SHRIMPLETONS BY NAME; SIMPLETONS BY NATURE.

Editorial Note:

Roger Fitton is the long-term Morecambe FC correspondent for Vital Football, D3D4 ­and author of his own Blog: Shrimplythebestfootball.com. He also has a PhD in International Politics for his study of American Foreign Policy; the Angolan War and the role of ideology – including racism – in it.

Dr Fitton would like to make it plain at the outset that any similarities between the fictitious Khalistan Warriors and any other real-life Sikh-owned football syndicates – as well as parallels between The Bondage Group and any actual organisation with a vaguely similar name – is strictly and entirely coincidental.

We’ve all heard of the Simpsons and Family Guy. They are American cartoon variations of well-known TV Soap Operas which, in Britain, are a staple diet for most TV viewers. But it occurred to me recently that I’ve never watched Eastenders or Emmerdale and have little interest in Coronation Street either.

But who needs to watch any Soap Opera when you are a supporter of a certain football club to be found in the north-west corner of England? Four years ago, this seaside resort’s pride and joy was a proud member of League One of the English Football League: the pinnacle of their achievement in a century-old history. Uniquely among all EFL members – they had never been relegated from any league – Lancashire Combination; Northern Premier League; Football Conference; League Two or League One itself – of which they had ever been members. But the Plot Twists and Shady Goings-On since then which have seen the club fall out of the EFL altogether and face a further relegation out of the National League as well at the moment would put even the most outlandish plot to be hatched in Albert Square or Weatherfield firmly in the shade.

I think I’ve spotted a Gap In The Market which I intend to fill.

Most people like football, don’t they? Most people like Soap Operas as well apparently.

So why not write a new series which incorporates both?

Inspired by the club’s experiences which I have been recording on-line for twenty years or so of Blogging and being the Morecambe correspondent for various internet soccer sites, here’s my pitch for a brand-new soap, with a sort-of nod to both the Simpsons and Family Guy in the title at least.

Allow me to present to you The Shrimpleton Family (subtitle:) A tale of simple footballing folk.

Here we go:

Part One of The Shrimpleton Family; a tale of simple footballing folk.

Ordinary billionaire Essex used car dealer turned drug Baron Whit Jason is looking for a foolproof way to launder the massive amounts of money he is making.

So who is this bloke?

` Whit’s’ parents must have hated him: in choosing his preposterous Christian name as a tribute to their favourite Country Music crooner, Slim Whitman, they put a target on his back.  (It’s arguably better than naming him `Slim’, I suppose – particularly now in early middle-age with his triple chin and enormous beer belly.) But why would anybody give a kid a name like that which sticks out from the Johns, Peters and Davids like a sore thumb – and is a magnet for playground bullies?

Whit Jason has undoubtedly been scarred by this choice of his lifelong moniker. Just hearing a few bars of Slim Whitman’s Rose Marie or Indian Love Call is guaranteed to bring him out in hives and he’s never been able to watch the Sound of Music because of the threat of Alpine yodelling it contains. Any sort of yodelling to rival Slim’s own is the equivalent of Superman’s Kryptonite to Whit: to this day, it has the capacity to reduce him to a human jelly.

Psychologists might deduce that trauma brought-on by these experiences has produced a kink in Whit’s personality which explains the conscienceless, ruthless criminal Mr Jason has turned into. But they’d be wrong: Whit Jason is just one of nature’s naturally really unpleasant and nasty individuals – and always has been.

He graduated from selling dodgy high-end cars – some stolen; others two wrecks welded together into a single deathtrap – to a bit of casual street dealing of cannabis. But a man like Jason was never going to be satisfied being a Foot Soldier for some Drug-selling Mastermind living a life of luxury somewhere else entirely to the mean streets of London’s East End. He wanted to be the man giving the orders; the man hustling with rival global drug-dealers – the man in charge. And soon – he was precisely that.

From his shady contacts in the car theft/insurance fraud underworld, he made inroads to the really Heavy Duty but incredibly lucrative world of Organised Crime and international drug-running syndicates. He graduated from selling dope to specialising in Opiates which he got from the infamous narcotic Golden Triangle: the three-pronged supply chain starting in the poppy fields of Afghanistan and Pakistan and processed in out-of-the way laboratories in the peasant villages of relatively nearby Punjab – places nobody would think of looking for them, least of all bent coppers in a far-flung country who could be easily bought-off.

