Sean the Blade
Member
The boardroom hushed as Howard entered; he made his way round the table and took his seat at the head, shuffled some papers, for effect, and then, in turn, met the expectant gaze of each of the members.
“Right guys, I’ve got some good news” collectively the brows, even those full of botox, raised around the room. “We – are – going – to be – on – the- TELLY!” A voice from Howard’s left broke the shocked silence “But, but, we’re in division three, have we been reinstated or something? Sky and the other telly don’t show division three matches”
“No, not football, we are going to be on ‘CASH IN’T ATTIC’!” the collective brows rose even higher. “Listen to me, listen to me, we’ve all got bits of memorabilia, some you should have, some you shouldn’t, what I want you all to do is fetch one item in, and we’ll hide it round the stadium, then miraculously find it during the ‘rummage’ then flog it at the auction, and use it ter pay our tax bill!”
One director whispered in his neighbour’s ear “and we thought Strafford was nuts!”
“For example, I know that Ken has got the old Ozzy Owl suit, and, I know he wears it regularly” he winks at Ken Cooke “Mek sure you give it a wash before yer bring it in Ken” Ken blushes whilst the remainder snigger behind their notepads.
“Bob” Grierson squirmed in his seat, crossed fingers and prayed “not the rubber…”
“You’ve got the Christmas card sent ter Derek Dooley aven’t you?” Bob relaxed “Yes, the one with the…”
“P45 in it, yes that’s the one, well tha can fetch that in, it isn’t nice but its Sheffield ‘istory so it’s worth summat. Carol…”
“I have a piece of the kop roof!”
“Really! Where’d you get that then?”
“It fell on me on the way in; there must be some way of holding it up”
“I know, I know, we‘d all like ter see better support on the kop, but that’s unlikely in today’s climate, more so in division 3. So, Carol, what did you do with that ‘support’ that Kevin Pressman gave you, have you still got it?”
“Err, I had the athletic support tested, and it turned out to actually be one of Strafford’s old gastric bands, it was never fitted because it was too small”
“Never mind, bring it in”
Jenny Bond’s bullet-proof make up beamed into the camera as she stood next to the ‘suited and booted’ Howard. “I am standing next to one of England’s football greats, his playing days were showered with glory, and he has managed some of the biggest clubs in the country, Howard Kendall…”
“Wilkinson, it’s Wilkinson love, I’ve got more hair but less trophies!”
“Sorry Howard, what made you apply for Cash in the Attic?”
“Desperation Jenny, no two ways about it, we need to pay a tax bill, so we’ve got ter flog some of the family silver, as it were”
“And how much were you hoping to raise?”
“Five hundred…”
“That’s modest figure….”
“…thousand pounds. Jenny? Jenny? Are you alright? Will someone fetch a blanket and a glass of water, poor lass ‘as fainted”.
The auction room buzzed with excitement, but was quickly silenced by the announcement of the Wednesday sale, the auctioneer stepped up to the dius “Ladies and gentlemen, for the next section of our sale we have a guest auctioneer, will you please welcome Sheffield’s most famous son… Roy Hattersley!” The crowd rose as one, and turned for the exits, as Roy took his place.
“Our firsht item ish an Ozzy Owl shuit, ash worn by Mrsh Ken Cooke, do I shee £100?… Is that a bid shir? No? You’re just putting your umbrella up, right, £50?... £5?... 50p?”
A procession of items passed through the auction house, each one followed by the ‘unsold’ graphic. Wilko seemed to physically shrink further into his suit as each item was returned. Jenny’s make-up patted his arm gently and attempted to console him against the barrage of apathy. Eventually the torture came to an end, Roy left the stage and the crowd left the hall, removing their sou-westers as they exited. Howard and Jenny stood in front of the auction house for the closing shots “So Howard, you were looking to raise five hundred thousand pounds with your sale of memorabilia, do you think you’ve reached your target?”
“I think we’ll be lucky to do that, but I’m hopeful we can put a dent in it”
“Well, the amount you’ve raised is…. TWELVE POUNDS!”
“Twelve quid!? What did we get twelve quid for”
“We, err, sold your umbrella, your Leeds one”
“My Leeds one!? That’s my good brolly, the Wednesday one, every time yer get it up, it keeps going down! TWELVE QUID?! I had ter put thirteen quid’s worth of diesel in’t mini-bus ter get the stuff ‘ere!”
Outside Sheffield interchange, the unshaven figure of Wilko rummages through the bins for scraps, the well dressed figure of Kevin McCabe stops and can’t believe his eyes “Howard?”
