BILLY BREMNER MEMORIAL JOIN OUR CAMPAIGN
Date: 6th October 2024
Mr. Moyes eyes a foreign return…
“Mr. Moyes? Mr. Moyes? Sir? Are you awake, sir?”
Slowly, Mr. Moyes opens his eyes and strains to look around him as the flight attendant’s subtle shaking of his shoulder has awakened him slowly to the realisation that he is not moving any more. Simply put, he has arrived in London.
Nodding at the helpful attendant, was he called Rod or John or Sebastian? Mr. Moyes could not quite remember and after a few moments of coming to, he remembered just why he was in the bright lights of the big bad city.
It was time to get his freak on…
Picture the scene…
Mr. Moyes, is the assassins’ assassin. Tall and with the swagger of a man who has devastated people in major cities around the whole of England, Mr. Moyes is a well-known slayer of brands. Whether he be the one in the Scouse arena of Liverpool, the red half of Manchester or the marron bizarre nature of a West Ham East End battle, Mr. Moyes was the man you wanted in your corner.
He was the dude.
For Mr. Moyes had profile and a patchy CV.
In his business, that of business management, having a patchy CV just meant he took risks.
And so, as he awoke on the plane, in the business class part of the craft from Glasgow, he rubbed his eyes and became aware of just what cut price really meant. He was on a budget but did not quite realise how much of a budget. This was business class where the wee curtain between him and the rest of the plane simply meant you got prosecco instead of diet coke, an extra pillow for your comfort and the pies had macaroni in them instead of the usual mutton: Mr. Moyes had taken the dead cheap, dead eye red eye flight form Glasgow Airport to London City at stupid o’clock to meet with some businessmen from Liverpool to talk turkey.
With two months before Christmas, turkey was much on their menu.
These were a group of turkey farmers who had an old piece of farmland upon which award-winning turkeys had been raised for decades, over a century in fact. In recent years they were experiencing a downturn in fortunes and things were not what they once were. In fact, things were a bit mince.
The golden era of the big Ferguson monster turkey had gone and that was now being ruined, in their eyes and the eyes of many in the Highlands, in some inferior farm in Inverness. The one that got away, the Lineker variety that flourished, left, then returned to their farms in the late 20th Century had catapulted them onto national prominence and gave the likes of that Bernard Mathews a run for his money at one point.
But such praise and profile were historical fact more than present day reality for the Blue Farms on the estate of the Forevertonians
Mr. Moyes was down to see if he could offer to do for them what he once did for them before.
Mr. Moyes, now kicking his heels since a short London term, working for the Harm of the West where he brought some glory and prominence but could not quite turn it into the love and appreciation he deserved. Work had been a little slow since then and to be fair to him, he liked things that way. Time for contemplation and working through the odd Haiku or ten was something he had indulged in for the last few months. He was more contented and more zen than he had been for some time.
It was a peaceful time though he felt now was the right time to get back into things.
All of this was contemplated as he stood for what felt like the longest time. Having been woken from his slumber, he got his bags out of the overhead cabin, start to walk towards the wee curtain, had it drawn back by the wee guy and seen the queue in front of him. Priority boarding was not replaced by priority departure and the other wee guy at the front of this Scotia Air 5:30am flight was struggling to open the doors at the front of the plane to let them all off.
Just then, Mr. Moyes’ phone let out a shrill trill. He gazed at it.
It was the Forevertonians.
Mr. Moyes had an odd feeling about answering it.
Firstly, it was a public place, and he had absolutely no privacy. Whatever he said was going to be heard by the BO challenged sweaty student in front of him and the flight attendant right behind him who was trying to work out how to navigate past all the bodies to get to the front of the plane to help their colleague. Secondly, it was a live call when he was not due to meet these guys for another two hours. Why call so early? In his experience that was never good news.
He decides and lets it go to voice mail.
Standing for another two or three minutes feels like he has been standing for hours as he watches the phone go from calling, to diversion, to an alert that there is a new voicemail. Mr. Moyes makes another decision. He hits call voicemail and listens.
After listening, he returns to his seat. The cabin now seems smaller than it did. All he heard was Dry Stane Dyche, moving ahead with a Potter and making new changes to know that Mr. Moyes was no longer a candidate for the one opportunity he thought was a sure-fire way to get back into the big time.
Noticing that he had sat down again, his wee attendant approaches him with a bottle of bubbly, sits opposite him and says, “looks like we both could do with a glass of the guid stuff?”
Mr. Moyes nods and for the next half an hour they swap bad luck stories and career lows amidst the melee of a Scottish based aircraft trying to get rid of all the people inside it after a door malfunction…
Whilst the author asserts his right to this as an original piece of work, there is no evidence that David Moyes has ever written a Haiku, so, this is clearly a piece of fiction.