So let’s move forward to the year 2018. `Dahn the pub’ – the legendary Bristol (short for Bristol Rovers Return) – Whit regularly meets with-up shady Indian `businessman’ “Chopper” Ranjit Singh Chopra.

(Everyone knows you don’t mess with Ranjit – if you don’t want to get precious bits of your anatomy Chopra-ed off, that is…)

“’Ere, Chopper – I got this five ‘undred fahsand sittin’ in me bleedin’ khazi and doin’ nuffink! Wocha fink I should do wiv it Chief?” asked Whit one day.

`Chopper’ had an instant response.

“Nah!” said Whit, “I know it’s in me bleedin’ khazi but I got bog roll for that, inn-eye?”

So the Sikh came up with a better suggestion: why not invest in a football club and use its financial connections to launder the money?

 “Wot – Chelsea or Arsenal or summin’?”

But “Chopper” had an even better idea: Whit should buy a club that no-one has ever heard of and launder his ill-gotten gains that way.

Brilliant! – nobody had thought of that before, had they?…

But there was a problem. How could anybody select a club that no-one else has ever heard of… if no-one else has ever heard of it?

Fair point. This conundrum troubled the pair of them for quite some time; months in fact…

Eventually, though, they stumbled across the home-town club of the small fishing community of Shrimpleton, hidden away off the north-west coast of England on Cumberside Island – that No Man’s Land outcrop of rock that lies between Merseyside to the south and Cumberland to the north somewhere in the Irish Sea. Shrimpleton Town Football Club could be found clinging to this barren, wind-swept limestone hernia in the Earth’s Crust in a Place Time Forgot.  No trains ran there anymore since Dr Beeching ordered the world’s longest iron viaduct from Crosby to be demolished in the 1960s – you must have heard of it. The much-vaunted tunnel to Barrow-in-Furness and thus eastwards to the M6 motorway had never materialised either. No such links – new or restored – were planned now or in the foreseeable future.

So for a drug-dealing criminal wanting to launder his ill-gotten gains, Cumberside Island was an even better bet than the Isle of Man, which lay less than fifty miles away to the West – and that’s really saying something, believe me. All Whit Jason needed to do this was to acquire one of the tiny island’s very few commercial enterprises. So The Shrimpies – as Town were affectionately known to the locals – was the answer to all his prayers. 

Shrimpleton Town was a family-owned club which had been happy to plough its furrow in the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League for almost the whole of the last century. It had absolutely no claims to fame; had never won any trophies of any sort and even its highest Official Home Gate – 47 for a 1912 local derby against Walney Island Nomads – was subject to doubt as it is suspected that a group of seals which were living on the nearby rocks had been included among the spectators. But was the club even for sale? And do seals even like football anyway?

Whit Jason could be very persuasive with his Cockney Wide-Boy car-selling patter when he put his mind to it. He offered the Shrimpleton family an eye-wateringly large amount of money for the club. And in return, he told whoever would listen that he intended to lead them to far better things – perhaps even as far as the Northern Counties Nonentities Premier League – in the very near future.

Well – who could resist an offer like that?

Pillars of the Establishment Lord and Lady Shrimpleton couldn’t, for a start. Sacks of cash: up-front too. And as much cocaine as they could both snort for the rest of their lives…

So a deal was struck.

The team immediately improved as soon as Whit took over. Seventh in the league in his first season. Sixth in his second – and so on until a place in the so far totally unattainable Northern Counties Mediocre Clubs Federation beckoned. Improvements at the club’s home ground – Shrimpleton Park – were implemented at the same time. The bike shed had a new corrugated iron roof fitted in Whit Jason’s first season alone. The single toilet had its door re-fitted during the second. 

