verily, verily, life is but a dream

ISSUE ONE -- NIGEL #3 1 DOWNLOAD LATEST ISSUE >

Verily, Verily, Life Is But A

Dream

The water lapped quietly up against

the side of The Serenity as it

chugged along. The sun was going

down well beyond the port side bank

of the Danube. Hues of pink, grey,

orange and yellow mixed wonder-

fully but the shore was beginning to

be swallowed up in the twilight, with

the twinkling streetlights beginning

to compete with the darkening sil-

houettes of structures along the

shoreline for the eye’s attention.

With evening upon him, Nigel re-

tired to the comfort of the bar. It was

mostly empty, which suited him per-

fectly. He touched his right cheek

gingerly. The swelling around that

eye and in the jaw had gone down

considerably, and the only remaining

sign of Otto’s massive fist was a lit-

tle yellowing around the orbital

Illustration: CHRISTOPHER LEE >

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bone. Thankfully it was washed out

in the soft lighting of the lounge.

The staff were chatting quietly be-

tween themselves, while playing a

card game that was foreign to Nigel.

Lively music drifted down from the

deck above where there was some

sort of knees-up ongoing. It was a

proper posh do, too. He’d overheard

some of the passengers discussing

the grand celebration of a recent vic-

tory, something about the European

Cup. Some Magyar side had appar-

ently won it for the tenth time. He

frowned. Now, as when the group of

revellers had first surrounded him up

on deck, tooting their ridiculously

nasal party favours, he’d felt some-

thing wrong in that.

Yet he was reluctant to mingle with

the party-goers to put his finger on

just what troubled him. They were

exactly the type he couldn’t stand,

Hooray Henries, born with silver

spoons shoved so far down their piti-

ful throats they couldn’t speak a

word of sense. He was all for a life

of luxury, but it had to be earned, had

to be grafted for. This lot were as

nasty a display of Nepotism as any-

thing Albion had ever put out.

Spend time with that lot? No, thank

you. He’d learn more from some

silent time alone with Wiki.

Settling into a large, cushioned arm-

chair, he ordered a glass of Padraig’s

Irish Malt and set up his laptop on a

coffee table. Over his shoulder was

a large, round porthole, opened to

offer a bit of a cool breeze, although

it also brought the faint sounds of the

still raucous celebration.

Looking out one last time before get-

ting down to business, he could see

the ruins of a once great castle float-

ing by on the crest of a hill. He

smiled ruefully. What would Arthur

have thought of the evolution of his

Camelot?

As he mulled over what had become

of the world during his absence, he

returned to browsing the Internet to

continue his re-education. So much

had changed in what, to him, was

such a short time. Improved, accord-

ing to many, but he was yet to be

convinced.

This war between East and West was

a peculiar matter indeed. The two

ends of the world had always had


VERILY, VERILY, LIFE IS BUT A DREAM


their differing philosophies, yet ge-

ography had usually kept people

from each other’s throats.

No longer, it seemed. Still, Otto had

told him, before their little donny-

brook, that this Cold War had been

ended with the collapse of the Berlin

Wall. Shouldn’t it all have blown

over, then?

Well, the Europeans had gone all

lovey-dovey with the advent of this

bleedin’ European Union, but the ill

feeling had not been contained to

one continent. The murder of some

fellow named Bin Laden by the

Yanks had recently stoked things up

again. Reminded him of Khartoum.

Still, he was more interested in the

local history and pulled up a file on

Hungary’s role in the Second War.

Engrossed in his studies, he almost

didn’t notice the newcomer. It was

the sound of a steel-tipped cane on

the wooden deck planks which

alerted him to a presence. He

glanced up and saw a silhouette ap-

proaching slowly from the other end

of the bar. As the shadowy figure

neared the light brought into focus a

hunched over old man with an in-

credibly bushy white moustache, a

feature that completely obscured not

only his lips but the best part of his

chin, too. His eyebrows were

equally unkempt; they sprouted from

his skin at all angles but were curi-

ously coloured in neat stripes of

white, grey and black.

