ThatNorthernBloke

Episode 1 | Careless Whispers

Wakefield. July 2025. Dusk.

I’d had a tip-off that an old friend had fallen on hard times. As I walked under the arches of a disused bridge, broken glass cracked underfoot. Dogs barked. Couples argued. And with every step, the whispering got louder.

As I rounded a corner, I saw the shadow of something that, once upon a time, might have been a man. But now? The hair was long and shaggy, like a rabid dog had been given access to Just For Men and a mental breakdown. Nails stretched beyond what any sane person would consider acceptable, and a guttural noise began to fill the alleyway.

It couldn’t possibly be, could it?

“Barry?” I whispered, the words itching to come out but struggling at the same time.

“Agruondkjbwoin.”

Right then…

You see, since our escapades in FC26 had come to an abrupt end due to the fact that, well, it’s a fucking terrible game, times had been… difficult for Barry.

He was offered the Andorran U15s job but declined, stating that the mountain air would cause such a severe allergic reaction that he would have to be placed into a six-month induced coma.

Since then, there’d been nothing. And with no outlet for his strange little creative-yet-analytical brain, he’d started to go a bit… loopy.

I’d lost all contact with him when I returned home to Wakefield, but I did sometimes think I’d see a man lurking around Trinity Shopping Centre, hiding behind bins and old men named Jim.

I’d brushed this off as just my imagination, but now? I know the truth was much more desperate.

I knew that I needed to do something. I couldn’t leave him in this gibbering state, primed to get sexually assaulted by a badger, or worse, one of Wakefield’s finest ladies on a hen night.

I put my arm around him slowly, gently, and cradled his head for a moment.

“There, there, Barry, we’ll sort you out mate.”

“Hear me, distant albatross, the winds of chakfoib2foinwl…” he mumbled.

“What’s that, mate?” I politely asked.

“Hear me, distant albatross… the winds of change may carry you… to far away lands… in search of eternal… glory.”

Oh no. A prophecy.

I’d not heard one of those since he saw Tim Howard in his cornflakes. But this time, I knew what was coming.

Football Manager.

The Pentagon

Sadly, Barry’s prophecies are never about lottery numbers or affordable energy bills. They are, almost exclusively, about ruining my free time.

His prophecy stated far away lands, which can only mean one thing. The Pentagon Challenge.

The longest, most difficult task in Football Manager, the Pentagon Challenge tasks you with winning the five major continental club competitions:

• The UEFA Champions League (Europe)
• The CONCACAF Champions Cup (North America)
• AFC Champions League Elite (Asia)
• CAF Champions League (Africa)
• CONMEBOL Libertadores (South America)

And the hardest part? Start unemployed. No prior experience. No coaching badges. Except…

I do actually have a UEFA C License Coaching Badge. So I’m using it.

The Beginning

We’re going to begin our journey somewhere that will actually take a Sunday League jobber and his washed-up, psychic assistant manager… Asia.

Once Barry had been hosed down, shaved in the areas legally required, and placed within shouting distance of a laptop, we got to work.

Our first three applications are Kumamoto in Japan’s second division, Tochigi SC in Japan’s third division, and YB Longding in China’s First Division (who, weirdly, can’t sign non-Chinese goalkeepers. No, I don’t get it either).

Ten long days passed with Barry and me sitting by our fax machine. I’ve actually no idea why, because it’s not plugged in and no one uses fax anymore. Instead, we sat bolt upright as an email notification popped up, only to find it was HelloFresh sending us an offer for 10 free boxes.

As enticing as that is, we need a fox in the box, not fish in the post. But then… A JOB INTERVIEW!

YB Longding have got back to us and offered us an interview. First question: why don’t we speak Chinese. It’s not a bad question, to be honest, as it’s hardly a niche language.

Luckily Barry did an internship at a Chinese fishery when he was 27 and learnt enough to get by, and I lied and told them I can pick it up quickly (I absolutely can’t).

I then got asked why I was in the market for a number of jobs, and unfortunately there wasn’t an option to say ‘obviously because I’m out of fucking work you morons.’ Instead, I told them I’m merely considering my options.

Next up, they asked if I’m comfortable working with limited resources. Well, I’m currently working with no resources, so yeah, go on then.

Then came the big one: could I take them to the next level? As someone who took Halifax to world domination on FM Mobile 2005, I’m pretty confident I can do the job. Next!

I was then asked what changes I’d want to make to the backroom staff… well, I think my lads like Fat Rob the physio would follow me to the ends of the Earth, so I told them I’d have to take a look at everyone should I get the job (and immediately bin them off).