Second-hand pylons from the National Grid were then exchanged with a local scrap dealer for a Beamer especially selected by Whit. These were placed at the corner of the pitch in his third season in control. (Sadly, the Scrap Dealer mysteriously died when the BMW apparently broke in two for unexplained reasons when travelling at speed on the precipitous Shrimpleton Coastal Road shortly afterwards.)  As a tribute to him, a Go Fund Me page was opened to provide the money needed to purchase the wiring; lighting gantries and – eventually – the bulbs to go in them to allow Shrimpleton Town FC to play in the Northern Counties Floodlit Wednesday League for the first time ever in as little as perhaps twenty years’ time. Oh yes – the Shrimpies were on the way up all right…

And – all the time – massive amounts of money from Mr Jason’s drug dealing were passing through the club’s books. Gate Receipts from home matches sometimes topped £300,000 – which, should any suspicious HMRC auditors investigate further – would indicate the highest entrance prices for any football club on the planet at about £30k per spectator. But the only investigation by such people was from the same accountancy company currently responsible for ticket pricing in 2026 FIFA World Cup and they naturally saw absolutely no reason for further enquiries to be made…

So the club moved at a steady – albeit rather slow – pace up the league year-on-year and further improvements – such as an ex-Cumberside Police Loud Hailer for the Match Day Announcer – were implemented. Just a month after the introduction of not just one but two brand-new Bus Shelters on the island had been front-page news in the Shrimpleton Bugle, (it was quite an event), they were stolen. Men with a low-loader and some angle grinders were responsible, local nosey-parkers reported on social media. Two months later, the Shrimpies unveiled two new dug-outs at Shrimpleton Park. It seemed a particularly thoughtful touch to have included a bus timetable Notice Board in the Away shelter, don’t you think?

“`Elps ‘em get away faster!” was Chairman Jason’s comment to the media in Essex when the story first broke and the finger of suspicion was pointed firmly in his direction.

As everything seemed to be going along swimmingly otherwise, however, Whit Jason took his eye off the ball. No – not the balls to be seen at Shrimpleton Park (the drug dealer wouldn’t be seen dead there) – but on the business side of things. He had established a number of legitimate companies and other interests with his ill-gotten drugs gains. You’ve probably heard of some of them…

Let’s take his top-selling – and very colourful photographic journal which once rated even higher than Vogue and The Field in terms of monthly sales – for instance.  He had bought this with laundered money from the very respectable owners of West Ham United Football Club – which obviously in itself gave it a cast-iron veneer of legitimacy.

And along withTied-Up Readers’ Wives’ Gazette and sister title BDSM Beauties, his chain of Adult shops: Jason’s Thongs & Things and Pimps & Gimps were still bringing-in cash in large amounts to a business portfolio which he registered – with what he considered to be phenomenal creativity – as the Bondage Group.

With High End car salesrooms: Proceeds of Crime Re-sales Inc and Write-Offs Reborn PLC being added in the fullness of time, Whit was hoping to leave a kosher business legacy to his many children – legit or otherwise – in the unforeseen future.

But All Good Things (and Bad Things for that matter) Come To An End.

Over the years, on-line pornography made Tied-Up Readers’ Wives’ Gazette and its ilk rather tame things of the past and Business Rates, internet competitors and police raids made his sex shops finally unprofitable. Yes indeedy, the Bondage Group was actually tying itself up in financial knots…

Worse still, live and pending court cases involving his car sales companies and stolen vehicles was costing Whit more money in settlements than either of them were actually bringing-in. There was also a very worrying but increasing possibility – if not certainty – of impending imprisonment for his continual flouting of the law as far as his car sales were concerned.

So a point was reached when the only business he owned which actually made a profit was Shrimpleton Town. It was proving to be the Cash Cow keeping all his other failing companies afloat.

This fact did not go un-noticed in the criminal fraternity he associated with.

One night, `dahn the Bristol’, “Chopper” – usually so parsimonious with his money – showed a previously unsuspected generosity as he plied Jason with beer and whisky chasers for an entire evening.

The alcohol loosened Jason’s tongue and he told Chopper far more about his businesses – and the problems that he was experiencing with them – than he probably should have. But from the Sikh’s point of view – and it was noticeable that he was only drinking Mineral Water all night – that was the object of the exercise.

Just a week later, Mr Chopra told Jason that he had contacts with a syndicate which had its roots in India and would be very interested in acquiring Shrimpleton Town FC – at the right price.

“Oh yeah?” said Jason “An’ oo are these geezers then, Chopper? Wot kinda moolah do they wanna put on the table, eh?”

“The leader of the syndicate is Sarbjot Singh Pahwah, a young entrepreneur…”

“Whatevver turns you on…”

“Entrepreneur, Jase – you know – businessman…”

“If ‘e wants to enter uvver people’s Preneurs – know wot I mean? – that’s all right by me Squire!”

