offer of £250,000. I knew what Boris was thinking – if they’d pay that, how much more could he get. The offer was non-negotiable. Boris rejected it. He wasn’t sure whether it would come back to bite him, but it didn’t feel right. He slapped a valuation of £500,000 on the player. Atletico faded away, but Lyon were now interested. Boris stuck him in the first team. Was he crazy for turning down £250,000?

That night I went to see Muntpig. She refused to come to any Novi Sad games, but always wanted to know what happened, what the score was, who had scored. She knew all about the team, and even knew about the Reserve and Under 18 players, but I couldn’t get her to be at a match. I’d often asked why, and she’d respond by lifting up her skirt, running her finger through her matted bush, and sticking it under my nose. That always changed the conversation! Later on, I told her about Pilipovic, and she laughed, indicating that Boris should have taken the money. Then we went to bed and I performed a few acts that are illegal in civilised countries.

Our first game against Bezanija had been a 0-0 bore draw, but we needed the three points to give ourselves some space at the top of the table. Alex was replaced by Mirkin, The Turd returned and Pilipovic was on the bench, with Enigma dropping out of the squad. It was wet and cold, with Bezanija attacking from the very start. With five minutes gone they could have been 3-0 up. The game settled down, and both teams had a few chances. The defence was working well, but the Novi Sad attack looked weak; only Boggy the Elder was working, and then only at half pace. On 34 minutes, the ball fell to Boggy the Elder, who seeing the keeper off his line, looped in an audacious 40 yard strike to take first blood! It might have been undeserved on the run of play, but the strike itself was an absolute peach. On 45 minutes Bezanija thought they had equalised, but the goal was ruled out for offside.

On 50 minutes, Novi Sad were over-committed in attack. Ilijah tried to slip a ball through to Boggy the Elder, but it was intercepted and belted down the field, where Ivic picked it up and scored. A repeat ten minutes later saw Ivic get his second, and Boris made some changes, with Zorro on for Mirkin and Horvat on for Darko. Bezanji continued the game as they started it, and on 80 minutes an Ivic chip saw him get his hat trick. On 90 minutes a Boggy the Elder free kick smacked off the post, Pilipovic made his debut and we all knew we’d blown the chance to go into the break with a healthy lead. Veternik won their game 3-0. Two points separated us from Veternik and Bezenija. Igor Maksimovic, a Reserve squad striker, announced he was retiring. At least there was some good news on the day!

[Vic Flange]

Sit back and have a beer

The winter break meant no matches for 10 weeks, and a transfer window was about to open. Boris did was unusual in Serbia; he arranged some friendly matches prior to kicking off again. No one else bothered. A rumour was circulating that Veternik’s keeper, Jovanovic, might be headed to Vojvodina. The training ground was empty, Vasa spent his days wandering the streets with bags of sweets, and Angel told me she had shaved her snatch. I spent my days drinking cheap beer with Boris’ son Zojan and talking football, and I spent my nights banging seven bells out of Muntpig. She started to walk bandy, and could pass a pint pot through her anus, but she seemed to enjoy it all. The weather deteriorated, the printing press started to rust, and Novi Sad settled beneath a patina of misery.

Cretin turned up, found out no one was training, and went away again. I wasn’t sure he was a good signing, but what did I know? I only sold the programmes. Mallorca renewed their interest in Horvat, and Balkan Bukovica took Reserve defender Milosovic for £1,000. Red Star Belgrade sacked manager Slavoljub Muslin. I mentioned to Muntpig I hoped Boris would get offered the job. She laughed so hard she nearly bit my cock off.

Christmas came and went, Boris didn’t get a call from Red Star, the majority of the Under 18s team was offered out for free, and no one wanted them, and my knob was getting sore. I spent a day at home looking at the results Novi Sad had achieved, It really wasn’t too bad!

Novi Sad 2; Vrbas 2
Proleter 2; Novi Sad 3
Radnicki NB 3; Novi Sad 4
Novi Sad 1; Elan 1
Veternik 3; Novi Sad 4
Mladost A 1; Novi Sad 3
Novi Sad 0; Bezanija 0
Becej 1; Novi Sad 1
Novi Sad 1; Mladost Lux 2
Vrbas 2; Novi Sad 3
Novi Sad 3; Radnicki NB 0
Novi Sad 0; Proleter 0
Elan 2; Novi Sad 2
Novi Sad 3; Veternik 1
Bezanija 3; Novi Sad 1

The team had simply had too many draws to have put a dent in the aspirations of the other title challengers. With 12 games remaining, they had to find the killer instinct. The Novi Sad board upped their estimates of Boris, and said they were delighted with him. Boggy the Elder won the Serbia Second Division North goal of the month competition for his 40 yard lob against Bezanija. First division Obilic made a bid for Horvat, but wanted to pay in instalments. They were shown the door. Schalke 04 offered £75,000, but withdrew after £180,000 was put forward as an estimation of value. Boris was doing it again. Scout Vladan Tomi returned from Slovenia having found out nothing. The next day he was out of a job.

[Vic Flange]

The mood turns black … well, blacker

A few days later it was New Year. I got hammered, and celebrated with Muntpig. A few hours later we were in the squalor of my house. Muntpig had a piece of firewood in her mouth, biting against the pain because I was intent on a bit of backdoor action. Things were going swimmingly when there was a knock on the front door. I froze. I didn’t want visitors, especially not as I was up Muntpig to the bristles! I kept quiet and heard the letter box slowly open, then a voice, whispering: “Victor, you little fucker. I am going to cut your balls off.” Then a sinister giggle and the sound of the letter box closing. I recognised the voice; it was Slobodan Zecevic, a Novi Sad scout. He was supposed to be in Finland. What the fuck did he want with me?

I pulled out of Muntpig and wiped my cock on her hair. She sat up and spat out the firewood. I stood there, puzzled. Eventually I looked at Muntpig and asked: “Do you know who that was?” She nodded, and replied: “Yes, that was my husband!”

[Vic Flange]

Vasa turns up the heat

“Sister, dry your tears and wipe that snot off your face, our region will be the pride of the mudflats; wash yourself with the turnip wine, it’s starting to stink worse than a fisherman’s bilge tank!”

My mind was on other things, such as ensuring my bollocks stayed attached to my body! Obilic proved themselves to be the cheap men of the First Division with a derisory offer for Branko that was rejected out of hand. Then Big Head complained that he wanted first team football. I spent every day avoiding the ground and typical Novi Sad hangouts. Muntpig disappeared that night, and I hadn’t seen her since. I found myself thinking about Angel’s shaved snatch, but there was no way I was going to the ground. I saw Zojan at the bar, and he just laughed. He obviously knew. Then it dawned on me, they all knew. Chuff!

Boris had been so pleased with Big Head’s demands for first team football that he had offered him out on a free, and he was signed up by Mladi Radnick. However, as the transfer window had slammed shut on the chances of offloading players, he was stuck at Novi Sad until July! Or should that be Novi Sad was stuck with him? Either way, they were both stuck!

The first time I went to the stadium was for the friendly against Nis. I kept my head down, and spent much of my time in the dank shithole that served as my office. I hadn’t bothered with programmes; I was only expecting about 50 people. An hour before kick-off, the door swung open and Vasa Orlovic walked in. He looked at me, snorted, unzipped his trousers and started to urinate. I jumped up to punch him in the mouth, but he muttered: “Have you seen your friend, Slobodan Zecevic?” I stopped. He shook off the drips, zipped up, and then whispered: “I can help you. Perhaps if you help me, I can help you. I should be manager here, the programmes should make the fans understand. I can help Slobodan to not see you … or may I help him to see you. You understand?” There was no point in answering. He turned and left. I had to go outside. The office stank. I chatted briefly to the woman on the gate. 53 spectators. Damn, I was out by 3!

By half time, Novi Sad were leading 3-0; two goals from Boggy the Elder and one from new boy Cretin. It didn’t really matter. Nis were non-league and the team was only looking for fitness. The game finished 6-1, with goals from The Invisible Man and two from The Pig. It was worrying that we conceded one against such poor opposition, but all in all, the match went well. Terminal Disease twisted an ankle, but the team was otherwise unscathed. Afterwards I went to the bar to get a beer. Angel ignored me; she knew I’d been with Mrs Zecevic while I was giving her the cold shoulder. Boris came in sat down. I gestured for another beer, which he took without speaking. He took a mouthful, gently put down the glass, and slowly turned to me. He spoke softly: “Mrs Zecevic; Slobodan’s wife.” I nodded. He continued: “One question … was she tight?”