Finally, I was asked if I was happy to work with Xu Bo, the director of football. Unsure if this was Susan Boyle’s Chinese cousin, I just said yeah, why not. At least there is a director of football.

I had no requests, so I closed the Zoom call and sat back in my chair. Our first interview was done and dusted, now it was just a waiting game.

For five days. When we found out we didn’t get it.

Fuck.

Two days later, the Tochigi SC board informed me we’d been unsuccessful, and this suddenly felt like it was going to be much more difficult than we first thought.

During Sacktober, when FM clubs start firing managers like it’s a government initiative, Fukuoka, Thespa Gunma, Jubilo Iwata, Nagoya, Peng City, Yokohama FM, Daegu, Dewa United and Incheon United reviewed our application and collectively decided: absolutely fucking not.

Barry took the news badly, by which I mean he spent three hours facing a wall and whispering “Incheon” into a mug.

Southport offered us an interview, we declined. We’re not going for Europe yet.

Then, come December, we get two interview offers, both in Japan. The format is largely the same as before, as both Hachinohe and Ryukyu grill me on why I don’t know Japanese, whether I can keep a happy dressing room, and whether I want to stay for a long time. Obviously I lie like a Prince to make sure I say exactly what they want to hear.

AND WE DID SOMETHING RIGHT. A few days later, Ryukyu got in touch offering me a £1k-a-week contract to take over in the J3 League.

Barry licked the contract, declaring it “legally moist” and immediately began learning Japanese by shouting at Duolingo. We are fucking back, baby.

Boiled Eggs & Betrayal

On our flight over to Japan, Barry spent the entire first half of the journey drawing tactical shapes on a tea-stained boiled egg. I didn’t ask why. You learn not to.

As the cabin crew brought our evening meal, Barry grabbed one of the poor air stewards, Colin, by the collar. Terrified, but somehow unable to pull away, Colin could only listen as Barry named the three players he believes will betray me. One of them is Brazilian. One of them is a 16-year-old. And one of them is, somehow, me.

With that, Barry snapped back into his chair and instantly fell asleep for the final three hours.

⬅️ Read Episode 10 Here.

💀 The Creaking Collapse of Guzan

The ball nestled in the back of my net once again as jeers began to climb on top of me like a lioness pouncing on its prey.

I don’t want to make excuses, but the FC gods were not on my side. Bounce backs here, botched tackles there, footballs mysteriously travelling through solid feet everywhere.

But despite that, I could normally rely on Big Bradley to save the day.

Today though, he gave up.

It was as if his spirit had left his body, his knees finally turning into concrete dust. He was allergic to catching the ball, terrified to dive towards it.

It culminated in one of the most frustrating losses of the year.

I never thought I would see Eusébio grace the turf of Molton Road, but here he was, reincarnated but still as deadly as the winter of 1972. Barry was in the stands, just a wee nipper at the time, to see him score four against Sporting in October '72.

It was on that day that Barry found god, and his name was Eusébio da Silva Ferreira.

And by god, the Portuguese marksman was on fire against me. Left foot, right foot, even a rogue knee after the ball bounced off Naomi Girma’s arse, nothing could stop him.

And then came his fourth.

Darlington Nagbe misplaced a rare pass in the midfield. The ball was launched quickly towards Eusébio, whose first touch took him in between Robinson and CCV.

If I’m honest, CCV should have been standing in that gap, but evidently his ankle tag was vibrating and distracted him — he was caught wildly out of position.

Not to worry though, as we had Big Brad ready to build a wall to stop any Portuguese reprobates getting anywhere near his goal.

Except… when the shot came in he just… flailed?

There was stunned silence. Eusébio couldn’t believe it. CCV stood there, mouth agape, a ball of rage and disbelief. I just laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my tear ducts had given up.

Guzan fell backwards to the floor as if paralysed by the realisation his time was up. If we’re honest, we thought he was dead and the rigor mortis had just set in gradually over the last 6 weeks.

Rub It Better Rob waddled onto the pitch to check on him. He might have got his medical licence in a back street ‘training centre’ in Calcutta that doubled as a cockfighting ring, but even he knew this was curtains.

They rolled Brad into a stretcher, his feet jutting out over the edge like a ladder off the back of a window cleaner’s van, and he simply exhaled a laboured groan as he was carried past me.

Not one to shirk a challenge, Barry already had his gloves on (not really sure why he had a pair) before I could tell him he wasn’t registered to play. Instead, DaMarcus Beasley pulled on the ‘keepers jersey, trotted out to his box and promptly conceded two more goals.