Chopper gave his Partner in Crime a suspicious look. Was he really as stupid as he seemed? (The answer was: absolutely yes… But the Sikh carried on anyway:)

“A 20-year-old Indian entrepreneur with interests in coc…”

“Cocaine?” asked Jason, guessing – correctly – what the source of this gentleman’s apparent wealth really was.

“No!” denied Chopper, perhaps a little too quickly; “He has interests in, em… cocoa. Oh…” (thinking on his feet) “I forgot: in Cola too! Er – he actually owns a company selling Indian’s favourite brand of Cola…”

“Wossit called then?”

“Er – Pep!” (it was the first thing Chopper had thought of for probably subliminal reasons. But, warming to his task, he added: ”It is a Cola specifically developed by the Sikh community and intended originally only for Sikhs…”

“Pep-Sikh Cola?” asked Jason, “It’ll never catch on, Chief!”

“But it has caught on in India, Jase! It has even been endorsed by the EFL!”

“EFL? Wossat then?”

“Some ropey organisation up there in Preston. Slip them enough Rupees; Pounds; Roubles – even Bitcoin; they’re not fussy – and they’ll endorse anything! And – talking about Rupees – millions of them have been spent promoting young Sarbot’s lovely new drink: “Put a Pep in your step!” – all Indians know that slogan thanks to television advertising! But Sarbjot is also a huge fan of your national game!”

“Cricket? Wot is it wiv you…”

“No – the other one! And he is prepared to make a significant offer for control of your football club.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Ow significant?”

“Six million…”

“Rupees?”

“No – six million of your British Pounds!”

“’An’ ‘as he got the dosh?”

“Well – he drives a silver Bentley.”

Whit looked suddenly worried. “’As it got a tendency to veer to the right – or left – when travelling at over fifty miles an hour?”

Apparently not.

“Or over’eat on a trip of over firty miles?”

“Not as far as I know, Jase! I do not have an intimate knowledge of my cous – my business associate’s – life!”

(“Fank Gawd!” thought Mr Jason, “It ain’t one of mine then!”)

Aloud, though, he asked:

“And this Sir Jot…”

“Sarbjot” corrected Chopper.

“Right! But oo-ever he is wants to give me six Marigolds for me footie interests don’t ’e?”

Mr Chopra was confused – as well he might be.

Six flowers? Six bunches of flowers? Six pairs of rubber gloves? What the hell was this idiot talking about?

“Young Sarbjot wants to pay you six million pounds for your football club” he repeated.

“Six million smackers?” Whit Jason said this almost to himself as the possibilities of what he could do with such a fortune seemed to be in danger of overwhelming him completely.

“I’ll `ave to fink abaht it!”

So Whit Jason did think about it. His accountant – known to everybody simply as `Dirty’ Dora because, apparently, she knew where a lot of dirty money was stashed away – even by people and organisations which might surprise you – did the sums.

Her conclusion was that six million quid still left a huge hole in Bondage Group’s coffers. They clearly needed at least twelve just to make ends meet…

“Just to make ends meet!” repeated Dirty Dora, laughing and pointing at one of one of Whit’s `periodicals’, which lay open on a desk across the room. “You naughty boy!”

I think it might be advisable to wrap-up the first episode here in case you’re reading this before the nine o’clock Watershed: what happened next is definitely X- Rated.

Would Jason sell his cash cow to the persistent `Sir’ Jot – or even Mr Chopra? Did Dirty Dora the Accountant succeed in making ends meet? Do seals dislike football because their goalkeepers always flap at crosses? These and other key questions will be answered in the next thrilling instalment of The Shrimpleton Family; a tale of simple footballing folk.

Part Two of The Shrimpleton Family; a tale of simple footballing folk.

Last time, we left drug-dealing BDSM pornographer Whit Jason (and his phobia of yodelling) in the clutches of his Bondage Group accountant,`Dirty’ Dora. They were considering (among other things) whether or not Whit should accept a generous offer from shady Sikh `businessman’  “Chopper” Ranjit Singh Chopra of six million pounds on behalf of what might just have been a relation of his, the young Indian entrepreneur known as Sir Jot to Jason – but `Sarbjot’ to the rest of humanity. The six million quid would transfer the ownership of the star Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League football club on the small islet of Cumberside in the Irish Sea from Mr Jason to the `fizzy pop magnate’ as one respected British newspaper described the up-and-coming Indian billionaire.

