"Fatso" Allardyce v "Pocket Battleship" Coppell

Premier League Managers Fight Club

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10.45 a.m - Jan 13th 2007 - Bolton FC.

Fatso cut an arrogant figure as he wiped the gravy from his chin - the residue of a particularly gluttonous feast of pies, mash, gravy and peas. He was the kingpin of the town and he knew it. Everyone else knew it as well, the fatman made pretty sure that they wouldn't forget it.

"Bring the Rolls Sammy, I've got business to attend to." he said to his squat assistant.

"Shall I bring a package" replied Sammy, fingering the air in speech marks as he pronounced the word "package".

"Not that sort of business", bellowed the fatman.

"Are we going far boss?" asked the equally fat, but much less massive servant.

"Tesco's - I want this done in public" came the booming reply.

"But Tesco's is only 500 yards away boss" complained the servile one.

"Just get the car", came the grunted reply.

Precisely 76 seconds later Fatso entered Tesco's, typically through one of the turnstiles with a no entry sign on it. A security man approached, but on spotting the fatman thought better of tackling him. Fatso cast him a "Do you know who I am?" kind of glance, just to make sure he would not be bothered.

"Where is the little runt?" roared Fatso, "he's supposed to be here by now".

The store's P.A system came into life and a disturbingly deep voice announced that "Mr Fatso Fatbastard is wanted in aisle 12 for a clean up job".

By the time that Fatso had arrived in aisle 12, the Pocket Battleship was already waiting there for him, with his back to the open chest freezers containing a huge 3 for 2 assortment of ready meals. Battleship sneaked a hand behind himself to arm himself with a frozen Rogan Josh, and prepared for an attack.

"Come on then fatty, let's have it" taunted his diminutive opponent.

Enraged, the fatman began to advance on his tiny quarry. As he did so he was caught straight between the eyes by a frozen indian meal. A Tesco's value lasagne quickly followed and bounced ten yards off the stumbling fatmans huge goitre.

Battleship was now reloading and reigned down with a volley of Aunt Bessies frozen missiles which were giving stinging bruises to Fatso's padded flesh. The huge man seemed to have no riposte under the speed of the attack, but he pressed on to get nearer to the nimble foe. Sensing this, Battleship sprinted around to the other side of frozen goods to keep a healthy 5 yards or so ahead of the breathless gutbucket.

A Cornetto, aimed with the precision of Phil "the Power" Taylor brought the first blood as the pointy end sunk into Fatso's fleshy right jowl. This wound didn't hurt the fatman much, but his pride was clearly wounded. A crowd of onlookers began gathering and seemed to be rooting for the little man.

This was too much for Fatso's pride to take. He turned to the crowd and roared "Do you know who I am?".

Again he was rudely interupted as a Fray Bentos plate pie thrown Odd-Job-like by the cheeky scouser caught him square in the throat. The fatman was now well and truly in deep trouble as Battleship recognised he had stunned his foe. A quick glance over his shoulder to the tinned produce gave the Liverpudlian another game plan.

Fatso was now staggering onwards towards his opponent throwing huge haymakers wildly without looking likely to connect and he kept getting pinned by Green Giant sweetcorn with frightening regularity. He was becoming a bloody mess, but his gargantuan strength was proving difficult for the Battleship to truly get on top of.

Battleship turned into the next aisle to stay one step ahed of the raging beast bearing down on him. As he looked around for more missiles his heart sunk when he realised he'd retreated into the crisps and nuts section. A few well aimed cans of Pringles kept Fatso on his toes, but now the swishing haymakers were getting ever closer.

Battleship nervously reached behind himself for another missile and flung it at Fatso's fizzog. The fatman opened his mouth as if unhinged like a large snake and a whole packet of fig biscuits disappeared from view, wrapping and all.

Fatso's next wild swing connected with it's target and the plucky little scouser disappeared over nuts and Bombay mix into the next aisle, to land with a huge crash amongst a special offer for Spanish red wine. Fatso had won the contest with the first blow he landed, but he wasn't happy at being made to look foolish by the little man.

"Sammy, my wad please" he beckoned to his assistant who produced a brown paper package from his jacket pocket.

Fatso took the paper wedge and took pleasure in ramming it down the stricken scouser's throat until he breathed no more.

"Now go and get my car..."