The final whistle blew and there was an air of sadness that swirled around the ground, like a fog on the day after bonfire night.

A Goochball legend had left us. Someone who made us feel safe. Secure. Protected.

But then Barry appeared at my ear, startling me with his deep, raspy voice:

“Gaffer, I’ve seen the future in my cornflakes. For three nights I’ve been dreaming about a devil eating toffee. Sticky and sweet, with a sense of foreboding ferocity.

Then this morning, I saw it in the milk.

A beard laced with beads of sweat and pieces of gold. A man who kept Belgium at bay with nothing but some Tylenol and a dream. A ‘keeper who would stare into the souls of strikers and then rip off their heads like a sacrificial ritual.

He stood at the gates of Molton Road, gloves glowing, staring into the floodlights as if absorbing their energy.

And then came the chant, gaffer.

‘When chaos grips the backline, and knees crumble into dust, When courage falters and spirits plummet, And Goochball needs its saviour, Timothy will step forth and bring with him deliverance.’”

Barry shuddered, as if a spirit was speaking through him.

“And should you say his name thrice before kick off, the gods will awake and bring him forth.”

Barry then vanished into the equipment cupboard, and as he did so he muttered the name ‘Timothy’ three times.

As the door slowly creaked shut, there stood a man mountain. A frame so wide he would be the only one allowed in a lift. A beard so majestic that it got Tea Lady Tracey pregnant aged 68. Gloves so big that he could catch a jumbo jet and send it flying back to its original destination.

There stood, Tim bloody Howard.

⸻

⸻

📺 Previously On…


Guzan’s hands turned to steam, Nagbe cried in three different accents, and Molton Road descended into open civil war as another supposedly “winnable” week collapsed into chaos. Barry caught a flying pie meant for his head, took a bite, and immediately hurled it at a nearby child like some sort of sodium-fuelled boomerang. Morale hit bedrock, the fans lost the plot, and Goochball teetered on the brink of a full-blown festive meltdown.

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🆕 New Arrivals & Squad Tweaks

#HereWeGo – New Players:

🇺🇸 Christen Press — 88 End of an Era (ST) Christen Press is pure elegance wrapped in end-of-an-era chaos. An 88-rated icon with the first touch of a saint and the finishing instincts of someone who’s been hunting goalkeepers for sport since 2013. When the ball hits her feet the whole squad suddenly looks two ratings higher, and her Finesse+ shots should come with a health warning – may cause heartbreak. Press doesn’t just score — she solves problems. One pass, one feint, one curled finish into the side netting, and all the madness melts away. She is the experienced calm presence this team absolutely does not deserve.

🇺🇸 Tim Howard — 85 Hero (GK) Tim Howard arrives with the aura of a man who’s spent a lifetime screaming at defenders and saving shots physics had no business allowing. An 85-rated Hero, he was forged in Premier League chaos and international warfare. He brings that signature Howard energy — the kind where every save feels like he’s punching fate in the mouth. His reflexes are still supernatural, his presence enormous, and his beard alone is worth +3 to defensive morale. Howard doesn’t just keep the ball out; he terrifies strikers into reconsidering their life choices. In a squad where Guzan regularly has dicks for hands, Howard is the upgrade so overdue it should count as humanitarian aid.

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⚙️ Tactics:


4-4-1-1 — this is what true Goochball is all about. This formation might be meta, but it’s the closest thing to fluid football I’ve found all year. Inside forwards roam around and finally make runs in behind, but I think the wingbacks are the key. They push up more and offer an outlet, and they’ve been linking so well with the wide players. My Box-to-Box midfielders are like Tasmanian Devils if they snorted crack cocaine – they’re bursting with more energy than the Luxembourg Power Grid, and cover more ground than a solar farm in the Sahara.

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🧿 FC Pro Week — The Week in Review


This week was peak Goochball: a cocktail of brilliance, breakdowns, and tactical whiplash.

The state of the game has me changing formations more times than I’ve had had hot dinners, simply in order to find some semblance of consistency (I know, the irony).

That isn’t helped when, in my first game of the week, I lose 8-9 after cruising at 5-2 up. My ego was swallowed whole by bouncebacks, deflections, and a goalkeeper who was too busy watching YouTube than tending to his goal. Thankfully, the squad bounced back immediately, scraping a 4–3 win before sliding into a grim 0–1 defeat where the midfield disappeared like it had been raptured.

The switch to 4-4-1-1 certainly steadied the ship. Suddenly Press, Dunn, Luna and Wilson were linking like a functioning football team, rather than the Dog & Duck FC, firing us to a string of gritty, grown-up wins.

