MEGGO

Gary Megson had worries. West Brom were on a downward spiral and he knew he'd be out of a job by the end of the season. The board had made it clear to him that survival in the Premiership was essential to his future employment. The players didn't listen to him and, worst of all, the fans didn't like him and sang no songs for him, only boos at the final whistle when they failed to win home matches. It seemed to Meggo that the world was ganging up on him. Was it really too much to ask for a little sympathy at home? Surely Mrs Megson must understand that he had a stressful job. She must've read in the papers about the pressure he was under. It's true that he had never exactly set her bed on fire -  in fact, he had always been aware of her overall disappointment in him. Even when their marriage was young she'd lose no chance to remind him of his gingerness by complimenting others on their dark good looks. And when a few pounds inevitably started to thicken his middle she barely bothered to disguise her disgust, which was rich coming from her; she was a large lady to begin with but he'd never said a word. Maybe if she wasn't so blunt about it he would be able to relax a little and things might improve. But it was hard to get in the mood when she kept drawing attention to it the way she did. He'd read advice columns about men with similar problems, but all their suggestions involving baths and sensual massages were out of the question with someone like Mrs Megson. They didn't know what she was like. Even after a rare win on the football pitch, when things might get off to a good start in the bedroom, her discouraging words would make it too much of an effort to finish: "Are you nearly done? How much longer, do you think?" No matter how hard he tried to think of more appealing women, eventually the jeers from behind the dugout would fill his head and then everything went soft. 

So things were bad enough as they were before he had to come along and exacerbate everything. Pulis. He knew from the start that she had the hots for Pulis. He noticed the way she perked up when he introduced the pair for drinks after the Stoke match, the way her scowl lifted and she lost ten years off her face. He hated the cheeky way she straightened Pulis's baseball cap, and the way she was impressed by his smart post-match interview suit. It was nice to see a professional man make the effort to look dapper, she said. When he pointed out how he himself always made the effort to look smart she eyed his trouser region and muttered "Oh you make an effort alright." When Mrs Megson suddenly started seeing a lot more of her wine-tasting friends, Meggo wasn't fooled. He knew full well how Pulis made regular kerbcrawling trips down from Stoke, where the prostitutes would no longer serve him, and how he rented a small flat in Birmingham for his nefarious deeds. He knew how Mrs Megson would clutch the bedsheets in writhing anticipation as Pulis stood before her naked but for his baseball cap, sucking his belly in and sticking out his eager stiff little willy. Nothing flaccid about our Tony, no sir. He knew how the lovebirds would follow their shared climax with a champagne toast to Muggins Megson, doubled over with laughter. The lads knew, the coaching staff knew, and the bloody fans knew too now because Pulis had mentioned it himself in his matchday programme notes when West Brom travelled there last week. What a humiliation that game was. Even the ref gave him a 'droopy' hand gesture when he tried remonstrating over a decision that should have been a clear penalty. The players laughed, the fourth official laughed, the Stoke physios and substitutes were falling about the bench, with Pulis slapping their backs. The last straw for Gary Megson came when both the home and away sections of the Britannia Stadium simultaneously unfurled huge banners depicting Meggo's slack ginger-pubed penis, accompanied by a chant that was both distasteful and unnecessary. He jogged past Pulis down the tunnel, refusing his theatrically offered handshake. He locked himself in a toilet and sat there with his head in his hands, weighing his options. No way was he cooking dinner for that fat bitch tonight, even if it was his turn.