This club is known as `The Shrimpies’: Shrimpleton Town.

Read on and all will be revealed as we unravel the second thrilling instalment of

The Shrimpleton Family; a tale of simple footballing folk…

“I wanna fourteen million bung to part viv the Shrimpers Chopper!” Whit Jason told his turban-wearing companion next time they met `dahn the Bristol’ (known to Soap fans down the years as the shortened form of the Bristol Rovers Return).

“Aren’t the Shrimpers Southend United, Jase?”

“Wot? Oh – I mean the Shrimps!”

“You own Morecambe Football Club?”

“Nah! You know: Shrimpleton Tahn, wotevver their bleedin’ nickname is! I’ve invested a chuffin’ fortune in furver improvements to the shi – stadium!”

Chopper looked sceptical – as well he might.

“Such as what?” he asked.

Chairman Jason explained that the single toilet which we noted in the previous episode had its door re-fitted also had the sign `Uni-Sex’ added. Yes, explained Whit, he was very proud that his Shrimpleton Town were Ahead of the Curve in that regard. He produced a copy of the club’s match-day Programme, The Shrimpie (sadly, due to a printing error, it actually said The Shrim Pie, which had brought famous gastronomes from as far away as New York to the ground searching for this Northern Counties Delicacy – only for them to be disappointed.)

“Listen!” he instructed, pointing at part of an article in it and reading at the speed of an average five-year-old:

““There will be no gender stereotyping at Shrimpleton Park as now both sexes can experience the total lack of toilet rolls and the broken sink on an equal footing.”

That’s wot I calls equality in action! I fully support Women’s rights to cast off their shackles all over the world.”

Chopper looked even more doubtful.

“Er – except in your exclusive, top-quality magazines, presumably!”

The irony was completely wasted on Whit. He wanted to talk hard cash instead:

“Tell your Boy Wonder I want fourteen mil nicker for the club and not a penny less – I‘m diggin’ me `eels in!”

“Regretfully, Young Sarbjot has had to drop out of the bidding“ said Chopper.

“Cash-flow problems?”

“No – Kashmir-flow problems: the River Indus has broken its banks and flooded millions of Rupees of Sarbjot’s very valuable properties in said region.”

Whit seemed unsympathetic:

“Tell ‘im the price is still fourteen million smackers – an’ I’m not negotiatin’!”

“Fourteen million pounds is a lot of money Whit. What would you say if I offered you ten?”

Whit Jason thought about this for perhaps two or even three seconds.

“I’d say: split the difference?”

So Jason got his twelve million. That is to say, he agreed to sell Shrimpleton Town FC for twelve million pounds. But on the very day agreed for the sale to go through, he failed to sign the contract he had agreed with the Sikh syndicate. Reassuring messages from him appeared on the club’s website regularly after that but then a series of self-imposed deadlines for completion were also missed. The local media in Cumberside and then in Essex started asking unanswered questions before, finally, the national media became interested. But Whit Jason seemed to have gone to ground.

In reality, he was cooped-up in a poky bedsit somewhere near Dalston Junction with Dirty Dora. They had looked at the books – the financial books – again and discovered that things were actually much worse at his Bondage Group than they had previously realised. Jason actually did need fourteen million pounds just to clear its debts. And he made this reality known – surreptitiously – to the potential buyers.

But the potential buyers weren’t taking all this lying down.

Ranjit Singh Chopra gathered around him his most trusted acolytes in his syndicate. Together, they gave their organisation a name: Khalistan Warriors. Initially, they favoured the more alliterative Khalistan Killers as a suitable title but decided that gave too aggressive an impression to the general public in the UK at least.

Readers of the Daily Mail might take it at face value, after all…

Chopper appointed himself Chairman but other people close to him were given prominent roles within his organisation. Acutely aware that a tendency which he had tried – and failed – to knock out of himself to insert the term `isn’t it?’ randomly into English sentences (I’ve edited them out of the narrative so far) made him unsuitable for the job; Mr Chopra appointed someone who was.

”I’m both deeply flattered and profoundly humbled to be offered the post of Director of Communications for Khalistan Warriors” said the man chosen for the task. “I solemnly promise to uphold the highest standards of honesty, transparency, integrity and probity in this most key role as the interlocutor between the Warriors and Shrimpie fans, wherever they can be found in the world. I will continue in the role as long as I am needed. Once Khalistan Warriors takes control of Shrimpleton Town Football Club, I will be honoured to appear front and centre at all press conferences and events to publicise our new club – and do whatever else is required because I have the qualifications; the experience; the skill; the determination; the understanding and – above all – I live closest to the ground.”