[Vic Flange]

Preparing to resume battle

The remaining friendlies were against Balkan Bukovica and 14 Oktobar. Neither were classics, nor where they meant to be. The object was to build fitness. Mirkin tore a groin muscle and ruled himself out for 2 months, and Novi Sad won both games, 3-0 and 1-0. Both Cretin and teenage sensation Pilipovic (Pillhead) looked good. I saw Slobodan Zecevic around the place, but managed to keep out of his way. I asked Boris to send him off on a trip and he just laughed, pushing his index finger in and out of his fist in a crude sexual gesture. What’s more, I was sure that Vasa was pissing in my office on a regular basis. On the plus side, I was back in Angel’s good books. I gave her half a jar of marmite, and she was happy.

The first game proper after the break was against pre-season favourites Mladost Apatin. I knocked up the programme a few days before, running over the bits of news from the closed season, and with match reports of the friendlies. I ran up 2,000 of them, and wondered how many would end up in the river. If I didn’t get better at predicting attendances, I was going to build a dam out of the bloody things. I had suggested putting back issues in the club shop, but the general response was: “What? We have a shop?” No, the river was the best place for them. I briefly considered interviewing Vasa, but that was like courting the devil, so I put the idea on ice until I really needed to sell myself short. That day would inevitably come.

Although Krusty had been the starting keeper in the friendlies, with the wings covered by Pillhead and Cretin, Boris reverted to type and went for a now fairly standard Novi Sad line-up. Boggy the Younger was in between the sticks; the back four was made up of Ninko the Kid, The Backside, Alex and Terminal Disease; Branko bossing things from deep in a defensive midfield role; Janker and The Turd on the wings; Ilijah in central midfield; Boggy the Elder and Darko up front. Mladost Apatin might have been the bookies favourites for the title, but when Novi Sad met them away earlier in the season we had beat them 3-1. A poor start had cost them dearly, and they were situated near the foot of the table.

In the 13th minute, Janker found Ilijah in space and on side, and the youngster simply powered the ball into the net from the edge of the box. It was the start that Novi Sad needed if they were to sustain their charge. In the 25th minute a poor clearance from the Mladost keeper fell to Terminal Disease, who headed it on to Janker. The winger again found Ilijah in space and in an almost carbon copy of the first goal, he doubled the Novi Sad lead. One minute later, a long ball from The Backside found Darko, who passed with slide rule precision to Ilijah. With the keeper rapidly advancing Ilijah shunned the opportunity of a hat trick and squared the ball to Boggy the Elder to make it 3-0. The dream was alive. What’s more, news filtered through that Veternik had gone a goal down to Elan. As if this was not good enough, Mladost Apatin’s first choice striker Radosavijev limped off to be replaced by Reserve striker Miroslav Grumic.

[Vic Flange]

The worm turns

All focus in the Deterlinari turned from the game to scores from other matches. This was obviously a walkover; the results from Veternik and Bezanija were very important. Veternik were still losing, but Bezanija had taken the lead in their match.

Mladost Apatin kicked off, a long ball fell to the reserve nobody, Grumic, who waltzed around Terminal Disease and coolly slotted past the helpless Boggy the Younger, who had been distracted waving to people in the crowd. It was an error, but surely it would be the wake-up call Novi Sad needed! A few Boggy the Elder chances went wide, and in the 38th minute Mladost broke, with their left winger drifting in a cross. Ninko went for the header and missed, but Grumic was coming in behind to plant it in the back of the net for his second. The tension was building. In the second half, Novi Sad started to push forward. Then, against the run of play a long clearance found Grumic, who danced around Boggy the Younger like he was made of stone and put the ball away for his hat trick.

Novi Sad pushed harder, the clock ticked faster, the scores in the other games had not changed. The ball fell to Darko a few yards from goal, and he skied it! Boggy the Elder missed an open goal. Branko ran the length of the pitch, into the Mladost box, and then passed back to the halfway line! It was crap. Boris switched both Boggies and Darko, but to no avail. The final whistle blew; the game drawn. Bezanija won their game and moved to the top of the table, equal on points but ahead on goal difference. Luckily, Veternik lost.

Careless talk costs lives

After the match I went to the toilet. Boris was stood at a urinal. I stopped on my way to the crapper and said: “That really wasn’t the result we needed.” Boris mumbled an agreement. “Still,” I added, “you do seem to be working alone”. He looked inquisitive; his blank eyes urging me to go on. I did. “That Vasa, he’s more interested in fucking you over than the club doing well. He’d like to see it all go tits up so you get sacked. I wouldn’t trust the bastard as far as I could throw him.” With that, I went to take a dump.

I pulled open the cubicle door, and there sat Vasa Orlovic, trousers around his ankles and a wicked look in his eyes. Either he was passing blood, or I had just put my neck on the block. Bollocks!

[Vic Flange]

Into the mouth of hell

I drained the glass, and gestured to Angel to bring me another. She stopped scratching the flaky rash that spread across her thighs, pulled her skirt down, and waddled toward me. She was all I had! Jesus, I thought I’d hit the bottom, but the truth was I had only broken the crust on the surface.

Slobodan Zecevic was after me because his wife had been out whoring while he was in Finland; as if I was to blame for that. I only did what anyone in Novi Sad would do with a scab-free hooker, and had ridden her relentlessly. Vasa was trying to put the squeeze on me, and now he knew I was trying to stab him in the back. Boris seemed to be growing distant as he mistakenly considered himself to be a good football manager. The local anglers were after me for filling the river up with unsold programmes. The club was in debt to the tune of nearly £1 million. Chairman Milan Labus had stated that he feared for the long term financial future of the club. A shoddy draw had knocked us off the top of the table. I didn’t have enough money to pay for the drinks I was ordering. However, worst of all was the scabby peasants had started singing that song again.

“Sister, the cold winds blow and the rain is falling; put lipstick on, and wipe away your tears, I have some powder that will stop the itching”.

We had just returned from the match at Mladost Lux, where I had spent my last few coins in a back street bar, and had my teeth loosened by a priest! I should have felt better about life, but it wasn’t easy to put a more positive spin on things.

The away game at Mladost Lux held a special significance. At the start of the season some of us held out a slim hope of walking away with the title. Novi Sad were drawing too often, but the visit of Mladost Lux brought us back to earth as they beat us for the first time that season. Travelling to Lukicevo was not ideal, especially as Bezaija and Veternik were both at home. The mood was downbeat; I think everyone had the same thought. If we could hold them, and hope one of the other teams did us a favour, it might not be a disaster. It was too early to be thinking like this.

Boris dropped Boggy the Younger and Krusty got his first start.

When we arrived at the stadium I left them to it and walked the streets for a while. The local supporters were in good spirits. I went into a bar and ordered a beer. On a pile of coca cola crates in one corner a washed out teenage girl with dark rings around here eyes slowly peeled off her clothes to the sound of Santana playing on a portable tape recorder. No one else in the bar was watching.

A few lads in Mladost Lux shirts leant on a wall, staring at me. It wasn’t so much uncomfortable as inevitable. I had all my teeth, my clothes – although creased – were clean and not torn, my hair was cut rather than matted and falling out, and there were no visible scabs. I finished the beer and gestured for another. It seemed the further Novi Sad went, the more depressed everyone involved got. It was like waiting for the inevitable fall. I realised that I was actually starting to become Serbian in thinking; gloomy, pessimistic, and unwilling to even feel the slightest happiness when things did go well. I lifted my glass to the Mladost supporters, and shouted: “To pain. It will not let us down. It will creep up when we least expect it.” They raised their glasses, except one, who glared at me. It was his birthday and he was certainly not going to ruin it by cheering up.

As I got up to leave, the stripper – dressed again - pushed past and walked into the street. I followed her, watching as her arse cheeks bounced up and down like two ferrets in a sack. She turned into an alley; I nipped up behind her and grabbed her round floppy buttocks. She screamed – not a violent one, more in surprise - and as she did an elderly priest appeared from a doorway and punched me full in the mouth. Stars appeared. He had one hell of a punch. I sagged to the ground, my ears ringing. As I tried to get up, I caught sight of him walking away, his gnarled old hand up her skirt as she trotted alongside him.

[Vic Flange]

Fighting back

I felt like the train had come off the tracks. In the 6th minute, Mladost striker Vokje simply walked past the defence and slotted the ball in the net. If anyone could be accused of having little faith, it was the Novi Sad contingent, and on 14 minutes Ninko the Kid picked up the ball and fed Branko, who played it out wide to The Turd. With plenty of space on the left, he advanced and played a ball through to Darko who slid it in with precision. After 28 minutes, Ilijah picked up a ball from the defence and knocked it 45 yards to Darko who was moving clear. A savage strike saw Novi Sad take the lead. There was still an inevitable air of gloom over all concerned. In the 37th minute Grujic received the ball outside of the Novi Sad box. The defence melted away to let him stroll in and plant it into the roof of the net to draw Mladost level.