The fact is that David Moyes has said he would be “very interested” in a return to Goodison Park and Everton. However, Sean Dyche is well liked, and Graham Potter is lurking in the wings to take over should there ever be a vacancy…
“Mr. Moyes? Mr. Moyes? Sir? Are you awake, sir?”
Slowly, Mr. Moyes opens his eyes and strains to look around him as the flight attendant’s subtle shaking of his shoulder has awakened him slowly to the realisation that he is not moving any more. Simply put, he has arrived in London.
Nodding at the helpful attendant, was he called Rod or John or Sebastian? Mr. Moyes could not quite remember and after a few moments of coming to, he remembered just why he was in the bright lights of the big bad city.
It was time to get his freak on…
Picture the scene…
Mr. Moyes, is the assassins’ assassin. Tall and with the swagger of a man who has devastated people in major cities around the whole of England, Mr. Moyes is a well-known slayer of brands. Whether he be the one in the Scouse arena of Liverpool, the red half of Manchester or the marron bizarre nature of a West Ham East End battle, Mr. Moyes was the man you wanted in your corner.
He was the dude.
For Mr. Moyes had profile and a patchy CV.
In his business, that of business management, having a patchy CV just meant he took risks.
And so, as he awoke on the plane, in the business class part of the craft from Glasgow, he rubbed his eyes and became aware of just what cut price really meant. He was on a budget but did not quite realise how much of a budget. This was business class where the wee curtain between him and the rest of the plane simply meant you got prosecco instead of diet coke, an extra pillow for your comfort and the pies had macaroni in them instead of the usual mutton: Mr. Moyes had taken the dead cheap, dead eye red eye flight form Glasgow Airport to London City at stupid o’clock to meet with some businessmen from Liverpool to talk turkey.
With two months before Christmas, turkey was much on their menu.
These were a group of turkey farmers who had an old piece of farmland upon which award-winning turkeys had been raised for decades, over a century in fact. In recent years they were experiencing a downturn in fortunes and things were not what they once were. In fact, things were a bit mince.
The golden era of the big Ferguson monster turkey had gone and that was now being ruined, in their eyes and the eyes of many in the Highlands, in some inferior farm in Inverness. The one that got away, the Lineker variety that flourished, left, then returned to their farms in the late 20th Century had catapulted them onto national prominence and gave the likes of that Bernard Mathews a run for his money at one point.
But such praise and profile were historical fact more than present day reality for the Blue Farms on the estate of the Forevertonians
Mr. Moyes was down to see if he could offer to do for them what he once did for them before.
Mr. Moyes, now kicking his heels since a short London term, working for the Harm of the West where he brought some glory and prominence but could not quite turn it into the love and appreciation he deserved. Work had been a little slow since then and to be fair to him, he liked things that way. Time for contemplation and working through the odd Haiku or ten was something he had indulged in for the last few months. He was more contented and more zen than he had been for some time.
It was a peaceful time though he felt now was the right time to get back into things.
All of this was contemplated as he stood for what felt like the longest time. Having been woken from his slumber, he got his bags out of the overhead cabin, start to walk towards the wee curtain, had it drawn back by the wee guy and seen the queue in front of him. Priority boarding was not replaced by priority departure and the other wee guy at the front of this Scotia Air 5:30am flight was struggling to open the doors at the front of the plane to let them all off.
Just then, Mr. Moyes’ phone let out a shrill trill. He gazed at it.
It was the Forevertonians.
Mr. Moyes had an odd feeling about answering it.
Firstly, it was a public place, and he had absolutely no privacy. Whatever he said was going to be heard by the BO challenged sweaty student in front of him and the flight attendant right behind him who was trying to work out how to navigate past all the bodies to get to the front of the plane to help their colleague. Secondly, it was a live call when he was not due to meet these guys for another two hours. Why call so early? In his experience that was never good news.
He decides and lets it go to voice mail.
Standing for another two or three minutes feels like he has been standing for hours as he watches the phone go from calling, to diversion, to an alert that there is a new voicemail. Mr. Moyes makes another decision. He hits call voicemail and listens.
After listening, he returns to his seat. The cabin now seems smaller than it did. All he heard was Dry Stane Dyche, moving ahead with a Potter and making new changes to know that Mr. Moyes was no longer a candidate for the one opportunity he thought was a sure-fire way to get back into the big time.
Noticing that he had sat down again, his wee attendant approaches him with a bottle of bubbly, sits opposite him and says, “looks like we both could do with a glass of the guid stuff?”
Mr. Moyes nods and for the next half an hour they swap bad luck stories and career lows amidst the melee of a Scottish based aircraft trying to get rid of all the people inside it after a door malfunction…
Whilst the author asserts his right to this as an original piece of work, there is no evidence that David Moyes has ever written a Haiku, so, this is clearly a piece of fiction.
The fact is that David Moyes has said he would be “very interested” in a return to Goodison Park and Everton. However, Sean Dyche is well liked, and Graham Potter is lurking in the wings to take over should there ever be a vacancy…
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