Accept No Substitute
Accept No Substitute
The Bohinen Files
Elm Drive, Washington DC. 3:12am
A figure sits at a screen in a dim room trying to log in to his computer. The screen blinks the legend “password” at him unforgivingly as he tries one string after another.
“Spooky” No good.
“Paranoid” No good either.
“TrustNo1” No.
At last he finds the key and types “Scully”. The machine lets him in. His first reaction is to pick up the telephone and make a call.
“Who is …” a voice at the other end starts before he interrupts her.
“Scully, did you change my password? Someone’s been at my PC. Come on Scully – I need to know what’s going on. Do you …”
Now it’s her turn to interrupt: “Get a life, Nerd,” before throwing the ‘phone down.
Elm Drive, Washington DC. 6:45am
A figure wearing only trousers is drying his hair with a towel. It’s the same guy we saw last night – medium build, dark hair, broad shoulders. He takes a clean shirt out of a wardrobe and puts it on. Across the shoulders are slash marks and tears as if someone has taken their frustration out on it with a razor. He tries another, equally clean white shirt, and another, and another. Each is mutilated – either across the shoulders or in the middle of the back. Slashed or cut. Calmly our hero goes to the bottom drawer and pulls out his 1982 John Denver Tour of the Rockies T-shirt.
Elm Drive, Washington DC. 7:20am
After breakfast he steps out through his front door and breathes in the air. The sky may be blue, but his lungs fill with a noxious combination of car fumes and industrial smog. Undeterred, he steps forward, but has to catch himself from tripping over something. Squatting down, he examines the foreign object on his doorstep. It is a round metal helmet, slightly pointed at the top, with a pair of horns attached, one either side. He tries it on. It fits.
Arriving at the office, he walks towards his desk, past the usual collection of movie cliches – guys drinking coffee; guys sitting on desks, chatting; guys leaning back in their chairs, feet on desks, reading. None of this happens in my office – we’re all too busy. He notes differences today. That pile of viking helmets wasn’t there yesterday. How come those two aren’t wearing collar and tie? And why is Skinner’s shirt ripped like Christmas Day wrapping paper?
“Mulder, look at this.” It’s Scully. He follows obediently. Is she thinking about last night? Should he be embarrassed? She doesn’t let on.
“It’s from British Intelligence. They want to know why these things keep appearing.” She tosses him a size 7 3/4 helmet.
“What have you got?” he asks. She hands him a map of sightings.
“These reports,” he says, looking at it. “They’re centred around Nottingham.”
Later that day, he’s in a dark underground car park. Next to a pillar, hiding from what little light there is, is a dark, mysterious figure. He hands Mulder an envelope.
“This is all I can let you have,” he says. Impatiently, Mulder opens it and pulls out the proggie for next Saturday’s home game.
“They’re an English soccer team,” the dark, mysterious, and obviously rather shy figure tells him.
“Yes, I’m familiar with them,” says Mulder. “They won the League in ‘78 , then went to Europe and won the cup twice. They play football the way it’s supposed to be played. On the ground …” But he’s talking to no-one. Deepthroat has disappeared. He’s a United supporter and can’t bear to be reminded about the European Cup.
Pausing only to pick up Scully, Mulder drives straight to Dulles Airport where they catch the next available flight to London. There they take the tube from Heathrow, but at Knightsbridge, Scully jumps off saying
“I’ll catch you later – I just want to do some shopping.”
Mulder continues alone.
Up in Nottingham, he visits the TBI and stands a few pints. The locals fill in some background.
“We had this guy, played for us, who could pull the ball down with his instep like he was picking cherries. All of a sudden – he’s disappeared.”
“Tremendous player. Remember his goal at Spurs last year?”
“You should have seen that time he hit the bar against Leicester.”
“Excellent passer of the ball – what’s happened to him?”
“Of course, he was a great guy, too. He’d spend Sundays with the hunt sabs. He flew the helicopter that landed those protesters on Brent Spar. He was always somewhere protesting against some road or other – Twyford Down, M11, you name it.”
That night, Mulder calls Scully.
“It’s weird – there are so many things that don’t add up. Norman’s virtually unbeatable – he’s been catching everything in the air; Woany’s been running around like he’s Steve Stone on speed; JL can find Roy with his knock-ons; Fat Wallet’s on a diet; Cloughie’s sober. Something’s …”
Scully isn’t listening.
“Sorry, what did you say? … Look I’ve got to go now, I’m going to see Cats tonight.”
Mulder calls up his old dear.
“So what’s going on Mulder?” she says.
“This Norwegian footballer has disappeared and there are these stories …”
“Sounds like Tallahassie in 1960 and Snoqualmie in ‘72,” his Mam tells him. “These people disappear one day and then turn up altered in some way the next. I think that’s what’s happened to your ball player.”
“Mom, you don‘t mean …”
“Yes, my dear. The aliens have captured Bohinen.”
