By Chris Harris
The extraordinary general meeting, to discuss and wallow at the fallout of the unsavoury Mr Dribble affair, that was held in the clubhouse on a sunny Sunday afternoon was a sombre affair. Greg couldn’t help thinking, paradoxically, how hacked off everyone looked when, in truth, things at the club were going remarkably well. He received a very curt “morning, Greg” from Catherine Brown, and immediately knew that the usual cheerful post-meeting trip to the pub was not going to be on the agenda. The atmosphere was cold, heavy, and unforgiving.
One of the reasons Greg Lyons was such a successful businessman was that he did not procrastinate. When things needed doing, he did them quickly. He had already been on the phone that morning, checking on former groundsman Gavin Neville’s recovery from his stroke and asking whether he felt ready to come back. This was done while quietly ignoring the fact that, just twenty-four hours earlier, he had had no intention of ever bringing Gavin Neville back, given how well Charlie Egham had been doing the job. Still, it made sense to behave as though this had always been the plan. That way, he could announce to the room that at least, they still had a groundsman. Gavin wasn’t as good as Charlie, but then again, he was a simple and reliable soul and not prone to backstabbing.
As Greg spoke, he could see Catherine staring down at a sheet of paper, refusing to make eye contact. He found himself thinking how perverse the situation was. He was single. Lucy was single. All he had done was sleep with someone the night before. Yet, as with so many matters of the heart, it was never that simple. Sitting next to Catherine Brown, Lucy carried on as if nothing had happened, because in her world, nothing had. To her, it didn’t even register as an event, the complexities of the dynamics between Greg and Catherine were unknown and therefore irrelevant to her.
In truth, no one seemed entirely sure why the meeting had been called. What Charlie had done was undeniably terrible, but beyond that there was a sense that, having all been kicked in the teeth by him, it felt right to gather together and reassure themselves that they were still united. That, at least, was the intention. In practice, it was almost impossible to talk openly, because it was Catherine Brown’s partner who had done the dirty.
It was becoming faintly excruciating as they muttered to one another, eventually, Dean broke in.
“Now that we’re all here,” he said, “why don’t we just give a quick update on where we are with our own responsibilities?”
It steadied the room. He himself spoke first, outlining progress on social media. Interest was growing, nothing explosive yet, but solid and upward. A couple of podcast invitations had already come in, mostly non-league focused, and he expected more. Media attention would build as results held. They would eventually need to make space for interviews, for the press cycle that follows the almost unprecedented momentum at the club.
Economical Tony followed with the ground update. The 3G pitch was on schedule for completion within a couple of months. The eco-stand might follow just after Christmas.
Lucy was almost buoyant when she spoke about finances. Attendances were above forecast. Sponsorship was stronger than expected. Catering income was healthy. Ed Stevens, she said, had kept the budget ruthlessly tight. The balance sheet looked better than any of them had dared to imagine. Catherine Brown and Greg shuffled looking at the table as she spoke.
There had been no serious incidents. No catastrophes. Matchdays, largely thanks to Catherine’s work pulling the catering together, had run smoothly.
When it was her turn, Catherine spoke of the women’s team. The first training session was planned within weeks. Applications were already arriving. On matchdays, there had been no serious incidents. largely thanks to everyone’s work pulling the catering together, it had run smoothly.
And then she stopped.
Her voice faltered. Tears arrived without warning. She apologised for the behaviour of her former partner. The shift in the room was immediate. The meeting dissolved. Economical Tony and Big Mal leaned in, murmuring comfort in the practical, slightly helpless way men do when confronted with emotion they cannot fix. She told them of her plight with her Heaven is a Percolator branch in Charlie’s garden centre. Part of her wanted to walk away entirely. But there were staff to consider. She knew Charlie would not want her gone, he had made his apologies to her in over 50 text messages, what a jealous mistake it had all been. Let’s face it, he also knew her enterprise brought a lot of customers in. The customers came for her. But even thinking about him unsettled her.
Mal and Tony were pragmatic. Run it for another week. Keep it strictly professional. Tell him that if he overstepped the mark or made it difficult, she would walk away.
They left that evening with spirits marginally improved, all except Greg.
He returned to his large house alone. The silence there did not soothe him. In the quiet, stripped of meetings and voices and purpose, he felt a slow, hollow recognition that progress at the club had not solved anything inside his own mind.
As they sat in the clubhouse for the EGM, just down the road in the Red Lion, the inaugural meeting of the Denham Phoenix FC Supporters Club was getting into gear.