(You may have seen some photographs of this man yourself once his organisation finally did take control of the Shrimpies. It’s him standing with former Chairman Lord Shrimpleton with the club scarf held aloft – and a catering truck advertising a new delicacy – Pukka Shrim Pies­- just visible in the background. But we get ahead of ourselves.)

On the day he was first appointed as Spokesperson for Khalistan Warriors, the Director of Communications continued:

“I furthermore wish to make it clear that if any UK government body suspects any impropriety or – god forbid – shady links between the esteemed Khalistan Warriors and, say, terrorist groupings in the Punjab, I will gladly relinquish all ties to the group and welcome the opprobrium of my peers, understanding from the outset that the Warriors will instantly disown me for the greater good of Khalistan!”

(“Khalistan!” yelled all the other members of the Warriors at this point, pointing their clenched fists and non-existent AK-47s at the ceiling when this speech was first run past them.)

I would like to reiterate what I have just written: there are absolutely no links whatsoever between the Khalistan Warriors and Sikh nationalism and not one of them has ever heard of Andrei Kalashnikov, let alone knows what an AK-47 actually is, never mind actually having owned one. Or two. Or even a hundred. Or any grenades or rocket launchers either.

Are we clear about that? Good – let’s continue then…

Sadly, though, the Director of Communications’ public utterances and pleas to Whit Jason to come out of hiding and do the decent thing fell on deaf ears. As did Questions in Parliament and an Open Letter to him written by the Labour MP for Shrimpleton (famous at the House of Commons for never having any holes in her arguments despite a tendency to be easily distracted) the aptly-named Dizzy Collander.

Everything seemed to go quiet. At the football club, staff and players remained unpaid for literally months on end. It started to seem that Shrimpleton Town would not be able to start the new season in the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League on time. Books in the style of Where’s Wally? started to appear and sell in huge numbers. These were called Where’s Whitty? and had a unique twist: search as you might among the crowd scenes in the pictures of football crowds; densely populated townscapes; packed beaches or wherever, `Whitty’ – unlike Wally – actually couldn’t be found… because he was never there.

Khalistan Warriors were not very happy about this. And to repeat what we said at the outset, it was best not to mess with Indian `businessman’ “Chopper” Ranjit Singh Chopra – if you didn’t want to get precious bits of your anatomy Chopra-ed off, that is…

 Or have something else even more shocking happen to you…

Their Director of Communications lived-up to his title – and to the reputation that was soon to dog him once the Warriors acquired the club on the craggy outcrop somewhere in the Irish Sea.

He communicated with some `friends’ he had in India. Some very special `friends’: people who knew how to shadow enemies of Khalistan liberation; find out where they lived; what their regular movements around the locality where they could be found were; even the sort of car they drove. And – having done so, how to wire certain types of electronic devices under these vehicles – and how to activate them either using timers or real-time radio signals…

Staking-out Jason’s shops and car dealerships soon paid dividends. Professional snoopers were quickly able to follow Whit back to his flat at Dalston Junction. And then tail him as he carried on his nefarious business deals; creeping about between his car showrooms and remaining sex shops at dead of night. He always used the one High End car which he owned that hadn’t been stolen or welded back together. One fateful night, Dirty Dora and he had loaded several large boxes of battery-driven `adult sex toys’ into the back of his Jaguar XF Sportbrake Estate car, having met a trawler from Holland in a small dock on the Kent coast. Neither Dora nor he had any idea that they had been followed there. They were both totally oblivious to the fact that the people who had shadowed them had attached a remotely-operated radio device to the underside of Jason’s car. Nor did Whit know that four wires led from this device into the interior: two to the engine compartment – where they were attached to the Jaguar’s battery – and two to another device strategically placed on the floor right behind the driver’s seat.

Whit Jason had planned a circuitous route back to the big city and Dalston which initially involved a number of steep hills near the edge of the famous Chalk Cliffs. Perfect locations for a quick `knee-tremble’ with Dora. But also ideal places for an ambush – or an unfortunate `accident’.