In the 43rd minute, Boggy the Elder was brought down in the box, and The Turd stepped up to take the penalty. The crowd fell silent, and then erupted into a roar as he fired the ball straight into the goal keeper. You could have heard the groan from the Novi Sad fans if there had been more than two of them! Two minutes later, and the referee once more pointed to the spot, this time because Janker was hacked down. Again The Turd stepped up, and this time he did the right thing. Movi Sad were heading into the break a goal to the good, or so we thought. Injury time was being played when Janker picked out Boggy the Elder in space. As the Mladost keeper rushed out he squared the ball to Darko who tapped in for his hat trick. 4-2 up, and the half time whistle restored a little faith.

The second half was an anti-climax. Novi sad became assured and bossed the game, with The Turd adding a second on 67 minutes after exceptional work by Darko. The game ended 5-2, but as both Veternik and Bezanija also won, everything stayed as was.

The next match was at home to Becej, bottom of the table and relegation favourites. It was a game that Novi Sad had to get three points from, especially as Veternik were playing Bezanija. It was the walkover it should have been. If anything, Becej showed they could defend. All 11 men generally stayed behind the ball, and in 90 minutes they managed two shots. Novi Sad, however, had 27 shots, of which 14 were on target. Three beat the keeper, one from Ninko the Kid and two from Boggy the Elder. More importantly, Veternik beat Bezanija and Novi Sad returned to the top of the table. With 9 games remaining, we had to play each team once more.

The top of the table looked set for a showdown.
Novi Sad – 34 points
Veternik – 31 points
Bezanija – 31 points
Elan – 26 points
Radnicki Novi Beograd – 26 points

It was going to be a run-in alright. It was a case of looking at every point that teams picked up or dropped, and thinking about how many more were up for grabs. The reality was that any team, including Becej, at the bottom of the table, could win it. This was fucked up football, for a fucked up country.

[Vic Flange]

On the run-in

Serbian football follows a pattern, so the order of the games was familiar to us. Vrbas was the first challenge. We had drawn with them at the Deterlinari on the opening day of the season, and had beaten them away. We were back at home. My original programme feature was entitled; “The Year for Novi Sad?” I changed it. I didn’t want to jinx the team.

As I was writing a piece on new keeper, Krusty, Angel came into the office. She had smeared marmite on her nipples, and wanted me to lick it off. A thick lump hung off one of the many jet black hairs sprouting in all directions from her mouldy-looking teats. I smiled, fighting against the urge to gag. The smell of marmite, urine and unwashed Serbian clacker was too much. I pushed past her into the afternoon greyness, and dashed straight into Slobodan Zecevic. He gripped me by the throat, his fingers digging in to my flesh. I struggled to breathe, and felt his fetid breath on my face, as he whispered: “You give my wife bottom love, eh?” He’d been eating herrings; and I didn't think they had been particularly fresh ones. Small children stopped playing football and watched. One even let go of a cat he was trying to strangle. Angel stood there, tits out and covered in marmite, her face contorted in a crazy looking way, as if someone had stuck an electric cable up her butt.

Then it dawned on me. I didn’t like Serbia very much!

That had been a few days ago. Sitting watching the team run out against Vrbas, I tried to forget what had happened. It still haunted me. The crowd of nearly 1800 was pretty much standard. I had about 100 programmes over. Perhaps I was starting to get the hang of things.

Ilijah had picked up an injury in the game against Becej, so The Pig got a start. The game so slow to start, and a 5th minute penalty, converted by the Turd, gave us a cushion. Whilst there was no real advantage to either side, Novi Sad managed six shots on target, and Vrbas had none! From kick off in the second half, Janker picked up the ball and found Boggy the Elder in space, and blasted in from close range to make it 2-0. A few minutes later Darko found the Pig on the edge of the box, but the Vrbas keeper just managed to get back to collect the ball from a crafty chip.

Vrbas opted to play the long ball game, and on 67 minutes nearly left the Novi Sad defence out-paced when Ninko the Kid got in a well-timed tackle, flicked the ball upfield to The Pig, and this time his chip evaded the keeper to make it 3-0. On 82 minutes, Pillhead, Cretin and Horvat came on for The Turd, Janker and Darko. The game petered out, and ended as a 3-0 Novi Sad victory. The Pig lifted a well deserved Man of the Match award. The crowd stayed on the terrace at the final whistle, silently waiting for the scores from other games. Eventually a fat boy came running from the house of Stevan Petkovic, an Under 18 player who lived right next to the ground and also owned a radio! He shouted the scores out at the top of his voice.
“Bezanija 2, Radnicki 0.
Elan 5, Mladost Lux 0.
Veternik 3, Mladost Apatin 2.”

There was no change at the top! I got up to leave, and saw Slobodan Zecevic, smiling at me. He really thought he had got one over on me, the silly bastard!

[Vic Flange]

Slap her one for me!

A few days before the Vrbas game, I had finally come to face to face with one irate scout. Slobodan Zecevic stood rigid, his fingers digging in to my throat. His threatening whisper showed all was not well: “You give my wife bottom love, eh?” The he looked up and saw Angel, a stinking rat whore with marmite-smeared tits. He grinned, and released his grip. As Slobodan moved toward Angel, I contemplated running, but the impending freak circus was too good to miss. Slobodan reached out and grabbed a fistful of her greasy hair, jerking back her head. I was amazed it didn’t come away with a lump of putrified scalp on the end! He slapped her across the mouth and turned to look me in the eyes. If this was how he was going to hurt me, I was all for it. I pretended to wince, as if every blow was a blow across my face. He bought it!

Once he got into the swing of slapping, the Serbian butcher in him bubbled to the surface. He probably hadn’t had so much fun since the Balkans slipped into relative peace. He punched her in the stomach and she crimpled. Her licked the marmite off his fist; he hadn’t calculated just how droopy her tits were! As he dragged her into the dark of the office, I stood in thought. Flee? Run like a child? Scram like a coward? No, I thought, I must see what he’s up to. I took out a pack of Marlboro, jammed a cigarette into my mouth, lit it, and strolled to the door. Inside I could see her fat arse quivering; she was slumped across my desk and he was just about to sodomise her. Fair enough, if it made him forget his wife was a whore, I could live with it.

I turned and watched a few of the Under 18s limbering up on the pitch before a training session. There were some good lads there who could end up playing at the highest level outside of Serbia. However, in this shit hole country, I doubted they’d every make it! I was lost in thought when I heard a horrendous fart. Angel had shit on him. The stench in the office was disgraceful, like the smell when you find a rotting dog in a ditch at the height of summer. I threw the cigarette to the floor and walked away. Yeah, old Slobodan had really showed me. I hoped no one told him I had nothing to do with Angel. As things stood, he would have considered the debt paid. As for Angel; I bet she loved every minute of it, in a Serbian misery kind of way!

[Vic Flange]

We’re staying up

Going into the match against Radnicki Novi Beograd, Novi Sad had The Backside, Ninko the Kid, Terminal Disease, Cretin, Branko and The Turd all one yellow card away from a ban. Managing that was going to be an issue. The Invisible Man picked up a three week layoff with groin problems. There was a glimmer of hope on the horizon, though! The win against Vrbas had meant that Novi Sad could not be relegated! We had worked that out in the bar after the game, and to celebrate I was going to take Angel back to my house, but decided against it. After all, following what I had seen the other day, I couldn’t develop much enthusiasm for it!

Just after kick-off, The Turd got a yellow to clear himself for the big games that were still a few weeks off. Radnicki striker Stajkovac got himself the wrong side of the defence twice, but his volleys in the 10th and 19th minutes were more likely to hit passing fighter aircraft looking for Baltic war criminals than the back of the net. A good finisher would have put Novi Sad away, but Stajkovac just seemed to be crap. He confirmed this in the 22nd and 28th minutes, when it would have been easier to score than to miss. That having been said, Boggy the Elder was doing his best to outshine him at the other end!

At half time, Boris opted to go for the long game. The pitch was like a swamp. Every time the ball landed it reminded you of kids playing with a burst plastic football! I hadn’t seen men ploughing through so much shit since the last time the gypsy hooker offered out free anal sex! News came in that Veternik and Bezanija were leading. We needed to score.

The change of tactic confused everyone in the Novi Sad team, but thankfully the crossbar denied Dronov in the opening minute. Janker and The Turd had no more than got into position when Boris pulled them off for Cretin and Pillhead. Radnicki had started the second half strongly, and Boris needed fresh legs on the wings. In what seemed like tit-for-tat incidents, the crossbar at the other end denied Boggy the Elder. The game was end to end, and seemed likely to be settled by a mistake. One thing that was worrying was that Stajkovac was getting closer and closer. Terminal Disease was allocated to do a job on him! Zorro replaced Alex in Novi Sad’s final substitution.