That night, he can’t sleep. He gets up and takes a walk. Walking alongside a 3 foot brick wall by Lace Market, he looks over and sees a tall figure disappearing into a disused railway tunnel. Mulder can’t see in the darkness. Is it human or alien? He jumps down and follows. Soon, he picks up the distant throb of heavy bass. There’s a red glow ahead. Suddenly a voice welcomes him.
“Come on in man, We’re expecting you.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” asks Mulder.
“Relax man – have some of this,” Mulder declines.
“We know what you want,” another voice tells him. Mulder thinks he can make out dreadlocks on his head.
“It’s OK man,” the guy says. “I’ve been there. It’s cool. They took away my angst man.”
“How do I meet them?” asks Mulder.
“Here, dude.” The tall guy throws him a shirt.
“Number 12,” says Mulder. “You mean I’m sub?”
“No man, you’re playing up front. Have a good game.”
So, when Saturday comes, and the City Ground faithful congregate, Mulder finds himself partnering Bryan Roy. In the tunnel, before kick off, he looks at the number 12 shirt in his hand and shakes his head. He’s still on duty. He checks that his shoes are polished. He flicks a spec of dirt off his sharply pressed trousers. He adjusts his dark blue tie, buttons his jacket over his starched white shirt, and runs out with the rest of the lads.
We usually do well against this lot, but the first twenty minutes are a bit flat. Mulder calls back to the midfield to raise their game. Rolling up his jacket sleeves, he makes a fist and shouts “Come on lads. Fizz it about.” It works. LSG pulls down a header from Coops and lays it back to Psycho. Psycho finds the Bartman in space and he spreads it to Stoney. Stoney plays a quick one-two with Roy then sends a first-time ball low across the box where Mulder meets it at the far post and buries it. Five minutes later, a quick ball out of defence puts Woany one-on-one with their centre back. He takes it to the edge of the box and shapes to shoot, but instead cuts it square to Mulder who hits a sweet right foot shot into the top left corner. We’re turning it on now. A sweeping move from Bruno to Gemmill and then Woany launches another attack. Roy makes a run to the left dragging the defence, Woan looks up and finds Stoney in acres of space with a cross-field ball. Mulder, running in the inside right channel screams for the ball. Stoney plays it inch perfect for him to run on to.
Two rows in front of me, Charlie lets out the familiar cry: “There’s no-one in the box”.
The ball zips across the empty goal area and harmlessly wide.
At the same time, Mulder finds himself in a corridor. The walls are grey and metallic. The light is dim and foggy. He can hear a voice, clear, feminine, and calm. But he can’t see.
“Where are you?” he asks. “I can’t see you. What are you going to do with me? What do you want?”
“You won’t see us, Mulder. We are pure energy forms”
“Hey, this isn’t Star trek,” he shouts “You’re supposed to be humanoid.” She ignores him.
“Welcome to our museum,” she says. “Take a look around.”
He does. Lined up against the walls are silver tubes shaped like oxygen cylinders. He touches the first one and feels an overwhelming sense of fatigue. Stepping back, he senses rather than sees the inscription:
- “Lazyness. I Woan.”
Moving on, he passes:
- “Clumsiness. M. Crossley.”
- “Alcoholism. B. Clough.”
- “Any talent whatsoever. C. Short.”
- “Guilt. O.J. Simpson.”
- “Socialism. A Blair.”
And then:
- “Integrity. L. Bohinen.”
- “Loyalty. L. Bohinen.”
- “Compassion. L. Bohinen.”
- “Footballing ability. L. Bohinen.”
“So what did you do here?” asks Mulder. “Did you take all of his ability?”
“That’s right,” says his guide
“So Blackburn get nothing?”
“Why not?” she says. “We did it to Webb, Clough, and Collymore too.”
“Cool,” says Mulder “I like you guys.” He’s feeling better already. He walks back along the line of cylinders knowing he’ll soon be sent back home. Before he leaves, he sees a new inscription:
- “Paranoia. F. Mulder.”
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Background
After taking over from Brian Clough in 1993, Frank Clark quickly rebuilt the side that had just been relegated. However, despite fielding Forest greats such as Stuart Pearce, Steve Stone, Colin Cooper, Mark Crossley, Stan Collymore, Ian Woan, Scot Gemmill, and Steve Chettle, etc, etc, etc, we started 1993/4 slowly. At the start of November, we were 18th in the second division, way off top spot and even behind D*rby. Then we signed Lars Bohinen from Young Boys of Bern for £450,000 and he proved to be the final piece of the jigsaw. We started winning games, marched up the table, and were promoted back to the promised land. Bohinen played a major role in the success of the following season when we finished 3rd in the Premier and qualified for Europe.
Bohinen had a buy out clause in his contract and was bought by Blackburn for £700,000 in October 1995. Most Forest fans considered this a betrayal and put him in the same category as Stan Collymore, Neil Webb, and all of the others who left us for so-called “bigger clubs”. This is highly hypocritical. We can fully understand any Huddersfield fan hating us and wishing us nothing but evil for stealing Lewis O’Brien and Harry Toffolo. However, it is a fact that many of those players who left us (Neil Webb, Nigel Clough, Garry Birtles, Peter Davenport, etc, etc), had their best days at Forest.
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