Jason drove quickly as was his habit. Corners? Other road users? Who cared about them? – he was driving a Jag! If he actually had his eyes on the road, he might have noticed – in the moonlight which was glinting off the sea as Beachy Head lay somewhere in the distance – another car parked on even higher ground over to the north. Standing next to it were two shadowy figures. One was watching the Jaguar through a pair of Night Vision binoculars. The other was holding a radio control unit with an extended aerial of the sort you might use to steer a model aeroplane or a drone. As Jason’s car reached the peak of a steep hill with a sharp corner at the bottom of it, the figure with the binoculars raised one hand. In response, the other figure pushed a red button on the remote control unit.

Inside the big car, the result was not instantaneous. First, there was a distinct whirring sound as something behind the driver’s seat activated.

“What’s that noise?” said Dora, suddenly sensing – for whatever reason – that something was not quite right.

“One of them bleedin’ vibrators ‘as just turned itself on. That’s wot they is supposed to do, innit darlin’? And you should know! Ha ha ha! Nuffink to worry your pretty `ead abaht!”

But it was something for Dora to worry her pretty head about. A split-second later, the deadly device so carefully positioned in the place where it would do maximum damage – already activated – actually deployed. But it didn’t cause a huge explosion or anything as crude as that. No – what this thing was about to do was far more subtle – and devilish…

The device was an old-fashioned CD Player. And it was loaded: the opening track of what would originally have been Side One of a classic album, strategically paused just before the chorus.

So – at about a billion decibels – the unmistakable tones of an American Country & Western crooner rent the silence within the car with these unforgettable words, yodelled to a pedal steel guitar in the background:

“Oh Rose Marie, I love you… I’m always dreaming of…”

Jason screamed and, letting go of the steering wheel of the speeding car, put his hands over his ears. The Jaguar, no longer being piloted, hit a small fence at the sharp turn at the bottom of the hill, smashed through it, turned onto its side and – in a shower of sparks as twisted metal loudly screeched its unhappiness with what was happening – shot over the edge of the chalk cliff alongside the road and headed, nose-first, down and ever down towards rocks and oblivion for poor old Dora and Whit a hundred or so feet below.

But – as luck would have it – Whit had actually signed the contract which had transferred ownership of Shrimpleton Town AFC to the Khalistan Warriors just before the unfortunate accident which was to prove to be his untimely demise.

As Detective Inspector of the Kent Constabulary – Beachy Head Suicide and White Cliff Accident Specialist `Chalky’ White (Call Sign: “Britain is Chalky White!”) – later told the media after the Jaguar and its sorry contents had finally been recovered:

“It’s almost as if someone had placed it there ‘cos it’s the first thing what we saw – yes, despite its bright yellow waterproof henvelope – when we hexamined the car’s hinterior. The signature of the deceased is not very distinct but our forensic experts hexplain what that’s probably due to hingress of sea water into its sealed, waterproof cover. In other words, there’s nothing even remotely fishy about this incident – apart from the sea water, hobviously – and the tragic deaths of Mr Jason and Ms Dirty are obviously hentirely due to a road traffic haccident and completely unconnected to an helectronic remote control device what we discovered attached to the car’s battery. The police would also like to quash rumours flooding the hinter-net what there is any connection between this regrettable hincident and a 1960’s Country & Western Star. We can refute hentirely the popular story currently doing the rounds headed The Phantom Yodeller Strikes Again. There is no evidence what-so-hevver to link Slim Whitman – who me and the boys like to listen to on our regular KKK evenings down the nick – and this most hunfortunate hoccurence. The case is closed.”

The Khalistan Warriors wasted no time setting up their new regime at Shrimpleton Town after this. They made a big fuss about settling the club’s debts and paying the staff. Good for them. But there was almost immediately fewer staff to pay. Because the Warriors also wasted no time in summarily dismissing the team’s long-serving and popular Manager, despite the fact that he had single-handedly held things together – unpaid – as the crisis involving Whit Jason’s failure to sell deepened over many weeks and then months. The Commercial Manager soon followed suit, closely pursued by the General Manager; the Senior Safeguarding Manager; the Finance Manager; the Academy Manager and the club’s HR Consultant. Even the Head Chef got the boot and the rumours are that it was because he insisted “I don’t care if it could become a so-called `Unique Selling Proposition’! – there is no such thing as a Shrim Pie!” when the new owners presented him with a large tin of Pedigree Chum; a few boiled potatoes with the occasional pea and piece of cooked carrot, diced onion, Punjabi Special Vindaloo Curry Powder and some pastry cases.

