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your testosterone in balance. Well footballers have more testosterone you see.”
    George regarded Donny with amusement. He might be an inept football manager but if he had one saving grace it was that he could always be depended on to give you a laugh. “You're not serious are you, Donny?”
    “ Well of course I'm serious; it's the best idea since fried bread.”
    “ You are off your trolley, Donny,” said George.
    Donny sniffed. “Yes well what do you know George, you're just an administration man; I mean you haven't got my football brain, have you.”

    Superintendent Screwer didn't mess about. And he certainly didn't mess about with football supporters. The huge bull of a man who was the new chief of the Frogley police force was a man who had been practicing zero tolerance long before that expression had ever been coined, and zero tolerance was what he was going to exact on any football supporters who got on the wrong side of him this coming football season.
    Football supporters were very much on Screwer's mind at the moment, as he studied the large map of Frogley on the wall behind the desk in his office, noting the locations and proximities to each other of the police station, the football stadium, and the hospital - the last of which any football supporters crossing him would be ending up in with a very sore head indeed if they uttered as much as a word out of place, by Christ would they!
    There was a tap on the door and Sergeant Hawks, eighteen months short of retirement and counting, entered. When Screwer had sent for him Hawks had been daydreaming about how very pleasant it all would be in the not too distant future, living on his full police pension in his little retirement cottage in the Lake District, with not a thing to worry about. Not that a Frogley policeman ever did have much to worry about; apart from the odd scuffle on Saturday nights there was little happened in the town that required the services of the long arm of the law; a short arm of the law would have been more than adequate in Frogley.
    Screwer carried on looking intently at the map. Hawks cleared his throat and said, “You wanted to see me, sir?”
    “ That's why I sent for you, Sergeant Hawks, that's why I sent for you.” Screwer turned to face him. “What arrangements have been made with regard to policing Frogley Town's opening match of the season in three week's time?”
    “ Well we'll just do the usual I suppose, sir.”
    Screwer regarded Hawks with impatience. “Come along Sergeant, I'm new here, I don't know what the usual is, do I.”
    “ Sorry sir. Constable Balfour usually drops in for half-an-hour.”
    Whenever he had difficulty in believing something Screwer had the habit of affecting surprise by jolting his head back in an exaggerated manner. At Hawks' explanation of Frogley's football policing arrangements it jolted back even farther than it usually did. “Constable Balfour drops in?” he said.
    “ Well he lives near the ground, sir,” Hawks explained. “It saves somebody having to make a special trip.”
    Screwer was aghast. “Oh that won't do, Sergeant. That will not do at all. Good God man, how can we hope to stamp out football hooliganism if our entire policing of a match consists of Constable Balfour dropping in!”
    Hawks explained. “With respect sir, there isn't a lot of interest in football in Frogley. No, I think you’ll find that at the Town's matches it's strictly a one man and his dog crowd.”
    “ Well this season there'll be lots of men there with dogs, Sergeant. Police dogs. Alsations with big teeth and bad tempers.”
    “ And there certainly isn't any football hooliganism,” Hawks continued.
    Screwer fixed Hawks with a beady eye. When would they ever learn? “Where there is football, Sergeant, there is football hooliganism. Having previously been stationed at Leeds I know that for a fact; and I know all about the cancer in our society that football hooliganism has become.”
    “ With respect