Keep on pushing

The game was a horror; not bad, but essentially turned into a battle of attrition by the environment. I didn’t know who Man of the Match would be, but Ninko the Kid capped off his claim when winning the ball in a close tussle, carrying it up the flank and dropping a lob onto Darko’s foot. He shot, and the keeper parried. The ball slowed in the mud, but Cretin beat everyone there to tap it in. Cretin’s goal, Ninko’s glory, 1-0 Novi Sad!

Hanging on to slim leads has always been Novi Sad’s problem, so when Cretin fed in Boggy the Elder, there was hope. He looked certain to shoot, but as he was going nowhere opted to try something else. Again, the conditions worked out well. An attempt to cross the ball saw it land and stick in the middle of the penalty box like a dod of shit, and the incoming The Pig popped it into the net!

Boggy the Elder got the Man of the Match, and whilst it was hard to begrudge him it, I felt Ninko had played out of his skin for a 17 year old. Veternik and Bezanija both won. Mladost Apatin, the pre-season favourites, sacked their manager, and Darko got himself one yellow card away from a ban. I could see this being a problem in a few games time!

Whilst no one was going to rule anyone out (except Becej), it did seem as if the title chasers had been reduced to Novi Sad (40 points), Veternik (37 points), Bezanija (37 points) and Elan (30 points).

[Vic Flange]

Does it smell of shit in here?

It was becoming tense at the Deterlinari; after all, Novi Sad were being touted as potential championship team, Boris was flexing his muscles, pumped up on success and no doubt some donkey tranquillisers, and the Chairman, Milan, had been seen hurrying all over the place with a big box-file with the word CONTRACTS stencilled on the side of it. The club was shitting money faster than an Eskimo having his first ever Vindaloo, and everyone was on edge. I, however, was slightly more relaxed.

Mainly, the stupid ape that was Slobodan Zecevic was off my back. He had bigger fish to fry than worrying about my misery. He’d had to explain a shit-smeared dick to Muntpig, the rumour at the chemists was that Angel had also given him an infection, plus she also had now decided that she wanted to play more anal games with him. If anything, he was a trapped beast. I did contemplate going to see Muntpig, given the new state of affairs, but I soon came to my senses.

The one problem I did have was Vasa Orlovic. He had gone quiet; he was one of the ones looking to extend his contract. I did see him one night in the town, and he pretended to not notice me, which was odd because I just didn’t seem able to avoid his eye if I didn’t want to talk to him. He was sitting on a wall, watching a bunch of early teenage boys kicking a ball around in the dust. On his lap was a very small boy, who was wriggling like a fish.

I walked over and coughed. Vasa looked up, pushed the boy away, stood and zipped up his fly carefully, after putting his cock away. I asked: “Were you fucking that little boy?” He snorted and gestured before turning and striding off into the darkness. In a country where people kill their neighbours for drinking the wrong flavour vegetable brandy, he didn’t see what the fuss was about. However, were once he had been a figure in the shadows, his depravity was now hitting the open streets. He was living on borrowed time, and wasn’t coping that well. I walked back to Zojan’s bar and sat chatting to a girl who claimed to be a nurse. She offered me an enema, which I politely declined. She smiled, and I noticed she had painted her gums with lipstick. There’s not a lot a teenage girl can do to pretty herself up when all her teeth have fallen out, but she was at least having a go!

I turned to Zojan, and asked: “Does it smell of shit in here?” He nodded his head in an informative way, and I turned to look. In a dark corner booth sat Angel and Slobodan. It wasn’t so much the case of losing an ugly bitch, as gaining a bastard!

[Vic Flange]

Open the box

All of the staff – with the exception of Boris – had their contracts up for renewal. Because of the empty coffers, Boris only offered contracts to four of them; three coaches and one physio. Zdravko Peric, Nebosja Jankovic, Nikola Matijevic and Djorde Aleksic would definitely be staying. There had been no contract offers to Vasa Orlovic, Slobodan Zecevic or the other five members of full time staff. Also, there were five players who had not been offered contracts. Boris did seem set on change.

The next day I saw him at training. He looked liable to blow a fuse. I tried to talk to him but he turned on his heels and strode away. I went to the bar. I needed a drink, but I also wanted to see if Angel would tell me about her anal adventures with Slobodan. Would the big love affair carry on, now that unemployment loomed? In Novi Sad, unemployed men received a special benefit; the were allowed to sit in the street all day and all night, interfering with each other. At least, that’s the way it looked to me.

Boris came in and sat beside me. I said nothing. A beer arrived in the front of him. He drank deeply, and began to talk, seemingly to no one but obviously to me. He had gone home after explaining who was getting a contract offer and who wasn’t. He was sat at home with his wife, enjoying an after dinner cigarette, when he heard his pet dog going wild outside the door. He opened it to see what the fuss was about, and in ran the hound, ablaze. Someone had wrapped petrol-soaked rags around his dog and set it alight. He explained: “Some one is telling me they don’t like not being offered a contract.”

Hey ho; this was Novi Sad!

Back into the bedlam

Novi Sad were away to Proleter, who lay in 9th place. Veternik were at home to Becej, so that would be an easy three points for them. Bezanija didn’t play as opponents Mladost Lux were in the Cup Semi-Final against Partizan!

The Impaler made an odd appearance as The Turd, who had now become the left winger of choice, was suspended for one game. The Impaler had been moaning about a lack of first team opportunities, and had been hovering around the training ground with a face like a smacked arse! However, he let his boots do the talking when he threaded a pinpoint pass to The Pig in the 5th minute, to set up the opening goal! He did the same for Darko in the 7th minute, but the shot was straight into the keeper’s arms. In the 9th minute, Branko set up the Pig, who pulled a fine save out of Avramovic in the Proleter goal. Branko had a fierce shot tipped over the bar, and Darko went close once again before Janker broke free and slotted in from an acute angle to make it 2-0 to Novi Sad.

In the 24th minute, a typical Novi Sad move saw all the defenders chasing a pointless ball. The Proleter winger chipped it over the advancing mass, and Mihajlovic pulled one back for the home team. Boggy the Elder hadn’t really got into the game, and as Boris was contemplating an early substitution to put a bit more fire into the Novi Sad attack, Darko was stretchered off and Horvat entered the fray! As the first half ended, a precision pass from Janker found The Pig in front of goal, but his strike crashed off the upright and was cleared into Row Z – Proleter obviously ordered their rows of seats from Z to W, because it really plopped down like a bird shit!

The second half saw unrelenting pressure from Proleter, with Novi Sad only breaking out of their half on one occasion, when a weary looking Janker gave the ball away too easily. It was hooked back into danger, and a cross-box header from Onhaus found Mahmutovic who banged in Proleter’s equaliser. The next Proleter attack saw Krusty come out for a long ball and miss it, but Branko got back to clear off the line. However, the ball fell for Markoski who drove it with force into the net, and Proleter took the lead.

Boris brought on Pillhead and Cretin, and the Novi Sad approach turned to all out attack. In the 77th minute, Pillhead picked out Boggy the Elder who nodded the ball in for Cretin. The Pig dashed into the box anticipating the cross, but it didn’t come. The next time Avramovic saw the ball he was picking it out of the back of the net, and Novi Sad were back on equal terms following a stunning Cretin strike! The next eight minutes saw Novi Sad pack the Proleter box, and it was obvious that one break would leave everyone stranded. However, Cretin again found himself on the wing. This time he did cross, and the firebolt shot from 16 year old Pillhead took Novi Sad back into the lead!

[Vic Flange]

Fucked by a bug

Then, in the 90th minute, Proleter lobbed a ball forward. It landed in the box and rolled to the feet of Krusty in goal. In a surreal moment, he stood without picking it up and waited for Mihajlovic to run into the box, up to him, and roll it into the net. Viewing the replay showed that Krusty was not injured, and had ages to pick it up! Novi Sad had been robbed by a higher power, the fucker!

A draw was not good, especially as Veternik had beaten Becej 3-1! On the bus back to Novi Sad I mentioned the Krusty incident. Boris nodded, and said: “I have this before. It is rare, but it happens. Perhaps he has a bug!” I agreed: “Yes, a bug, and whoever gave it to him could have cost us the title. What a cunt, eh?” Boris agreed. He knew enough about football management to know about these things. When they go with you, you laugh. When they go against you, you want to smash something with a big hammer.

The physio examined Darko. He would be out for a whole day with a sore wrist. So, we lost a striker with a sore wrist, the keeper got beat because he had a bug, and Novi Sad held a slim lead in the championship of 1 point.