In his wheelchair, Aidy, surrounded by his pint and empties, had got there early, just to grab a couple of tables, just being helpful. He was to be the chairman, a ceremonial role within the fan group, in recognition of the fact that he had been the biggest drinker, the loudest singer, bought and managed the ten by twenty foot Denham Phoenix FC flag, and had, in the line of duty, been run over. The undoubted club personality, he was deemed a fine choice due to the kudos he retained within the club and was assured he wouldn’t have to do anything except drink and hold court.
George Rayner administered the proper fast growing fan’s forum, a position that Dean had once described as the most powerful role at the club. George also published the programme. What had once been a free, four-page pamphlet had been expanded into a twelve-page proper programme, which George produced and edited himself and sold for a pound. It now had adverts in it, the managers’ notes, generally written by Dean, match reviews and a look at the opposition team, nicked off Wikipedia. He also managed the PA announcement and matchday music.
Daisy and Maisie were the kit girls. It was suspected that Daisy and Maisie were an item, they were a very secretive pair, but great fun to boot. They did the kit not because doing the kit was women’s work, but because they ran a dry-cleaning business and were therefore at the cutting edge of Denham commerce. Also, in reality they were not an item but used the role as an excuse to get access to the players to sleep with as often as possible. It remained to be seen whether this would apply to the women’s team.
Odd Job was just that. If a gutter needed attaching, if there was painting here or there, or low-grade electrical faults, Odd Job would do them. Economical Tony, when he first joined the board, had offered to do those jobs himself to save the club money, but when Odd Job came along and offered to do them also for free, he gladly moved aside.
Jack had always helped Charlie keep the ground looking smart, and with Charlie gone he worked on the basis that it wasn’t rocket science what Charlie did, so he simply carried on. He worked in conjunction with Gavin Neville, which was never easy, because Gavin Neville rarely said much and wasn’t exactly managerial.
Cliff, Jason and Gareth all had roving roles at the club as general volunteers: helping on the turnstile, behind the bar, tidying up. They were overseen by Catherine Brown, whom all three were slightly in love with. This worked out very well, as they competed for her affections by trying to outdo each other showing off how much work they did for the club.
But in truth, it wasn’t that they worked for free. They did things because they cared about the club. They didn’t just turn up and stand around on their phones. They lived and breathed carrying out tasks to the top of their abilities. While that ability threshold was quite low, Catherine Brown would always sooner work with a trier.
Monday was never going to be a good day for Greg Lyons after the disaster of the weekend, so he was pleased, relieved even, to take the call from George Rayner. Greg liked George. He often had a beer with him. More importantly, after the debacle with Mr Dribble, now very firmly known as Charlie Dribble, Jack was keen to make sure that the head of the pro-board forum was somebody unequivocally on his side.
“Look, Greg,” George said, “we’ve started a supporters’ club. There’s eight of us on the committee, and we’re going to open it up for membership.”
He then explained who the committee members were, much to Greg’s approval. Greg knew all of them. He knew how much they cared about the club.
“Thing is, Greg, two requests. I don’t expect a quick answer.”
Greg smiled to himself.
“First, is there any chance we could have one of us representing the fans on the board?”
Greg could automatically see no reason why not. He also knew a certain Catherine Brown would be impressed. There was a lot of making up to do. He knew that member would be George and he was not a hard nosed discontent.
“So what’s the second thing, George?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a long shot. But is there any chance you, or the club, would be willing to get the supporters a minibus for away-day travel?”
Greg pictured it instantly and grimaced. The last thing he wanted was his business logo plastered on the side of a beaten-up old Transit van trundling around Sussex.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause. “I see no reason why not. But don’t worry about the advertising.”
The conversation cheered him up enormously. Everything was going so well at the club, apart from his dismal romance, and he’d always felt, especially with the crowds growing so quickly, that the fans were being left behind, not really part of it. This felt like progress. Another building block.
Later that day, he spoke to Dean about it. He was cock-a-hoop, and straight on social media, announcing to the increasing following fan representation on the board of directors was imminent at the progressive Denham Phoenix FC. He launched a number of preaching posts across all platforms about the importance of fan representation and supporter engagement.
Ever the pragmatist, as Monday ended, he felt things had settled. Catherine Brown, after all, was never in the bag, and he realised to lift that particular trophy, he would have to raise his game, take nothing for granted and stop hopping into bed with Lucy at the first opportunity.
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Welcome to Denham nr Lewes 