2026-11-03, 02:44 PM - Word count:
In the dark and cool blue water of the South Atlantic, a large silver pleasure yacht cuts through the chop with ease. The name splayed across the back is “Zero %APR”.
Three decks, 10 cabins and 35 crew. Young and attractive bikini and swimsuit clad passengers are milling around the small pool towards the stern of the boat, as wait staff bring a constant flow of drinks and snacks.
In the centre, upon two deckchairs, the pasty yet athletic shape of Nick Kasak, wearing his trademark Kaapstad tracksuit, is nursing a fruity looking cocktail, complete with pineapple wedge, opposite a man in a suit.
“So Nick,” the man speaks, his clipped private school accent coming through, “we’ve been so happy with your endorsement work for us so far. Thanks to you, we think we may be able to stop the DFS sale, and actually sell sofas at full price.”
“Well,” Nick pauses, pushes his sunglasses back up his nose and he takes in the surroundings, “I don’t think its just me.”
“No no, you’re the soul of the campaign.”
“I’m literally just sitting on some sofas.”
“Yes, but better than any other brand ambassador we’ve EVER had. We're talking better than Rylan."
Nick shakes his head from side to side, clearly torn at some sort of decision.
“Sign with us for another 10 years after this – you’ll be able to have a yacht like this yourself one day.”
Nick frowns and looks away. This was a really nice boat they’d lent him for the week. Great for clearing his head for the offseason.
His phone rings, the ringtone is “Mambo Italiano”. He doesn’t recognise the number.
“Hello, Nick Kasak here.”
“Hello – is… shhh…”
“Sorry I don’t think there’s phone signal here,” the DFS man in the suit says.
Nick holds up a finger and stands up, trying to chase some imaginary signal.
“Hello? Hel-lo? I’m here, can I help you.?”
“yes… offer… h… Accra… Academy… Manager?” the voice on the phone is garbled and messy, almost impossible to understand.
“Hello, sorry? No I’m not the manager.”
“...speaking?”
“What? No sorry I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“..z- brr… like to offer you the role of Accra Manager… accept?” between noises, the voice gets a sentence out, finally.
“What? Yes, yes, that sounds amazing! I accept!”
“Great… we c-” The phone call ends abruptly.
__________
In an office in Accra’s training facility, the secretary puts the phone down, their boss looking over them.
“Well?”
“The signal was really bad,” she starts, “but he said yes… I think.”
“Well great, we’ll send them over the details immediately… is everything ok?”
The secretary looks confused, trying to make sense of the garbled conversation they just had.
“It’s odd… I thought he would sound different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, isn’t Bob Berendsen Dutch? I didn’t think he would have a British accent…”
___________
Nick looks at his phone, his face in shock. He’d just been made the manager of Adowa Accra. His old academy side. How he would manage this with his season for Kaapstad… well. That would surely work itself out?
“I’ve just been-” Nick starts when a crew member walks up to the pair.
“Satphone call for Mr Kasak.” They hand a chunky satellite phone into Nick’s hands and walk away curtly, giving the smallest of salutes before standing a short distance away.
“Er… hello?” Nick raises the phone to his ears.
“Hello! Finally I’ve got you,” says a cheery voice on the line, “we’re so pleased to accept your application and confirm you.”
“Oh yes, great,” Nick looks relieved, “your colleague just-”
“Confirm you” the voice cuts him off “as the new manager for The British Isles team for the upcoming compeition.”
“Oh.” Nick says, sheepishly, “Oh…”
“We can’t wait to get started with you. Anyway must dash, this is bouncing of several satellites and we don’t like to use Elon’s for too long. We’ll catch up next week. Buh-bye!”
The satphone drops to Nick’s side as he stares into the distance.
“You ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” The DFS man asks, looking concerned.
“No.. I’m fine…” Nick steels himself, letting all his news sink in.
“Tell the Captain to set sail for… ACCRA. And… LONDON. Also…. Cape Town…”
_______________
In an old fashioned wood panelled office, with British and Irish flags displayed and a sign that says:
An old bulldog of man puts down the phone, and turns to his colleague.
“It’s done, Hamish, we’ve got our man.”
“Oh, excellent news, sir.”
“It’s the oddest thing though."