“Kevin! Any change mate?” McCabe glances at the finance page of the Telegraph and looks Wilko in the eye “No Howard, you’re still skint!”
“Right guys, I’ve got some good news” collectively the brows, even those full of botox, raised around the room. “We – are – going – to be – on – the- TELLY!” A voice from Howard’s left broke the shocked silence “But, but, we’re in division three, have we been reinstated or something? Sky and the other telly don’t show division three matches”
“No, not football, we are going to be on ‘CASH IN’T ATTIC’!” the collective brows rose even higher. “Listen to me, listen to me, we’ve all got bits of memorabilia, some you should have, some you shouldn’t, what I want you all to do is fetch one item in, and we’ll hide it round the stadium, then miraculously find it during the ‘rummage’ then flog it at the auction, and use it ter pay our tax bill!”
One director whispered in his neighbour’s ear “and we thought Strafford was nuts!”
“For example, I know that Ken has got the old Ozzy Owl suit, and, I know he wears it regularly” he winks at Ken Cooke “Mek sure you give it a wash before yer bring it in Ken” Ken blushes whilst the remainder snigger behind their notepads.
“Bob” Grierson squirmed in his seat, crossed fingers and prayed “not the rubber…”
“You’ve got the Christmas card sent ter Derek Dooley aven’t you?” Bob relaxed “Yes, the one with the…”
“P45 in it, yes that’s the one, well tha can fetch that in, it isn’t nice but its Sheffield ‘istory so it’s worth summat. Carol…”
“I have a piece of the kop roof!”
“Really! Where’d you get that then?”
“It fell on me on the way in; there must be some way of holding it up”
“I know, I know, we‘d all like ter see better support on the kop, but that’s unlikely in today’s climate, more so in division 3. So, Carol, what did you do with that ‘support’ that Kevin Pressman gave you, have you still got it?”
“Err, I had the athletic support tested, and it turned out to actually be one of Strafford’s old gastric bands, it was never fitted because it was too small”
“Never mind, bring it in”
Jenny Bond’s bullet-proof make up beamed into the camera as she stood next to the ‘suited and booted’ Howard. “I am standing next to one of England’s football greats, his playing days were showered with glory, and he has managed some of the biggest clubs in the country, Howard Kendall…”
“Wilkinson, it’s Wilkinson love, I’ve got more hair but less trophies!”
“Sorry Howard, what made you apply for Cash in the Attic?”
“Desperation Jenny, no two ways about it, we need to pay a tax bill, so we’ve got ter flog some of the family silver, as it were”
“And how much were you hoping to raise?”
“Five hundred…”
“That’s modest figure….”
“…thousand pounds. Jenny? Jenny? Are you alright? Will someone fetch a blanket and a glass of water, poor lass ‘as fainted”.
The auction room buzzed with excitement, but was quickly silenced by the announcement of the Wednesday sale, the auctioneer stepped up to the dius “Ladies and gentlemen, for the next section of our sale we have a guest auctioneer, will you please welcome Sheffield’s most famous son… Roy Hattersley!” The crowd rose as one, and turned for the exits, as Roy took his place.
“Our firsht item ish an Ozzy Owl shuit, ash worn by Mrsh Ken Cooke, do I shee £100?… Is that a bid shir? No? You’re just putting your umbrella up, right, £50?... £5?... 50p?”
A procession of items passed through the auction house, each one followed by the ‘unsold’ graphic. Wilko seemed to physically shrink further into his suit as each item was returned. Jenny’s make-up patted his arm gently and attempted to console him against the barrage of apathy. Eventually the torture came to an end, Roy left the stage and the crowd left the hall, removing their sou-westers as they exited. Howard and Jenny stood in front of the auction house for the closing shots “So Howard, you were looking to raise five hundred thousand pounds with your sale of memorabilia, do you think you’ve reached your target?”
“I think we’ll be lucky to do that, but I’m hopeful we can put a dent in it”
“Well, the amount you’ve raised is…. TWELVE POUNDS!”
“Twelve quid!? What did we get twelve quid for”
“We, err, sold your umbrella, your Leeds one”
“My Leeds one!? That’s my good brolly, the Wednesday one, every time yer get it up, it keeps going down! TWELVE QUID?! I had ter put thirteen quid’s worth of diesel in’t mini-bus ter get the stuff ‘ere!”
Outside Sheffield interchange, the unshaven figure of Wilko rummages through the bins for scraps, the well dressed figure of Kevin McCabe stops and can’t believe his eyes “Howard?”
“Kevin! Any change mate?” McCabe glances at the finance page of the Telegraph and looks Wilko in the eye “No Howard, you’re still skint!”
