The Roar is the new home of sports pulp fiction. Mill Pharlowe and Miss Danno are back in their final fast paced adventure.
High up in the Austrian Tyrol the air was thin but in the grand hall of Castle Janko the air was noticeably thicker.
“This is preposterous, you have enticed me here on false pretenses! I was supposed to be chairing a meeting of the Spanish football appreciation society.” As Craig Foster slammed his glass of schnapps on the table I reflected on how well Miss Danno had performed her task.
Using a variety of ruses Miss Danno had managed to entice six high-powered football personalities to this castle in a far-flung part of Austria. All these personalities shared a common trait – they were suspects in the greatest crime in A-League history, the theft of the Sydney FC bling.
“Well Fozzie, “ I began, “sorry to spoil your Spanish love-fest but your motive to steal the bling is obvious even to me.”
“Listen here Mill Pharlowe, I would love to use the bling to bring Iniesta to the A-League but would it really work? No, it would be like spreading vegemite on your tapas, it would be like dipping a chiko roll in tiki-taka sauce. Sorry, but we are not worthy.”
Foz was as sharp as one of the icicles in Janko’s cellar but he was no longer a person of interest. Perhaps the suspect was not even a person.
I turned to the wombat. “Where were you on the night of the fifth?” Nutmeg awoke with a start and scratched at a flea that was crawling across his ample gut. He had obviously been drinking heavily.
“I was at the Bourbon and Beefsteak. That’s where I’ve been every night since the Asian cup ended. It’s fine for Santo, Sam and Ed to ride on my coat-tails to fame but look at me! I’m just a washed up old furball. I wish I had the bling, I would pawn it for booze” He let out a large belch and began to sob.
“Nutmeg, you need help.”
I called out my next suspect. “Jack Warner”
“You lied to me!” Warner shouted accusingly. I was told we were here to vote on hosting rights for the 2003 word cup.”
“But it’s 2015 Jack.”
Jack fired up, “I am a dedicated servant of FIFA. I don’t ask questions – just like all bid teams are instructed to”
“So Jack,” I pondered aloud, “What great sporting talent have Aussie taxpayers helped unearth?”
“Well, there’s Michael Holding, Viv Richards, Malcolm Marshall for starters.”
“They’re cricketers Jack”
“Derrr – this is the West Indies man. We’re not interested in football yet they still made me FIFA vice-president. Go figure.”
“What about this stadium grant?” I continued. “It was meant to provide the ‘richest football viewing experience in the Caribbean’ but it appears all the money was spent on your private residence.”
“Have you ever watched a football game at my place? It’s a bloody rich experience if you ask me. Look Pharlowe, with all the FIFA work I don’t have room for any more bling. Why don’t you ask that big Austrian bloke.”
Marc Janko had been led to believe that he was hosting a meeting of the football intelligentsia. He had smelt a rat when Nutmeg arrived but knew something was seriously amiss wrong when Warner turned up. Under questioning he admitted to asking for the bling as part of his new contract. Finally he cracked and told me to “ask the short Italian bloke in the fancy suit who thinks he’s here to sign a contract in the Trinidad and Tobago premier league.”
“So Ale, now can you show us where the Sydney FC bling is?” I asked in near triumph.
“I would love to show you,” said Alessandro Del Piero, “but I sold it to that ageing Russian billionaire over there”.
The man he pointed to was Oleg Arcky. “Liars!” he screamed, “I was here to bid for Real Madrid but now I am stuck with this boring EPL team.” He ran to the balcony and jumped. By an incredible stroke of luck a mattress delivery van had momentarily parked under the balcony.
Miss Danno and I ran downstairs and jumped in the nearest cab. “Follow that Mr Snooze van!” I screamed. As the driver turned round, my jaw dropped.
“Miss Danno,” I confided “there’s either something weird in Janko’s schnapps or is that cab driver really who I think he is?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” the driver muttered, “one day you can be on top of the world and next day end up driving cabs in the Austrian Tyrol. Now the usual charges are 45 euros, but for you Australians it will be ten times that.”
“NO MORE DEALS SEPP!” we shouted in unison and with that the soon to be ex-FIFA president slowly pulled out from the curb.
We caught up with Oleg’s van at the railway station. Sprinting towards the platform we managed to jump on the train just as it was pulling out.
Oleg spied us and raced through the carriages and climbed out onto the roof. Ducking tunnels we engaged in the deadly embrace of hand-to-hand combat. Oleg was surprisingly strong.
Gripping his throat I shouted “you are pretty handy for an ageing Russian Billionaire.”
Flipping me onto my back he answered, “I have attended the new Russian school of physical management. Vlad Putin himself was the instructor.”
I was about to lay my dukes across his kisser when Miss Danno climbed onto the roof of the train and caught Oleg’s eye. A look of recognition passed between them.
“You” he shouted.
“Yes, it’s me” Miss Danno answered back. She opened her jacket to reveal the nicest set of bling you had ever seen. The Sydney FC bling.
“She said she loved me,” Oleg protested, “but she was just using me just to get the bling. Why don’t you book her Pharlowe.”
I was temporarily off guard. Oleg took the opportunity to put a Putin style ice hockey hit on me. We both tumbled off the carriage. I managed to catch Miss Danno’s outstretched had. Oleg was not so lucky.
“But why did you do it Miss Danno.”
“I did it for love.”
“Love… for me?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes Mill. I love you and I know how much you love Sydney FC. They are so much better without the bling. I didn’t want Sydney FC to ever have the bling again, so I kept it for myself.”
“You did it for love? Careful Miss Danno it’s controlling you.”
“It doesn’t have any power over me.” Addressing the bling she added in an unnatural voice, “Do you my precious?”
“Destroy it before it destroys you Miss Danno,” I pleaded.
“How can I?”
“Oh, you know,” I said, “you go to one of these mountains and throw it into the fire where it was created, you know the drill.” I was struggling to hold on now.
As the train passed a bridge over the Danube I lost my grip on Miss Danno. The last thing I saw was her heart-shaped face… and the Sydney FC bling twinkling in the moonlight.
70s Mo is a contributing author to the recently released book “Ryde Goes to War 1914-1918” published by the Ryde District Historical Society
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