"What is it, sir?"
"I thought Barry McGlynn was Scottish."
Three decks, 10 cabins and 35 crew. Young and attractive bikini and swimsuit clad passengers are milling around the small pool towards the stern of the boat, as wait staff bring a constant flow of drinks and snacks.
In the centre, upon two deckchairs, the pasty yet athletic shape of Nick Kasak, wearing his trademark Kaapstad tracksuit, is nursing a fruity looking cocktail, complete with pineapple wedge, opposite a man in a suit.
“So Nick,” the man speaks, his clipped private school accent coming through, “we’ve been so happy with your endorsement work for us so far. Thanks to you, we think we may be able to stop the DFS sale, and actually sell sofas at full price.”
“Well,” Nick pauses, pushes his sunglasses back up his nose and he takes in the surroundings, “I don’t think its just me.”
“No no, you’re the soul of the campaign.”
“I’m literally just sitting on some sofas.”
“Yes, but better than any other brand ambassador we’ve EVER had. We're talking better than Rylan."
Nick shakes his head from side to side, clearly torn at some sort of decision.
“Sign with us for another 10 years after this – you’ll be able to have a yacht like this yourself one day.”
Nick frowns and looks away. This was a really nice boat they’d lent him for the week. Great for clearing his head for the offseason.
His phone rings, the ringtone is “Mambo Italiano”. He doesn’t recognise the number.
“Hello, Nick Kasak here.”
“Hello – is… shhh…”
“Sorry I don’t think there’s phone signal here,” the DFS man in the suit says.
Nick holds up a finger and stands up, trying to chase some imaginary signal.
“Hello? Hel-lo? I’m here, can I help you.?”
“yes… offer… h… Accra… Academy… Manager?” the voice on the phone is garbled and messy, almost impossible to understand.
“Hello, sorry? No I’m not the manager.”
“...speaking?”
“What? No sorry I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“..z- brr… like to offer you the role of Accra Manager… accept?” between noises, the voice gets a sentence out, finally.
“What? Yes, yes, that sounds amazing! I accept!”
“Great… we c-” The phone call ends abruptly.
__________
In an office in Accra’s training facility, the secretary puts the phone down, their boss looking over them.
“Well?”
“The signal was really bad,” she starts, “but he said yes… I think.”
“Well great, we’ll send them over the details immediately… is everything ok?”
The secretary looks confused, trying to make sense of the garbled conversation they just had.
“It’s odd… I thought he would sound different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, isn’t Bob Berendsen Dutch? I didn’t think he would have a British accent…”
___________
Nick looks at his phone, his face in shock. He’d just been made the manager of Adowa Accra. His old academy side. How he would manage this with his season for Kaapstad… well. That would surely work itself out?
“I’ve just been-” Nick starts when a crew member walks up to the pair.
“Satphone call for Mr Kasak.” They hand a chunky satellite phone into Nick’s hands and walk away curtly, giving the smallest of salutes before standing a short distance away.
“Er… hello?” Nick raises the phone to his ears.
“Hello! Finally I’ve got you,” says a cheery voice on the line, “we’re so pleased to accept your application and confirm you.”
“Oh yes, great,” Nick looks relieved, “your colleague just-”
“Confirm you” the voice cuts him off “as the new manager for The British Isles team for the upcoming compeition.”
“Oh.” Nick says, sheepishly, “Oh…”
“We can’t wait to get started with you. Anyway must dash, this is bouncing of several satellites and we don’t like to use Elon’s for too long. We’ll catch up next week. Buh-bye!”
The satphone drops to Nick’s side as he stares into the distance.
“You ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” The DFS man asks, looking concerned.
“No.. I’m fine…” Nick steels himself, letting all his news sink in.
“Tell the Captain to set sail for… ACCRA. And… LONDON. Also…. Cape Town…”
_______________
In an old fashioned wood panelled office, with British and Irish flags displayed and a sign that says:
BRITISH ISLES WSFC
An old bulldog of man puts down the phone, and turns to his colleague.
“It’s done, Hamish, we’ve got our man.”
“Oh, excellent news, sir.”
“It’s the oddest thing though."
"What is it, sir?"
"I thought Barry McGlynn was Scottish."
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