But their key appointment – which they told everyone from the Washington Post to Delhi’s Indian Times about – was the team’s new Manager. This appointee was not only the sole Sikh and youngest Coach to be found in charge of any football club known to exist in Western Europe, he marked a complete departure from the expected norm. For seven and a half year old Amandeep Singh had never played football in his life. His experience of competitive soccer began and ended with the FIFA 11 game produced by EA Sports. When asked in an early interview who his favourite football team was he replied “Cincinnati Bengals” – who, for those of us (like me) who know nothing of these things – play American Football in the NFL.

So the Warriors decided, in their collective wisdom, that naive youngster Amandeep needed a chaperone. The little chap could be shielded from difficult or trick questions by hard-nosed journalists by only having to answer pre-scripted , totally bland trivialities asked by his sixteen-year-old sister, Simran. This proved an immediate success. Even people with absolutely no interest in football would avidly watch their video conferences. Simran’s Bollywood-style allure and exotic good looks made whatever she asked or her little brother answered totally irrelevant: as long as the camera kept on rolling and she smiled or pouted (the lens was never pointed even once towards her younger sibling throughout these `interviews’) almost everybody was happy.

Except the fans. They wanted to know why Shrimpleton Town kept on losing and were becoming stranded at the bottom of the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League.

But – in the sudden absence of a Director of Communications – who could possibly engage with them? Answer: the Chairman’s brother, who was quickly seconded from his work with the Punjabi Popular Front in Rawalpindi to take-up his new post.

”I’m both deeply flattered and profoundly humbled to be offered the post of Director of Communications for Khalistan Warriors” he announced as soon as he was appointed. “I solemnly promise to uphold the highest standards of honesty, transparency, probity and integrity in this most key role as the interlocutor between the Warriors and Shrimpie fans, wherever they can be found in the world. This includes a pledge never to plagiarise the words of Directors of Communications who have held this post previously.”

“In this, my very first bulletin as the new Director (of Communications – not the club; let’s get that very straight in case I suddenly have to resign in the future), I would first of all like to wish Shrimpie fans everywhere – and indeed everyone – a very happy and peaceful Christmas, Diwali, Hanukkah or simple Yuletide.“

“I swear to you, here and now, the following, on behalf of my brother and the rest of the owners:”

“Khalistan Warriors’ commitment to this club is long-term, and we continue to fund operations while we implement many changes. We are putting in structure where there was none, adding expertise where it is missing, and setting the foundations for a sustainable, ambitious future.”

“We are not asking for blind trust. We are asking you to hold us to the commitments we are setting out today.”

“You will see us more.
You will hear from us more.
And you will see improvements quickly.”

“We will be sitting down with the Shrimpies Trust podcast as an ownership group, and we will engage directly with all the fans – Jim; Billy; Edna; Roy; Big Pete; Dicky; Psycho; Barbara; Little Peter and Zorba the Labrador – at the Forum in January. This is your club, and you deserve clarity, honesty and a plan you can believe in.”

“We are taking control of this situation and driving Shrimpleton Town FC forward. Thank you for your passion, your loyalty, and your belief in this club.”

“Together, we move forward, always stranger – sorry – stronger!”

“Cynics and unscrupulous rivals doubt the Khalistan Warriors’ vision for our club as outlined above. They say the syndicate should stick to things they know something about – like cricket… or international arms dealing. That the beacon of Sikh excellence they want to show to the world has already turned into a Damp Squib; a failure. That the Manager they have chosen is not only completely out of his depth – making Shrimpleton Town a laughing stock right across Britain and much further afield – but the worst appointment any footballing Board has made at any club in living memory.”

“But pay no heed to these dark voices of despair.”

“Under the dynamic leadership of the fearless and ground-breaking Khalistan Warriors, Shrimpleton Town has achieved precisely the position in the Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League where it naturally should be:

On the Rocks.

Sat Sri Akal: Truth is Eternal.”

So there you have it: an outline of how my prospective Soap Opera – The Shrimpleton Family; a tale of simple footballing folk – might play-out.

Do you think that its perfect mixture of football and intrigue has potential?

Or do you consider the whole idea to be too outlandish and frankly silly to be even vaguely believable?

I leave you to make up your own mind.