“Sister, wipe your crack and put on your bonnet, the men from the big city are here to violate you. Do not be sad, because after the winter, new life with sprout forth from your growler!”

Swallow that bile, there’s points to be won!

For a few days after the Proleter game, I kept brooding over that bug that had nobbled Krusty and robbed Novi Sad of two valuable points. Then it dawned on me; the team had as much chance of winning the league as Angel had of finding men fighting over her. Until all was lost by less than two points, it didn’t bear thinking about. A few days later, Bezanija played their game in hand with Mladost Lux, and drew 1-1. That kept the three point cushion we had with them, but Veternik were breathing down our necks. Elan had seemed like they would catch the front three teams, but hadn’t really made any impact. However, with six games to go, the top four all had to play each other, so the outcome was certainly not clear! In fact, Novi Sad’s next three games were Elan (4th) at home, Veternik (2nd) away, and Bezanji (3rd) at home. Realistically, these games would either leave Novi Sad well and truly in the bun fight, or too far adrift to crawl back before the season ended. To add to the pressure, The Backside was ruled out for two weeks with a groin strain.

In the town, the mood was beginning to change! Where once all was expectation of failure, brooding contempt and hatred, now it was all slight expectation of failure, brooding contempt and hatred. The jokes about me entering Slobodan’s wife from the rear had faded, helped in part by his shit-dickery with Angel, and in part by the local frenzy that was dragging all and sundry along with it. Local giants Vojvodina were doing well in the first division and the Serbia and Montenegro cup. Veternik and Novi Sad were heading up the Second Division North, and success for either club would see two local teams in the top flight. The idea of Belgrade fans, both from Red Star and Partizan, tramping through the streets of Novi Sad made everyone excited, especially the local robbers, kidnappers and rapists.

Rumour had it that the influx of supporters from bigger teams located in more modern cities would see the streets around the Deterlinari awash with out-of-town hookers looking for easy extra money. The local girls started to panic, and some even had a wash and applied fresh make-up. The uglier and smellier ones decided to fight back by coming up with unusual speciality tricks. One night in a back-street bar, one local lass demonstrated what she hoped would be her party piece. It was, she explained between broken teeth and scabby lips, a work in progress. She then laid on a table, lifted her skirt, raised her knees and gripped then with her tattooed fists. Everyone sitting near by covered their glasses with beer mats, cigarette packets or other objects, just in case she fired off a louse of two. She then spat a walnut into the air. It arced over her belly, hit her on the chuff, and rolled onto the floor. People stared on in silence. She repeated this two or three times before explaining the trick she was practising was to catch the nut with her snatch, squeeze it till the shell cracked, and then present it to hungry onlookers. Novi Sad was turning into a boom town with no fucking boom!

I left. As I walked out, I reached down and scooped up a walnut from the floor. I thought about going back and popping it into her growler to help out, but instead pocketed it and hit the streets. I mused as I walked; dare I write anything in the programme about a possible impending victory or about a possible life in the top flight? I passed a group of boys who had captured a cat in a barrel, and where trying to push it off a bridge. I asked: “Lads, do you think we’ll win the league?” No one replied, but one did mutter: “Wanker” under his breath. He was probably talking to the cat, I decided, and carried on home.

[Vic Flange]

Not enough effort

The programme for the game against Elan did not feature any rousing comment about future glories. Instead it focussed on Cretin’s winning of a first team place in such a short time, and looked ahead to the away game at Veternik. An appeal for calm was included, but everyone know it was going to be a bloodbath!

We needed three points against Elan. The Turd was back in contention for a place, but was kept out of the squad following The Impaler’s efforts against Proleter. In the 7th minute, Darko picked up a ball wide on the left and crossed in to Boggy the Elder, who won a tackle with the advancing Elan keeper and slotted it in for an opening goal. After 14 minutes Novi Sad were advancing again, when Zorro, replacing The Backside, lost the ball high up the pitch. Terminal Disease came up to offer support, and when the ball was flicked forward, both defenders were miles out of position. Misimi chipped the ball over a stranded Krusty and Elan drew level. Boggy the Elder spurned three easy chances, and at half time the score remained 1-1.

The second half held few opportunities for either team, and approaching the last 15 minutes Boris replaced The Impaler, The Pig and Janker with Pillhead, Ilijah and Cretin. The substitution did little to lift the team, and a second draw in a row meant Veternik took pride of place at the head of the table, following a 2-0 victory over Vrbas. Bezanija drew 1-1 with Becej. Our next stop was with arch-rivals Veternik for the final time this season.

You only sing when you’re ploughing

The visit to Veternik started badly. The club was now a mere £1.1 million in debt, so even a host of hired bicycles was out of the question! Most of the team walked to the ground, but a few of the more necessary players shared a donkey and cart with Boris and the Chairman. A few miles from the ground the abuse started. It seems they weren’t too happy about losing twice already this season, nor about Novi Sad challenging for top spot, nor about the kicking they got last time out at the Deterlinari. I suggested to Boris that as a peace offering, Vasa should walk ahead of the donkey and cart, carrying a huge Novi Sad flag. It was agreed! We didn’t have a flag, but an old woman gave us a pair of bloomers that she had pissed in so often, they were virtually yellow, which was enough. These were promptly nailed to a broom handle, and Vasa was given his orders. His look told me clearly enough that he was going to kill me as soon as he got a chance.

He set off at a slow pace, but we slowed down and stopped often enough, so it wasn't longg before he was far enough away to not be associated with us, but close enough to watch his every move. At first it was mostly old people and children spitting at him, but soon drunks spilled from bars to verbally abuse him and the odd punch was thrown. One man on a street corner lowered his trousers and defecated onto a piece of newspaper. He hitched up his trousers, picked it up, and as Vasa passed he flung it straight into his face. Boris and me were doubled up laughing. I even felt a small drop of piss escape as I was laughing so hard. I was worried I might even crap myself.

Vasa, a man so proud he couldn’t help himself, walked on at a steady pace, the bloomers flapping in the breeze on the broomstick, spittle running from his hair, and a streak of shit across his cheek. It was almost difficult to not feel sorry for him – until you remembered what a bastard he was! This continued until we turned into the street leading to the slaughterhouse that Veternik called home. Faced with a baying mob of genuine lunatics, Vasa dropped the bloomers and made a dash for it. The crowd closed around him. Boris shuddered and blessed himself. I asked if they would kill him. Boris shook his head and said: “No, probably not, but when they is finished I bet he can fit a coconut up his arse!”

The team came out a crescendo of noise, and the Veternik faithful screeching: “You only sing when you’re ploughing”. The handful of Novi Sad fans were flanked by police, most of whom occasionally spat at them and threw the odd punch. At one point an officer turned up, produced a Novi Sad shirt, and set it alight. The Veternik fans whooped and hollered. The Novi Sad fans sneered but did not move.

Boggy the Younger returned in goal, with Krusty dropping to the bench. Geriatric returned as Ninko the Kid was suspended. The team looked slightly more aggressive, and it needed to be. Local pride and league supremacy were at stake.

The key to Veternik’s success was Tadic, so Boris put both Alex and Terminal Disease on him. Perhaps he was hoping they’d break his legs. Branko was given a more defensive role to ensure that any gaps would be filled in. Veternik came out fighting, and Novi Sad struggled to stem the tide. As soon as possible, Alex rattled into Tadic and got a yellow for his efforts. A caution might not have been too clever too early, but as Alex said later: “I wanted to let the fucker know I was there”. On 9 minutes a wild clearance was picked up by Boggy the Elder who found Darko in space. He hit the ball without even looking up and Novi Sad took the lead!

[Vic Flange]

If Jesus had balls…

I remember seeing a banner, with crude red lettering, hanging from the fence behind the away supporters area. It looked like red lipstick letters scrawled on a sperm-crusted bed sheet. It read: “If Jesus had balls, he’d have played for Novi Sad”. Nice to see that the Serbians had put issues such as religious hatred, ethnic cleansing and divisions in long established communities behind them. I glimpsed the banner through the all-out war that was taking place on the terraces following the opening goal. I asked Nikola Matijevic, one of the coaches, if there was anything I could do. I meant talk to the stewards, get a PA announcement made, liase with the police, something like that. He handed me a knife and said: “Split one like a pig for me; split a fat one”. I took the knife, nodded, and went and sat down away from the bench.

Veternik were pushing everyone forward, looking to supply Tadic. Terminal Disease and Alex were taking everything off him and launching it long. Boggy the Elder and Darko were going clear time and time again, but every shot was straight into the arms of the keeper. Even a break by the Pig was finished badly. Midfielder Mrdjanin was given his marching orders on 19 minutes, but ten men Veternik still pushed forward, and Novi Sad continued to hit them on the break. When Darko rifled in his second on 28 minutes, it was fair to say the Veternik were lucky not be six or seven down! A gunshot was heard on the terraces. Luckily, it was a farmer from Novi Sad who had the gun. Get in there, my son!