Even the draws came with fight, not floppiness. And when we did lose, it was narrow; just enough pain to be character-building, not season-ending.

The second half of the week was where we really hit our groove. New signing Christen Press finally found her stride, shirking the weight of expectation that rested on her shoulders and playing instead like a nimble gazelle.

Now fully evolved, Diego Luna was obliterating opposition defences with Cartel-level efficiency. His short, stocky frame was simply a facade, instead he weaved his way through defenders and slammed home shots with his newly acquired Low Driven+ Playstyle.

Lily Yohannes kept things ticking in midfield, the Fellaini-like curls bouncing with every stride, quietly anchoring the chaos around her.

But like all great managers, I also made a bold call. While Sophia Wilson had bagged 13 goals and 9 assists, it was often down to her sheer solo brilliance, rather than benefitting the team as a whole. She is electric, a thorn in the side of defenders, but I felt like I needed a physical presence who could bring everything together.

Up step El Capitan, Josh Sargent.

In just 8 games he matched Wilson’s 13 goal haul, but more than that he brought Press to the fore, let Captain America Pulisic shine, and made Diego Luna look like Prime Maradona.

Defenders couldn’t handle him – the physicality, the speed, and then to top it all off… he’d bang a finesse as if he was on Brazzers. The man could do it all.

In those final 8 games we notched 6 wins – it was a string of performances for the ages that led us to upgraded rivals rewards and a cheeky trip to Division 5 farm.

It has to be said that it’s sad to see the state of the game at the moment. The lack of creativity in the community, the difference between exciting, skilful early release gameplay and the turgid stuff we have now… it’s genuinely impressive how EA have patched the game into oblivion so early on. They’ve truly outdone themselves.

When it’s good it’s great, but that’s the problem – it’s not consistently good enough. We can only hope that Thunderstruck brings some much needed improvements as December rolls around, but I won’t hold my breath… but no matter what, Goochball lives on.

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📊 Week Summary

Played: 16 | Won: 9 | Drawn: 2 | Lost: 5

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Game	Result	Emoji	Score	Formation
1	Loss	❌	8–9	4-2-1-3
2	Win	✅	4–3	4-2-1-3
3	Loss	❌	0–1	4-4-1-1
4	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
5	Win	✅	2–1	4-4-1-1
6	Loss	❌	1–3	4-4-1-1
7	Draw	⚖️	2–2	4-4-1-1
8	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
9	Loss	❌	1–2	4-4-1-1
10	Draw	⚖️	1–1	4-4-1-1
11	Win	✅	4–2	4-4-1-1
12	Loss	❌	1–2	4-4-1-1
13	Win	✅	2–0	4-4-1-1
14	Win	✅	3–1	4-4-1-1
15	Win	✅	4–1	4-4-1-1
16	Win	✅	2–0	4-4-1-1

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Player	Goals ⚽	Assists 🎯	Total G/A 🔢	POTM 🏆	Form 🔥
Wilson	13	9	22	3	🔥🔥🔥🔥
Sargent	13	7	20	3	🔥🔥🔥🔥
Press	10	4	14	1	🔥🔥🔥
Dunn	7	4	11	2	🔥🔥🔥
Luna	6	8	14	1	🔥🔥🔥
Pulisic	4	8	12	2	🔥🔥
Yohannes	3	2	5	0	🔥
Nagbe	2	3	5	1	🔥
Swanson	1	3	4	1	⚡
Heaps	0	3	3	0	⚡
Seger	0	2	2	1	🌟
McKennie	0	2	2	0	⚡
Rodman	0	1	1	0	⚡
Robinson	1	0	1	0	⚡
OG	1	0	1	0	🤡
Guzan	0	0	0	1	🧱

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🌟 Player of the Week

🔥 Josh Sargent A week as hot as his fiery hair, Josh Sargent, complete with his El Capitan Evo, was truly the difference maker. He had big shoes to fill after I dropped Sophia Wilson, but boy did he manage it. He was genuinely the lynchpin that allowed the rest of the team to shine, but he didn’t shirk his goal scoring responsibilities either. He gobbled up chances like a Thanksgiving dinner, and ended up becoming undroppable.

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🧬 Evo Watch

• Diego Luna
  • Estrella de Montcada — 84 > 86 (Low Driven+)
• Darlington Nagbe
  • Own The Ball — 83 > 83
• Sarah Gorden
  • Tighten Up — 81 > 82
• Antonee Robinson
  • Protect The Wings — 82 > 86 (Slide Tackle+)
• Weston McKennie
  • Ironclad Instincts — 78 > 79
  • Tighten Up — 79 > 79
  • Intercept+

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🪦 Closing Thoughts

Later that night I sat in my office thinking about what had just unfolded.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, Barry’s prophecy from last week nagged at me like an itch I couldn’t scratch — a warning about shackles, stagnation, and a Sargent waiting to awaken.

