With apologies to Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol and 3 Blokes a bit.
Act 1. Setting the Scene
It is 20 seconds before 10pm on Christmas Eve and in a very modest (but nevertheless 3 bedroom) apartment in the little Belgian town of Sint-Truiden, very important local businessman Roland Duchatelet is preparing to go to sleep. Not for Roland staying up to midnight to see in St Niklass Day – why that would break his routine. No, he had spent the allotted one minute saying goodnight to Marieke, had brushed his teeth (allocated time 45 seconds utilising an electric toothbrush, double that if manual) and had, earlier in the evening, allowed himself a whole extravagant hour watching his favourite TV programme Professor T.
He had even broken into a wry smile as the eponymous Professor Teerlink once again solved a case which had completely baffled the police investigation. How similar they were, the handsome, dapper professor, who, with nothing more than the application of Sherlock Holmes-type logic would see the vital clues that lesser mortals could not. Week after week, making those cops look like idiots. Yes, he was truly blessed, he, Roland Duchatelet was a man of vision, whilst those around him? Well, the best that could be said was that they did what he wanted when he wanted; as for the rest of the world’s population? Just like the cops in Professor T., domme mensen for the most part! Only 2 seconds left now, close eyes, sleep, he would rise at 6am, as usual, Christmas Day or not.
Act 2. The Ghost of Charlton Past
It is midnight on Christmas Eve when very important local businessman Roland Duchatelet is awoken by a loud noise in his room. Momentarily, he is taken back to his childhood and his father coming into his room dressed as Zwarte Piet with a sackful of presents but Huh! What on earth is this? The noise is emanating from a large spinning wooden rattle painted red and white but the figure holding it is indistinct – human yes, but apparently composed of a red mist.
‘I AM THE GHOST OF CHARLTON PAST’ it intoned in a deep sonorous voice when the rattle stopped twirling. Without further ado the ghost began to conjure up images on the bedroom wall. A huge crowd of people all seemingly wearing flat caps occupying a high bank or terrace that would not have looked out of place in a Roman arena; a bald man in a white shirt being held aloft, he is holding a shiny metal jug with two enormous handles - and the bald man is smiling; a group of what must be football players piling onto the top of another one who is wearing a different coloured jersey and who is lying flat out on the grass with his arms spread, as the pile grows higher some men in grey suits fling themselves on top, the images continue to flow thick and fast, one appears to be of a small demented footballer who, after scoring a goal races back to the halfway line with his arm wheeling for his fellows to join him in getting the game to continue rather than celebrate the equaliser.
And, so it goes on – I’ve been to them all says the Ghost, right the way back to 1905, Seb Lewis has got nothing on me, I was even at the 7-6 versus Huddersfield although there are some who won’t believe it. Oh yes, all the grounds too, the years at Selhurst Park were a nightmare, have you ever tried to haunt Croydon on a Saturday night?
Having recovered his composure Roland Duchatelet addressed the Ghost. ‘How dare you disturb me in my own home. I know who you are now and I’ll tell you the same thing that Katrien Meire did, Charlton Past – Je m’en Fous, I don’t care! With those words the disconsolate Ghost melted away and very important local businessman Roland Duchatelet went back to sleep.
Act 3. The Ghost of Charlton Present
It was a little after 2am CET when very important local businessman Roland Duchatelet was awoken again. ‘Huh! This is intolerable’ he snorted. Standing in the corner of the room was a small figure barely audible but composed of the same red mist as before. This time the Ghost seemed less sure of itself. ‘I’m not here for me’ said the Ghost. ‘I spend most of my time just wandering around the empty terraces on match days but there is one now lying awake in a Travel Lodge on the Greenwich Peninsular wrestling with the team selection for Southend away (although in truth there isn’t much to choose from). Please M. Duchatelet, give him some money to buy new players and say you won’t sell Konsa in the window – oh and could we please have a boiler fitted to our undersoil heating – it was no skin of my nose of course but………………………………….
‘Stop right there’ ordered Roland Duchatelet. ‘I told your ethereal friend earlier and I’ll tell you. I don’t care! ' As if to prove the point Roland Duchatelet is asleep within seconds.
Act 4. The Ghost of Charlton Future
We move on another couple of hours, it is now 4am and all of a sudden the Roland Duchatelet bedroom is packed with of a multitude of figures, ghostly yes and but recognisably human and many of them in red and white. They march round and round the room singing ‘We got our Charlton back, we got our Charlton back.’
Unable now to get back to sleep Roland Duchatelet makes an urgent telephone call (very important people can do that on a Christmas morning) ‘… that’s it, that’s it, I’ve had enough, sell Charlton Athletic as soon as we damn well can and cancel that meal I had planned with Katrien Meire, this is all her fault …how difficult can it be to run a football club? Yes, it’s her and those damn vinegar pissers that call themselves Charlton fans, don’t they know who I am, I’m Professor T. and I’m always right.’
Epilogue
Even a very important local businessman and self-appointed visionary needs his sleep.
Story by Roland Duchatelet's Bedroom Choir (an ensemble brought together specially for Christmas)
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