The old man slowed as he neared

Nigel, who had returned his focus to

the monitor in front of him, hoping

the interloper would continue on

past. Instead, the character stopped,

then addressed the disinterested god

with a shake of the head and a mum-

bled, muffled word.

Not wanting to be interrupted by one

of the silver-spooners and hoping

this fellow might take a hint, Nigel

bent himself further over his laptop

and feigned concentration, accompa-

nied by a few token clicks.

Unperturbed, the man crumpled into

the seat opposite, exhaling loudly.

Nigel gave in and looked up to see

the man adjusting his hat – a wide-

brimmed, patched-up black cloth

specimen, of a type he’d never seen

before. What he could see of the

man’s face was more weather-beaten

than wrinkled, and Nigel estimated




he still had a few years before his

wick was at its end. Protruding from

his impressive whiskers came an

unlit clay pipe, and as this was re-

moved and placed into a breast

pocket of his long, beige overcoat,

Nigel caught a glimpse of three yel-

low, crooked teeth.

With the pipe stored away, the man

repeated his greeting, more clearly

this time. Not being a native, Nigel

didn’t understand its literal meaning

but assumed ‘hello’ would be an ad-

equate response.

“Ah. English. Long way from

home, my friend.”

Nigel wasn’t in the mood for friends;

pest was a better word for his un-

wanted companion. He was still suf-

fering from the lingering effects of

the massive headache Otto had

gifted him. This getaway was sup-

posed to be a calming experience, a

bit of quiet time to sort out his

thoughts and nurse his bruises before

getting on with business. He was not

here to be badgered. Perhaps the fel-

low would get the hint if Nigel gave

him the monosyllabic treatment.

“Yes.”

“Holidaying, perhaps?”

Nigel decided the boat was ill-

named; he was apparently not going

to get much peace on this trip. He

grunted in the affirmative then

turned his attentions back to his

computer, hoping to kill the conver-

sation without having to be too im-

polite.

“Like Dreher?”

He nodded towards the glass of

Padraig’s finest and then did a dou-

ble-take. It was empty. He hadn’t

remembered finishing it.

Well, if he wasn’t going to be left in

peace, a drink was a fair price to pay

for the interruption. If this Dreher

was the stuff they’d been brewing

here a century or two ago, then yes,

he did like it, as it happened.

He nodded again, this time in accept-

ance of the offer. The stranger raised

a hand to a passing member of staff,

and within the minute there sat two

large glass tankards containing a

clear, golden liquid with a frothy




head.

Just the one drink, then he’d be rid

of this intruder. He nudged the com-

puter lid down and took a long pull

on the tankard. He couldn’t help but

smile. It really was good brew. He

raised the mug to his lips again.

“Was born during that war, you

know...” The old fellow was livelier

than he appeared. Somehow he had

managed a peak at the screen before

Nigel had lowered it. “...Lucky son

of a gun I was. Papa was a soldier

from somewhere or other. So, a son

of a gun in more than one sense, eh

my friend?”

His joke didn’t even crack a smile on

Nigel’s stony face. As though he

hadn’t noticed, the old man went on

with his story.

“We were a travelling family, most

of us carted off to the camps, but we

escaped – so I was told, anyway. I

was only a baba. Mother said she

didn’t know what had saved us. Di-

vine intervention, I say.”

The eyebrows almost reached down

to the bushy moustache as the old

man cocked his head and smiled at

Nigel.

“Man plans, God executes, don’t you

think?”

Nigel took a closer look at the old

man. That remark hit a bit too close

to home for comfort. The eyes

which smiled back were deep, im-

penetrable holes, well shielded by

the bushy tufts of hair and craggy

face. Nigel waited for his unwanted

guest to go on. Sooner or later he’d

get around to whatever it was he

wanted.

“You a football fan, friend?”

“You could say that.” Nigel didn’t

like the hints that were being

dropped here but he had no recollec-




tion of ever running across a fellow

who even resembled this cagey

gaffer in the slightest.

“I’m here for the same reason as

those up there.” The man thrust a

dismissive thumb towards the ceil-

ing. “Couldn’t get a proper conver-

sation out of them, though, if you

held one down and rubbed smelling

salts under his nose – and, believe

me, I’ve tried. No, I won my ticket

in a TV competition. Spent a fortune

on phoning in.”