If I’m honest, I’m as surprised as anyone. When Barry came to me, shaken and desperate, I never thought he would foreshadow Josh Sargent breaking free of the cosmic chains that bound him, and predicting that something old & hungry, which I would later realise meant Christen Press, could turn our week around.

Given these extraordinary events, it was no surprise to see a ticket for the Florida Powerball Lottery floating down the corridor.

I was brought back to reality when I heard footsteps down the hall, and the faint sound of someone whistling ‘TEXAS HOLD ’EM’ by Beyoncé drifted in through my door.

At that moment Barry appeared, a wry smile on his face.

He didn’t knock. He never does.

His coat smelled of fryer oil and rain, and in his right hand he clutched a half-wrapped Big Mac as if it were some kind of sacred relic. His eyes were wide, unblinking, full of prophecy or indigestion; with Barry it’s impossible to separate the two.

He cleared his throat, still a slight anxiousness in it despite his upbeat demeanour, and began…

“Gaffer, I’m worried about the middle. At the moment everything is fine, but… Darlo is fragile. The Lily risks wilting under pressure. We need something bigger. Stronger. Harder.”

He lifted his burger laden hand, sauce dripping from every angle. The room filled with the stench of gherkins and doom.

“I saw it when I took a bite. Something forged in the heart of Texas. A power so great that it could stop a comet, feed a million people and cure Polio in just 90 minutes.”

A bit of lettuce flew past my head as Barry got more and more animated.

“I’ve heard it in the sizzle of the grill. Big Mac. Big Mac. Big Mac. He devours his evolutions like a man possessed. He fears no one. Sees no limits. He’s here to take the centre by storm. To flip cars and devour the opposition. And he’s all out of cars. The only thing he says? FEED. ME. MORE.”

And with that, Barry’s half-eaten burger fell to the floor with a splat and he backed out of the doorway as though Big Mac himself were behind me.

“Prepare yourself, gaffer… For when he takes his place… The ground will groan beneath his hunger.”

Barry vanished down the corridor leaving only the faint glow of a flickering light and the unmistakable scent of prophecy and processed cheese.

All I was left with was an insatiable hunger, and an impending sense of something very large coming to our midfield. You know what they say, everything is bigger in Texas…

⸻

Until next time, YEEHAW!

Read Episode 9 Here.

🏟️ The Nightmare Before Futmas

Groans roared around Molton Road as we slumped to yet another defeat.

Guzan lumbered off the pitch and punched a hole in the advertising hoardings, Darlington Nagbe wept as someone shouted ‘you’re the reason Tesco locks away condoms’ and ‘you’re a waste of your dad’s sperm’ at him, and Barry caught a pie-shaped projectile that was heading straight for his head. He took a bite and then threw it back at a 7-year-old child for the crime of existing.

This week was supposed to be positive, but it was a blood bath. We’d spent seven Rivals games getting slapped around by people who had clearly snorted a litre of diesel with a cocaine chaser.

Something had to give.

The next game we switched things up, and I’m not proud of it. However, with the teams we were coming up against, we can’t afford to stand on the moral high ground and die on that hill.

That’s not us. We needed to fight.

Barry and I concocted a 4-5-1 formation that, on the surface, makes us a rat on the sinking ship that is FC26. However, there would be no ‘drop back and counter’ here.

In true Goochball fashion we’re going balls to the wall, and by god it worked.

Even after Barry sold the formation to the squad via séance, the tension was still palpable — the faithfuls demanded a performance, and you could cut the atmosphere with a very blunt knife. But then something extraordinary happened.

Darlington Nagbe played like a man possessed.

One moment he was in our box blocking a shot, the next he was jinking into the opponent’s to score our opening goal. The way he was moving had people looking like they were watching a match at Wimbledon.

He was instrumental in everything we did, and the earlier chants of ‘bellend’ turned into ‘bravissimo!’ by the time we were 3-0 up and Nagbe had his brace.

This was a comeback for the ages, and by the 35th minute we were 4-0 up and the opponent just left the pitch. Gone. Finished.

Nagbe did a lap of honour, Sabbi limped down the touchline, foot now only in two bits being held together with duct tape and Barry’s loose grasp of human anatomy, and Crystal Dunn was still dribbling around the centre circle, fans screaming ‘OLE!’ at every touch of the ball.