Tadic switched to the left wing to escape the attention of Terminal Disease and Alex, but that meant every Veternik attack was snuffed out quicker, and the long balls from the back once more picked out Darko who claimed his hat trick on 31 minutes! I relaxed, I even smiled. An old woman of 80 or 90 years old sat near me spotted this. She came and sat beside me, and asked: “You are with the Novi Sad team?” I said I was. She smiled, gripped my leg near the thigh, and with her other hand tried to drive a long hat pin through my groin. Luckily, she missed and caught my thigh. Realising, she pulled the pin back and went for a second jab, driving the pin into the back of my hand as I shielded my testicles whilst trying to get out of the seat and run. The third jab hit my nuts, but didn’t go in as she sagged against the back of the chair. I folded away the blade on Nikola Matijevi’s knife and limped back to the bench. I dropped the blood-smeared weapon in his lap, and said: “Fat, old and female”. He stood and shook me by the hand, a glint of pride in his eyes. And I thought Arsenal V Spurs was fucking bad!

Alex and Terminal Disease were still tracking Tadic on the wing, but that unfortunately pulled the defnce out of shape. When a long ball fell to Ivelja in front of goal, no one could get close and he snapped it in to bring Veternik back into the match. Visions of losing leads were rolling into the minds of anyone associated with Novi Sad – except for the Pig who two minutes later picked up a flick on from Boggy the Elder to put Novi Sad 4-1 up. On 42 minutes, Terminal Disease aimed along ball up field, but it deflected off Alex and fell back in the Novi Sad box. Ivelja one again found the central defenders up field and slotted in his second to make the half-time score 4-2 to Novi Sad.

As the half-time whistle blew, the fighting stopped. No one was going to miss the half time turnip pies!

Boris had to concede that Tadic was pulling the defence out of shape. He decided to switch Alex to mark Ivelja and see how the second half progressed. That stiffled the entire Veternik attack. On 67 minutes, Tadic was the second Veternik player to get his marching orders! Losing Tadic to a ban would be a blow for Veternik, but no one on the Novi Sad side was crying! Ilijah came on for The Pig, and Josser came on for Alex to ensure he didn’t get a second yellow. The terraces has quietened; defeat was in the air for Veternik. The odd punch up blazed into action, and then disappeared. With 20 minutes to go and two goals up, Novi Sad just had to hang on!

Hang on they did, and Bezanji lost 1-0 to Vrbas. Novi Sad had beaten Veternik in all three games, regained their spot at the top of the table, and whilst the ugly scenes were typical of Serbian derbies, the police reports confirmed that not many fans had died! This was better than rock and roll! The icing on the cake was that Tadic was suspended for their next game!

A media report after the match said that Novi Sad were at the top of the table, exactly where their fans expected them to be! Perhaps someone should have told the fans, the staff and the team a little earlier. We thought we were doomed to fail!

Only sing when you’re ploughing? Fuck right off!

[Vic Flange]

Near enough to sniff, too far away to taste!

There was no messing about in the Serbian second divisions. Four teams dropped out of the first division, and the winners of the second division regions replaced them. Come second in any of the regions - North, South, East or West – and that’s where you’d stay. It was winner take all, and the runner-up was the first loser, back in the gutter with the turnip peelings, urine and rats! Finish bottom, and you fall into the cloudy underbelly of non-league football. Second is as good as ninth, when all is said and done. I mentioned this to Boris, but his weary glance indicated he already knew it, all too well. He didn’t need a fat Londoner to tell him!

Vasa Orlovic had been a changed man since disappearing in the carnage at the Veternik game. He didn’t seem to be in any way wounded or injured, but he had obviously been buggered into next week. After a season of conniving to be given recognition in the programme, and with no contract offer, I decided it was time to interview him. Whereas before he had been rabid to talk on the record, when I approached him in the club bar he seemed off beat. However, I insinuated the fans might take him to their hearts and demand a contract for him if he flew the flag (not the fucking bloomers – although I didn’t say that!). He suddenly brightened up, and seemed to forget that I had been trying to screw him over for the whole time I had been there.

Vic Flange: Vasa, you have been assistant manager for many years, yes?
Vasa Orlovic: Yes, for many years.
Vic Flange: And now you have no contract offer. Does this mean you have nothing left to give?
Vasa Orlovic: Are you taking the piss?
Vic Flange: No, do you have anything left to give Novi Sad?
Vasa Orlovic: I have been here for many years. I am not a Johnny Come Lately. I believe in the club, the people, the children. I believe that children are the future. I can make Novi Sad the biggest club in the world, like River Plate or Manchester Bastards, because I have a hard-on for this club.
Vic Flange: You say that you believe that children are the future?
Vasa Orlovic: Yes, I do.
Vic Flange: Then why do you buy them in town and fuck them?
Vasa Orlovic: Is this relevant? The future of Novi Sad lies with a manager who understands the culture and philosophy demanded by Novi Sad fans. Not one like Boris Krakov who looks for short-term success. I am in town with the boys because I like to see their ball skills. If we get naked and wrestle, it is to gauge their strength. If I stick my winky in them, it is to see how deep their arse is. A boy with a deep arse can, in my opinion, run faster.
Vic Flange: So, in your opinion, has Boris failed?
Vasa Orlovic: Yes
Vic Flange: By taking Novi Sad to the top of the table, he has failed?
Vasa Orlovic: Fuck you, you greasy monkey boy. I am Vasa Orlovic; I take no shit. In the Balkan crisis, I killed all my neighbours for no reason. This Boris, he was still fucking prostitutes and drinking beer in Belgrade when I was decapitating my friends and family.
Vic Flange: Isn’t it true that Boris has brought the club unrivalled success?
Vasa Orlovic: I will cut off your bollocks, you granny fucker.
Vic Flange: A question from the fans: didn’t you get buggered senseless by the Veternik Queer Faction?
Vasa Orlovic: I will kill you.
Vic Flange: I was going to fuck your wife, but she’s hanging.
Vasa Orlovic: What?
Vic Flange: Are you going to disappear with dignity, and never darken the door at Novi Sad again?
Vasa Orlovic: Fuck you!
Vic Flange: Do you remember when you asked me to stitch Boris up, for the good of the club?
Vasa Orlovic: You are not even Serbian. You come here, drink beer, do our women in the bottom, laugh at our culture, and when it suits you, you crawl back to England with its chips and bicycles and umbrellas. I will cut out your fucking heart. I will cut it out and eat it, you ponce!

At this point the interview was terminated, and only the ability to sprint for the door and escape the salivating crazy man I had created meant I did not need emergency medical care. Sometimes, Novi Sad was the place to be!

The Bezanija game saw The Impaler dropped for The Turd, and Janker moved to the bench so Cretin earned a start. The Invisible Man gained a place on the bench as Ilijah was injured, and Ninko the Kid returned after his ban. The Pitch was like a sandpit, and every ball that landed just died. The usual head tennis took place, until a long clearance from Terminal Disease found Darko who slotted it away on 14 minutes. The word was buzzing around that Veternik was also a goal down to Proleter!

On twenty minutes the Terminal Disease hooked another clearance to Darko. The ball was squared to Boggy the Elder who carried it into the box and crossed for Darko to slam in his second of the afternoon. On 31 minutes, Darko went down in a goal mouth scramble and The Turd stepped up to the spot. Someone in the crowd shouted out: “Champions!” and was instantly hidden from view in a rain of spittle. No one wanted the team jinxed!

The Turd had been touch and go on penalties, but this one went right in the corner, making it 3-0 in favour of Novi Sad. By the time Branko fed Ninko the Kid to let in Darko, and Boggy the Elder buried the resulting cross, you could dare to dream! Then the news came in that Proleter led Veternik 2-0, and we were 4-0 up!

[Vic Flange]

Fucking hell! Could we actually do this?

Janker replaced the exhausted Cretin in the second half, and Novi Sad continued to control the game. They were coming good at the right time! On 51 minutes a long range Zorro clearance found the Boggy the Elder who scored with a 30 yard snapshot. On 77 minutes Horvat came on for The Pig, and the game ended with Novi Sad 5-0 victors. A flurry of goals at Proleter came too late, and Veternik lost 3-2 to the 9th placed club.

We had come through our three difficult games – what many saw as the deciding moments of the season – with an amazing seven points. The two dropped to Elan (along with the two we were robbed of against Proleter) were now a problem. However, there really wasn’t that much we could do about it.

