You know how I had a month’s contract at a school and part of that contract involved taking sixteen, eleven year old, rabid boys to an interschool football match every Friday, right?
Remember how I was justifiably freaking out about it?
Well I thought I’d use my nous and employ one of the dads who I’d seen coming along to support the team. This particular dad was helping the teacher with drills and stuff so, being the opportunistic lush that I am, I used my radar skills and honed straight in on the unsuspecting victim's son.
“So, will your lovely dad be coming to every match?” I needled Horatio, the son of the man in question the next week.
“Yep,” Horatio piped back, his head cocked winsomely to one side.
“What’s your Dad’s name?” I wheedled. “I’m thinking of getting him a thank you present, you know, like some beers, for all the work he’s been doing.”
“Mr Stiffy,” Horatio replied. “That’s his name.”
I gulped. “Mr Stiiffy? Did you say Mr St-i-ff-y?”
“Yep, and he likes Lowennbrau.” Little Horatio responded without missing a beat.
Anyway, despite the name, I still hoped Mr Stiffy would turn up to each of the four football games this fool of a woman was left in charge of and the six pack of Lowenbrau would be totally worth the financial outlay.
The first week, Mr Stiffy turned up and coached the team and was bloody awesome… but the second week he was a no show... which was monumentally disappointing and I failed as a footy coach and we lost the damn game.
The third week, the match was cancelled due to inclement weather and by the fourth and final week I began to doubt the value of my promised investment.
“Dad’s coming tomorrow! Don’t forget the Lowenbrau!” shouted Horatio on the Thursday of week four.
So I bought the bloody Lownbrau and made the boys make a card of gratitude (from themselves).
God forbid Mr Stiffy would think I was trying to crack on to him or something. I mean to say, he’d only actually helped me with one fudging game when you think about it. Why was I even giving him a fudging present?
And then I had to check his name was really what it was
“How do you spell Stiffy?” I asked the team captain as I did the bubble writing on the card.
“S-T-Y-F-F-E-Y,” the captain pronounced carefully.
I suppose that’s a bit of an improvement on STIFFY, I thought despondently.
Whatever.
Anyway after the presentation of the Lowenbrau (when I sort of coughed as I said his name), Mr Styffey was super keen to put extra effort into his coaching in that last game and our team won the match and now they're in the finals.
My work is done.
Again.
I’m a fudging footy legend.
What's the worst name you've had to deal with?
