What really happened to John Terry

This guest post by Davey J is a work of fiction.   It is here to entertain and because Dave bugged me for ages to let him write something for FI.

INTERNAL: Casa del Terry

A cabal of a dozen or so highly paid PR advisors jostle and strut around a cavernous room containing two snooker tables, a 200 inch projection TV, fake stuffed black bear and a huge, circular Chelsea FC rug in the middle. It is lit by a huge, crystal chandelier.  The room is basking in the afterglow of achievement.  In the middle stands a small man in a sharp suit, one arm holding a mobile phone to his ear, the mobile in his other hand on hold.  He listens passively, with a small, knowing smirk on his waxy features.  Suddenly the cabal freezes, heads turn to the door fifty feet away that has flung open.

John Terry enters his games room.

Footsteps resonate in quick time as he strides to the centre of the room.

Waxy – Yep, yep, gotta go. Laters.

Presses something on the held phone and holds it up to his other ear.

Waxy – Yep, yep, gotta go. Laters.

Terry comes to a halt before the gaggle and stares straight at Waxy.

Terry – So fellas… you got something?

Waxy’s smirk becomes a grin.

Terry – You got something!

Waxy holds his right arm above his shoulder and instantly a sheet of paper is thrust into it.

Waxy – We got something.

Terry reaches forward and seizes the paper before Waxy can offer it.  His grin doesn’t change.

Waxy – It’s a turkey shoot JT, all you have to do is commit those two paragraphs to memory and when the time comes, give them to Fab Cap, both barrels.  We’ve distilled the essence of every pro-you argument, discredited every anti argument into what you have in your hands.  We’ve had Team Terry on every talkshow, called in every favour with the press, talked up the footballing issue, talked down the moral issue.  With what you are going to say to Capello, I think we’re home and dry.

Waxy’s grin grows, his lips part to show a full set of sharp teeth.

Terry – This is… wait what’s this word?

Waxy tilts his head to JT’s perspective.

Waxy – That says “regret”.

Terry – Ahh.  And this one?

Waxy – “Sincere”.  So JT, let’s talk delivery.  How you give this to Capello is important.  You gotta show him who the top dog is, don’t let him dictate.  Before you go in, take a deep breath, shoulders back, stride confidently into the office.  Look him in the eye and before he has a chance to offer you a seat, you deliver that statement to him and let him know who’s in charge.

A small ripple of amused approval bubbles through the assembled.

Waxy -  I almost feel sorry for him.

The smile brilliant, the eyes betraying pleasure in another’s future misfortune.

Terry – Okay, so all I have to do is learn these two paragraphs, walk in there and I’m home free?

Waxy – Home free, captain of the World Cup winners.

INTERNAL:  The reception at Wembley Stadium offices.  20 minutes later.

The receptionist, Ellie sits bolt upright, focused on her computer monitor where the conversion of badly scrawled notes is appearing.  John Terry walks to her desk.

Ellie – Yes sir, how may I help you?

Terry – I’m hear to see Fabio, what do you think?

A raised eyebrow.

Ellie – Name?

Terry – I… John Terry.

Ellie – Of course Mister Terry.  Please take a seat, Mister Capello will see you shortly.

As Terry sits down he removes a crumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket and stares intently at it.

Ten minutes pass, Terry, focusing on his piece of paper barely notices.

Ellie – Mister Terry?  Mister Capello is ready to see you now.  Please go right in.

Terry, rising slowly takes one last look at his piece of paper before stuffing it back in his pocket.  He walks up to the door marked “Fabio Capello – England Manager”, takes a deep breath, turns the handle and enters.

Fabio Capello sits behind a small, white desk, empty except for a black telephone.  He is bolt upright, one hand palm down on the desk, the other beneath the desk.  His face holds no expression.

Terry, shoulders back, standing tall in the middle of the room exhales slowly and begins.

Terry – Fabio, I won’t sit down if that’s okay, I have something to…

The only chair in the room is being used by Fabio Capello.  The telephone is unplugged.

Terry – I…

He senses something is wrong but can’t quite tell what it is.  Capello remains motionless.  Flustered, Terry thrusts his hand into his pocket and withdraws the piece of paper.

Terry – “F- F- Fabio.  By now you have witnessed the terrible assassination of my charact-”

Capello raises his hand.

Capello – You must say nothing more John Terry.  Please, do exactly what I say.  Turn round.

Terry looks confused as he turns round, his back now to Capello.  He now realises what is wrong; the room is completely empty.  No file cabinets, no computer, no pictures on the wall.  No windows.  The only furnishing in the room is a large, transparent plastic sheet layed out over the cheap grey carpet.  He is standing exactly in the middle of it.

Terry – What… what’s going o-

Capello – Shh, John Terry.  Kneel.

He kneels.  Terry hears the sound of a chair being pushed back against cheap carpet.  Footsteps approach with a soft crumpling noise.  His heart is in his ears now.  Shoulders trembling, scared to look up or turn round.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees a pair of Italian loafers appear.

The noise was of the plastic bags that cover the loafers.

Terry – Oh no.  Please, no-

Something hard and cold presses against the side of his head.  He shuts his eyes and moans softly.

Capello – Arrivederci, John Terry.

The former England captain slumps onto the plastic sheet, one hand still grasping a crumpled piece of paper.

Capello – Ellie, get me Rio Ferdinand.  And send a basket of fruit to Mrs. Terry.

Tagged as: Add new tag, England, Fabio Capello, John Terry