The three final games were against Mladost Apatin away, Mladost Lux at home, and relegated Becej away. Veternik had to Play Elan, Radnicki and Bezanija, who were still marginally in the hunt for second place. Our run in looked simple, whilst Veternik had to go up against the rest of the best. It might have seemed that we were in driving seat, but the tension was beginning to show.

Vasa Orlovic was conspicuous by his absence. The interview in the programme for the match against Bezanija had gone down well. The word was out that some UN dignitaries, along with peacekeeping force soldiers, had turned up at the ground looking for him. They hadn’t found him, but it meant he was out of my hair for a bit; hopefully until the end of the season. With him and Slobodan crossed off my list (and with Angel crossed off thanks to Slobodan) it was getting near to the time to make my move. The next few games were vital, and the tension at the Deterlinari was high. I collared Milan Labus, the chairman, and suggested we brought together some public dignitaries and local celebrities for the last home game of the season. He loved the idea. The mayor was invited, as was the station master and the old woman who ran the post office. There was also a retired acrobat who once performed balancing feats on the back of a donkey on national TV. He had to be invited.

I went to tell Angel that she would be having to put on a bit of a spread, and to keep her underpants on. I walked into the bar, but it seemeds empty. Then I heard a muffled fart, coming from the behind the bar. I peeked over, and was confronted with the sight of Slobodan’s hairy arse going up and down. I slipped away quietly. True love, footballing success and free sandwiches; It was all going down at the Deterlinari. For the first time since I arrived, it felt good to be here. Shame really, because I knew the whole shit-house was about to topple over.

[Vic Flange]

First time unlucky

The match against Mladsot Apatin was other worldly. Essentially, if we won and Veternik drew or lost, the title was ours. The Backside returned and Zorro dropped out. In the opening minutes, both Darko and The Turd found themselves in space, but shot directly at the keeper. However, on 24 minutes Branko powered the ball through a crowded penalty box and into the back of the net. We realised how apt it would be if that goal lifted the title, given Branko’s consistency throughout the season. There was that feeling inside that it could all be over, but Boris had banned anyone from finding out about the Veternik score. He insisted the team just played the game. Radosavljev fired a ball just over Boggy the Younger’s crossbar, and on 32 minutes repeated the trick and got it under to draw Mladost Apatin level. On the stroke of half time Boggy the Younger picked up a Darko cross to put Novi Sad back in front.

The second half was end to end, and while Novi Sad looked like they could break out against Mladost Apatin at will, the next goal was for Mladost Apatin as Vidojevic slid in a powerful angled shot. The wheels were coming off the master plan!

However, on 59 minutes a long ball from the Backside found the Turd stood next to the Mladost keeper, and a deft nod saw the ball in the back of the net. A minute later, a wayward defensive header fell to The Pig, but he could only chip it into the keeper’s hands, and a pinpoint cross to Cretin on 67 minutes saw it blaze it over the bar.

Novi Sad were wasting chances; not so Bacic who broke free and equalised for Mladost in the 70th minute. Mladost then went on turn the screw; the game ended with Novi Sad fighting furiously to keep Mladost at bay. We had looked like we could have won at any time, but three lapses saw only a point gained. Veternik beat Elan 2-0. It was as tight as a nun’s chuff!

It was really close, and it seemed that the closer it got, the harder it was to finish it off. Veternik, we knew, would not lay down and die. If we did end up lifting the title, those three victories against them would have been more than vital.

The next week was a flurry of activity. I had to write a programme that summed up the season. Angel and her ugly aunt were laying on a feast for the VIPs – pigs’ trotters, turnip cakes, rat on a stick, turnip rolls, deep fried dog skin, turnip fritters, cats’ ears, turnip chowder, and a big pot of what looked like dog shit. In fact, it looked better than any of the other food. The turnip wine was held back, as Boris was worried the players would start on it if they saw it. Training was thorough, although Vasa never reappeared. However, I did fell he wasn’t going to go quietly. I bet he had hatched a plan, but he wasn’t counting on some one else having a better plan!

“Sister, pick off the crusts, come inside and wash your orifices; the time has come to close the doors and light the lamps, the wind carries messages of great tragedy, I think it’s all going to kick off!”

[Vic Flange]

The dark clouds come rolling on in

Sunday had arrived. It was the last home game of the season for Novi Sad, and two games away from the end of the campaign. Looking back, it had been a typical Serbian year; starting off with misery and depression, going through a phase of strife and violence, peaking with a glimmer of hope that you just knew would be mercilessly snuffed out to start the vicious cycle all over again. Either Novi Sad or Veternik, the bitterest of rivals, would be drinking from the cup of success. The others would be rolling in the gutter, smeared with crap and despair. This was what football is all about. No runners-up, no promotion for everyone, no play-offs or other jerking about. It was winner take all. It was success or failure. It was death or glory. It was a chance to drink copious amounts, and feel up the wives of the local dignitaries. Or it was shame, hatred, and the chance to feel the eyes of everyone burning into your back whilst murderous thoughts went through their minds.

Boris Krakov had done a sterling job to bring the club to the brink of success. His signings had actually paid off, his tactics had improved throughout the season after too many draws in the earlier days, and his ability to withstand hostility from many in the club had to be admired. He had one clear failing, in that he always wanted to screw a little bit more cash out of teams who tried to buy players. The result was some big money opportunities falling through. Milan Labus was feeling the pinch and feared for the club’s future. The debt was building. If Novi Sad didn’t win promotion, how would Boris cope next year with all the best players flogged off for whatever funds that could be raised, and next to no wages?

Steps had already been taken, with no new contracts being offered, half the staff being dumped, and the plan (as Boris had told me in confidence over a quiet beer) to renegotiate contracts with lower wages and shorter terms. However, all of this was to be debated in the closed season. Today was about one thing – football!

[Vic Flange]

The VIP invasion

The game against Mladost Lux was a potential clincher. We could win the title this afternoon, and as if to prove it, and just in case, the trophy had been brought by the big wigs from the Serbian Second Division North. It sat on the boardroom table, gleaming and inviting, surrounded with winners' medals. It looked ready to be lifted, but without any ribbons on it. Such a move would have been tantamount to shooting a peasant girl before you’d raped her. The Balkan conflict had at least taught people about priorities.

I talked to Boris, who told me they’d probably only turned up with the trophy because they knew there would a free piss-up laid on in their honour. If it wasn’t decided this week, it would be next, which left them without a party! They’d either have to travel to Bezanija or Becej, and in both cases the home team didn’t have a look in, so there would be no freebies. Milan Labus also intended to kiss their arses, just in case any financial benefits might come his way in the coming season. It was back-scratching of the highest order, and any cock-up would be disastrous!

Next to arrive was the mayor of Novi Sad and his wife. She looked familiar. I tried to imagine her in a knocking shop, but it wasn’t coming back to me. I decided to avoid her, just in case! The mayor was playing it safe; it didn’t matter who won the title as both teams were local lads. Anyway, he was a Vojvodina supporter, and was looking forward to meeting whoever was promoted next season. As he turned away to pick up a pig’s trotter off the platter Angel was heaving around the boardroom, Boris mouthed the word: “Prick” behind his back. The mayor’s wife saw this, and smiled. I decided that given the chance, I’d like to get her into the sack.

Zojan, Boris’ son, turned up with what was obviously a girl from Belgrade. You could tell this because her clothes were clean, and her moustache had recently been plucked. I shook his hand, and went to kiss her on the cheek. He stopped me with a polite but firm shove. I was going to argue with him about such rudeness, when I saw the elderly station-master come in with a girl who could not have been more than 20 years old. She was relatively pretty, plump without being fat, and only had one facial disfigurement as far as I could see. I left Zojan with his big city whore and went and shook the railway man’s gnarled hand. I asked: “And is this your grand daughter?” He shook his head and replied: “No, I am fucking her.” I couldn’t catch a break.

Two hours before kick-off, and the board room was jammed with freeloaders eating and drinking a deeper hole in Milan Luban’s debt. It was getting unbearable. I figured that much of the food wasn’t too fresh, as an increasing number of people started passing wind. That, mixed with the stench of stale sweat, cheap cigarettes and pig grease was enough to send me outside for a breath of fresh air. I was sat on steps to the commentary position, watching the fans wander in, when I spotted a woman. I had given up on trying to get a piece of arse before the game, but this woman stood out, because she was tall. Tall and skinny, even gaunt looking. Her lips were thin and drawn, topped off with a drooping moustache, a hook nose and deep dark recessed eyes. That woman was Vasa Orlovic, and either he enjoyed wearing womens’ clothes, or he had a pistol in his pocket!