Nigel was slowly coming round to

this fellow; it seemed he’d mis-

judged him. If he was one of the

upper-deckers, he’d have been

dressed much more elegantly and

would probably trim his facial hair

once in a blue moon. Yet, he wasn’t

harmless. Whoever he was, it

seemed he was here to deliver a mes-

sage. Nigel wished he’d just spit it

out rather than playing this silly cha-

rade.

“‘Win a trip of a lifetime: a cruise

down the river Danube to celebrate

Honvéd’s tenth European Cup vic-

tory,’ it said. Well it’s a bad trip, if

you ask me, friend.”

There was a long pause after this re-

mark, as though the old fellow was

hoping something would sink in.

“Least, I’ve finally found one sensi-

ble soul on board. I’m as proud as

the next chap, don’t get me wrong –

it’s an impressive record we hold,

now, but (added but)I’m starting to

wish I’d stayed home and had a quiet

night in, watching videos of Sebes’

World Cup heroes of the sixties.”

Something flickered in the back of

Nigel’s mind, but with another sip of

Dreher it was gone – as was the last

drop of his drink. He waved towards

the bar staff for a refill. He’d give

this fellow the time of day then, if he

was going to fill him in on the Game.

“Missed the start of the glory years,

the fifties. Too young to know what

was going on and it was hard to fol-

low in those days, didn’t have tele-

visions, us peasants. Newspapers

only any good if you could read.

Too much politics around that time,

almost ruined it all. Poor old Ferenc

almost didn’t make it back to Hun-

gary, what with the Revolution.

Your fellow lent a hand in that, and

the American.”




Nigel had no idea what he was on

about now.

“He wasn’t helped by those bastards

at UEFA, though, when he did get

back. They’d only been around for

a couple of years and already they’d

lost the players’ registration forms,

so they weren’t allowed to play for a

couple of months.”

The man tutted as he looked to the

heavens. This UEFA bunch sounded

as useless as the pussy-farts at the

EU. Nigel guessed the Ferenc to

whom he was referring was Ferenc

Puskas, and enquired as such.

“Of course. The one and only.

Nearly signed for Manchester

United, did you know? After Mu-

nich,” the old man made the sign of

the cross, “they were left with half a

team, but in the end Ferenc decided

to stay put. Wouldn’t have worked

out anyway, he couldn’t speak your

language. Flirted with Spain too, but

Madrid thought he was past it at 31.

Turned out to be the worst decision

they ever made – and look what’s

happened to the buggers since.”

Nigel blinked. What had happened

to them since? Hadn’t they won a

whole bunch of these so-called Eu-

ropean Cups? There was that fellow

named di Stefano, Argentine wasn’t

he? He’d been their captain. And

hadn’t Puskas gone there? He could

have sworn he did. Wiki hadn’t led

him down the lane before. Recently,

there’d been a French fellow, too,

with a funny name. Zim Zam, Ziba

or something. Had a temper, he’d

heard. And they didn’t call them Eu-

ropean Cups anymore did they?

He was certain this tale the old man

was spinning was wrong. But then,

why was everyone upstairs halfway

to the moon over this Honvéd side?

He looked up to question the old fel-

low, and the seat was empty. A dark

shadow was drifting towards the

door, with the tap of the steel-tipped

cane faint now.

Well. Apparently the message had

been delivered. He re-opened the

laptop to see what other incon-

gruities this place held. He’d been

crossing back and forth across the

Ether for ages, so he knew that you

could sometimes take a wrong turn.

So, it hadn’t been Wiki, but he had




been led down the lane. He’d find

out who was responsible, although

he already had half a thought on that

score.

It wouldn’t be a problem to get back,

though. He just had to find where

the split in reality had occurred. ■



This is an extract from Issue One of Man and Ball

magazine: Let Sleeping Gods Lie.

This issue introduces Nigel and features stories

on German football since reunification, African

Arsenal fans, an unsung Dutch legend, and

seven other intriguing articles.

It can be downloaded in its entirety HERE >



verily, verily, life is but a dream

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