Great unfinished novels of the twentieth century, part 94


~ 1 ~

Alex Ferguson sipped his drink and a large globule of mucus dropped into his mug.

“Aaaaargh! Shit!” he exclaimed as his naked torso was splattered with coffee. He ran starkers through the house, drops of liquid flying out behind him until he reached the bathroom, where he grabbed a large towel from the airing cupboard and wrapped it around him, trying to ease the pain. Although it was only his chest that had been scalded, the pain was coursing through his body like a bolt of lightning. He drew his curtains, only too aware of the eyes watching him from across the road, and tiptoed to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and turned over to the female figure on his right. “My wife will be home soon,” he whispered, “Maybe you should be going.”

“Not until I get my money,” she replied. Alex hesitated.

“Thirty, did ye say?”

“Forty now.”

“Wha’? Ye hardly did anything,” he said, easily conceding, as he got out his wallet. “Wha’ did you say your name was?”

“Ainsley. Ainsley Jarvis.”

“Nice name – I’m sure I’ve heard it before. You’re sure you didn’t play for Aberdeen?” he enquired, for the second time that night. She nodded, wondering whether he realized she was female. She stepped onto the fleecy carpet that adorned Alex’s floor and put on her clothes. Alex gazed at her feminine, curvaceous body and wondered about how Manchester United were going to get out of their current spot of bother.

[circa 1998]

Any relation to any actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental


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3 Responses to “Great unfinished novels of the twentieth century, part 94”

  1. Evie Says:

    Excellent! Love the pixellated face too.

  2. Gareth Says:

    I don’t think I pixellated it enough. I’m paranoid it’s still recognisable as Gerard Houllier.

    I’m not sure what made me start writing a novel about Alex Ferguson. I got five very short chapters in before abandoning it. By chapter 3 he was naked and speeding through the streets of Manchester on the Duchess of York’s car bonnet. In an attempt to avert scandal (“Cheers doll,” he muttered, “but I’ve really got to go. I need to find my wife, added to which the tabloids feast on innocent situations like this”) he ends up hiding in the boot:

    When the boot was closed, Alex noticed a musty smell that struck him as strange. It smelt of rotting meat, an aroma that he recalled only too well after his encounter with the four-year-old side of beef and the stomach pump. He groped around in the dark and, to his horror, felt something cold and hairy. It reminded him of the time when he lived in Aberdeen and had mistaken a man for a woman in a cocktail bar. He remembered vividly his shock as he placed his hand between the man’s legs. “It all comes from wearing kilts,” he had thought to himself at the time.

    However, the problem now was very real indeed and there was no escaping the fact that he was sharing the boot with a dog’s corpse.

  3. argumentativeoldgit Says:

    You should send this off to a publisher as a sample of your work, and see what reply you get! Certainly, if I were to open a book at random in the bookshop and read this, I’d buy it immediately!

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