[Vic Flange]

Getting ready for kick-off

The teams were out warming up, and the VIPs were making certain that they eaten and drunk everything available. Milan was dashing around sending any available staff out to scour the area for food and drink for the half-time session. He was literally being eaten out of house and home – well certainly out of stadium! I wandered down to pitch-side and made my way around to the terrace affectionately known as the Crater. It was named after a bomb crater in which a bunch of soldiers from Novi Sad had holed up for days, getting drunk and fornicating with a headless corpse, during the invasion of Croatia.

It was not a nice place to be, and was home to the Novi Sad hard men. As I approached the atmosphere changed. They hated me, because I was a fat foreigner and was making whoopee with their women. I approached with my hands held out in a conciliatory gesture. A few approached so we could speak.

“In honour of the glorious Novi Sad, I have arranged a most amicable prostitute for you all. She is willing to allow even the most atrocious acts to be performed upon her body, repeatedly, for days or even months. She is a gift from me to you.” They thought it over, and nodded agreement. I continued: “She will wait for you in the back of a donkey cart by the West gate. Take her somewhere quiet and fill your boots, gentlemen.” They nodded again and walked back to the main group. There was a little whispering, and the group fell about laughing. One man with a steel plate screwed to his head rubbed his hands together and winked at me; a conspiratorial thank you.

I set off quickly scouring the crowd. A tall thin gaunt woman wasn’t going to be hard to miss amongst the fat scabby bitches. I saw her – well, I saw Vasa and quickly made my way toward him. As I approached, I worried he was going to draw a gun and shoot me. However, I was no threat in his eyes, and curiosity gave me the edge I needed. I took his arm and steered him away from the crowd, behind an old tractor used to maintain the pitch, parked at the stadium wall.

Before he could speak, I blurted out: “Vasa, you must take care, because Boris is working with the UN to have you arrested. He is raping this football club. I was wrong, he is bleeding it dry and intends to make off with anything of value, leaving the club in ruins. I can help you, I can bring Milan Luban and we can see what to do to secure the future of the club. You will be manager. Do you agree?” He looked me over, and said: “You shit, why should I trust you?” I looked at him with a calm stare, and said: “In the board room, Boris is celebrating with his friends from the UN. You can hear the party?” A deaf man couldn’t miss the roar of the greedy drunken VIPs. Vasa nodded; he didn’t know what was going on up there. “If you don’t trust me, you are a dead man, Vasa. Boris is going to screw me too. If you are manager, you make me the assistant, yes?” Vasa nodded. He was starting to believe. Even a fat foreign git was more trustworthy than a Serb who sat in Belgrade during the war, instead of chopping up and raping the enemy. Plus, he probably figured he could take care of me later.

I continued: “After the game, I will help you escape. Then we will return and get Boris when he is alone. I’ve taken a donkey cart to the West gate. Hide in the back. After the final whistle, I will take you somewhere safe. Whatever you do, don’t come out, even when we are moving, and stay disguised as a woman. It is vital for your safety”. He nodded and hurried off to hide. Job done!

[Vic Flange]

Once more, into the breach…

I returned to the board room. It was empty. Outside the VIPs were taking their seats. As I walked out to take my seat with the dignitaries, the teams ran out to a crescendo of noise. Then I heard that song again, rising from the terraces: “We only sing when we’re ploughing!” Irony had arrived in Novi Sad!

With one still in reserve

Looking around for a seat, I saw Angel and Slobodan. He looked like he was shoving his entire forearm up her back passage, so I decided to sit with the VIPs. I ended up next to an old man who seemed like he was going to fall asleep. It turned out that he was the turnip farmer that sponsored Novi Sad. I mentioned the huge debt, and he insinuated that Milan was on his own with regard to that! I added that glory could be approaching, and he reminded me that we had to win first. As with any Serbian, hope was an alien concept. “Yes, that’s true”, I added, “but we have another chance after this, and Veternik don’t. If they lose, it’s pretty much over”. He shook his head with despair. The last thing he wanted was to be sat next to someone who was going to ruin his misery with the hope of success.

As if to prove his point, the tide went the wrong way for the start of the game. Mladost Lux attacked as if they were fighting for the title. Eight minutes into the game, Cakovan picked up a loose ball and rolled it past Boggy the Younger. We were 1-0 down, and unless the situation changed we would be further adrift pretty soon.

Luckily, the goal served as an alarm call, and Novi Sad suddenly woke up. Cretin and then The Pig were denied by the keeper, before Darko scored a scorcher on 14 minutes to level the game. On 31 minutes, a Cakovan free kick restored the Mladost Lux lead, but only a minute later Darko scored a screamer when the Lux keeper was caught out of position.

On 39 minutes a beautiful curling strike from Boggy the Elder hit the back of the net, and for the first time since I arrived in this shit hole I heard the fans celebrating, with a passion. When the half-time whistle blew, Novi Sad were 3-2 up. Boris had banned any talk about the Veternik score, but that was a pointless task. By the time I joined the throng in the boardroom, the talk was all about the extra free food and drink Milan had brought in, and the Veternik score. They were being held 1-1 by Radnicki!

[Vic Flange]

A game of two halves

Fifteen minutes is not a long time at all, especially if you have to walk from your seat to the boardroom, take a dump or urinate, eat and drink and return to your seat in time for kick off. However, the VIPs did exceptionally well, and the place was strewn with bones and empty bottles well within the allotted time. Angel and her aunt shoved the carnage onto trolleys and made it disappear into various side offices before the last dignitary had made his way outside. Mladost Lux took to the field, and had to wait a few minutes for the Novi Sad players to emerge. Boris was keeping them waiting.

It was all building to a crescendo. However, if Veternik came back, as the form book said they would, it would all go to the last day. Still, football is built on the dreams of the masses, so who could say?

The referee blew his whistle, and the crowd roared – almost as if they were enjoying themselves. I didn’t go back to my seat. I simply turned around and walked back to the board room. I lifted the table cloth on the table holding the now empty turnip brandy bottles, and pulled out the large canvas bag I had hidden underneath it earlier that day. I quickly picked up the trophy – it was fucking heavy – and gently placed it in the bag. Once the bag was zipped up, I took the medals and distributed them in various pockets, and headed through the boardroom to the stairs that led out of the office block, avoiding the stands.

[Vic Flange]

The sweet smell of freedom

On the street, I called over an old man with a donkey cart, and we set of to see Djordje Facko, Novi Sad’s number one bastard, gangster and drug dealer. As we pulled away from the Deterlinari I heard a roar, too loud for the away fans. Novi Sad had probably scored again. Frankly, I didn’t give a flying fuck!

Djordje tried to screw me for a price on the medals. He knew a man in Bulgaria who would swap the silver for hashish, and that was what he wanted. I wanted enough money to get to Belgrade and to buy a ticket on the first plane out of here. I obviously didn’t tell Djordje what was in the bag, or he would have never let me out of there with it. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have let me out of there alive! I tried to carry it as if it was just a few clothes. I was shitting myself. He seemed slow to reach a deal, but once the money was right, I agreed and got out of there. He was happy, because he thought he’d ripped me off.

It was a mad dash to get the train to Belgrade. I certainly didn’t want to still be in Novi Sad once the match ended and everyone realised what had happened. I made it with minutes to spare. The journey was uneventful. I felt sick the whole way, but deep down I knew if you could pull this shit off anywhere, it was Serbia! Christ, these people committed atrocities to each other a few years ago, and no one had done fuck all about it!

A few hours later I was at the airport. Luckily, news doesn’t travel too fast in Serbia. I checked in, taking the canvas bag as hand luggage; I wasn’t trusting it to anyone.

In the airport bar, I spent my last few Dinar on a cold beer. I was sipping it when a vision appeared. A slim, raven haired, olive skinned beauty with pert round tits, firm buttocks and no facial hair or scabs. She sat beside me and ordered a glass of wine. I laughed. “What’s so funny?” she asked. I explained that it rare to see a good looking woman drinking turnip wine. I recommended she switched her order to beer. She did.

We chatted for a while. Her plane had been diverted to Belgrade after a mechanical problem. The passengers were being put onto a plane to London; the same plane I was getting on. I told her I had been in Serbia working for an aid agency, and she bought it. Why not? She didn’t know what a bastard I was. I told her I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got to London; it had been so long since I left. She suggested that I might like to stay with her for a bit. It was only fair, given that I had been away on humanitarian work!

As we left to go, the sports news came on the television in the bar. I glanced at screen nervously. She asked: “Do you like football?” I muttered: “No, not really. Well, not at the moment anyway”. We headed for the gate.

“Sister, pull up your pants and gather your brood of club-footed retards; put on the pan and cook some turnip stew, for the song has ended!”

[Moomin Chupachup]

Finally got around to reading this. It's very good!

[Dj_Luca]

This is really good mate. Ever thought of getting it published?