BRITISH COMICS
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GORGEOUS GUS
First episode taken from The Wizard issue
1292 November 18th 1950.
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Jeepers! A footballer with his own
dressing-room, creases in his shorts, a valet to attend him!
Ah, but this is no ordinary footballer,
boys! This is Gorgeous Gus.
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THE MAN WITH THE SILVER SALVER
Sam Hopkins, the manager of Redburn Rovers sat in his office and chewed
at the end of his pencil. He was a very worried man, for the Rovers had started
off the season badly. This was Wednesday, and Sam was racking his brains for a
means of strengthening the team for the home match on the coming Saturday.
He
looked up irritably when a polite tap sounded on his door. “Come in,” he
snapped. The moment the door opened, Sam Hopkins jerked himself upright and
stared with bulging eyes. The man who entered the office walked with studied
dignity. He was clad in a black, frock-tailed coat, and dark, striped trousers.
Before him he held a silver salver and on this reposed a solitary visiting
card. Sam Hopkins was reminded of the many butlers he had seen upon the screen.
“Mr Hopkins I presume,” the visitor stated, making a stiff little bow. “My
card.” Still looking dazed, the football manager picked up the visiting card
and saw it was inscribed ‘D. Jenkins.’ That was all. Mr Hopkins shook his head
then. “I’m sorry, Mr Jenkins,” he snapped, but I’m not interested in charities
or anything like that. I’m a very busy man, and—” The visitor bowed again. “I
fear you must let your business wait for a moment,” he said. “I am here by my Master’s
orders.” Mr Hopkins was big and burly, and he was notorious for his quick
temper. His face began to grow red, but before he could get out a word, the
visitor was speaking again. “My Master was present at the Rovers’ last match,”
he said. “I have to report he was greatly displeased with what he saw. In fact
he was so displeased that he has decided that changes must immediately be made
in the team.” That was too much for Sam Hopkins. “I don’t know your Master,” he
said, his fists clenched in anger, “and I never want to know him. Tell him from
me he can mind his own business! I’m the man who decides what changes are to be
made!” Again the visitor interrupted him. “You are under a slight
misapprehension,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll understand better if I explain that
my Master has purchased the controlling interest in this club.” Sam Hopkins’
mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Tell me more,” he gulped. The other bowed
again. “My Master has sent me here to explain,” he said in the same quiet,
unruffled voice. “To start with, my Master considered that the Rovers were very
weak in goal. He has therefore arranged for the transfer to the Rovers of Joe
Prout.” Sam Hopkins placed his elbows upon his desk and leaned forward. “You
wouldn’t be talking of Joe Prout of Weston North End?” he demanded with heavy
sarcasm. “The same man,” was the reply. “He’s now a member of this team.” Sam
Hopkins’ eyes grew wider still. “But—but the North End wouldn’t have
transferred Joe Prout for a penny under twenty thousand pounds,” he said. The
visitor shrugged. “The transfer has been made,” he said. “In addition to the
goalkeeper, my Master also took exception to the play of both backs. He has
decided that both last Saturday’s players will drop out, and their places will
be taken by Sandy Duncan and Bill Power.” Sam Hopkins seemed to be fighting for
breath. “Break it to me gently,” he said. “Are you talking about Sandy Duncan
of the Rangers, and Bill Power of the Ironsides? Why, they’d cost even more
than Joe Prout.” “Their transfers have been completed,” the visitor said, and
his voice was still quiet and completely unemotional. “My Master further
decided that the centre-half was weak, and that his place must be taken by
Leslie Crump, of Woolford Athletic.” Sam Hopkins gulped. “I—I take it that this
Master of yours was satisfied with the forward line,” he gasped. “Far from it,”
was the reply. “The forwards displeased my Master more than any other section
of the team. He has therefore completed the following transfers. Dai Morgan, of
Abercorn City, will
play on the right wing, and Stanley Martinson, of Redpool United, will play
inside to him. In addition, the inside-left position will be taken by Tom
Fingley, of Westport Wanderers.” Sam Hopkins gaped, and he went on gaping.
“That – that leaves Martin, Dodds, Brown, and Webb of the old team,” he said at
last. “According to you, the Rovers now have an all-star eleven.” With a quick
gesture he snatched up a sheet of paper and went to work on it with his pencil.
“Wait a minute,” he said. He began to jot down, and then added up, a long list
of figures. “I’ve just worked it out,” he said at the end. “According to my calculations,
this Master of yours must have spent over two hundred thousand pounds in
transfer fees.” Sam Hopkins laughed then, and a very ugly laugh it was. Slowly
and deliberately he came to his feet. “I pride myself on a sense of humour,” he
said furiously, “but I don’t like being made to seem a fool! I’ve heard of your
kind before. I reckon you’ve got a bee in your bonnet, and all this talk of
transfers is just so much nonsense.” In his haste to get to grips with Mr
Jenkins he vaulted over his desk. “I’m a busy man,” he shouted. “I’m going to
teach you not to come here and waste my time!” Sam Hopkins considered he had an
easy task on his hands in bouncing his strange visitor out of the room. He made
a grab at him, but Mr Jenkins moved slightly, and, to his own utter amazement,
the angry manager went staggering across the room. His visitor still stood
unperturbed, and again he spoke in the same quiet and unemotional tone. “I see
that it is ten o’clock,” he
said, “the hour when the players should be arriving for their morning’s
training. I suggest, Mr Hopkins, that, before you lose your temper again, you
take a look out of the window.” Sam Hopkins looked at him, hesitated and then
reluctantly he went to the window. Three young men were crossing the playing pitch
and all of them carried suitcases. Sam Hopkins had spent a lifetime in football
and there was scarcely a professional footballer he did not know by sight.
“It’s Joe Prout, Stanley Martinson and Tom Fingley!” Sam Hopkins gasped. “I see
that others are also arriving,” the visitor said. Another four young men came
through the players’ gate and they too were carrying suitcases. Mr Hopkins
looked at them and this time he rubbed his eyes. “It’s Leslie Crump,” he
gasped. “Dai Morgan, Bill Power, and Sandy Duncan, too.” Wonderingly, he turned
to gaze at the visitor. “Then – then it is true,” he bleated. “All these
players have been signed on for the Rovers!” “It’s only a beginning,” the
visitor said, and he picked up his silver slaver from the desk. “I’ve one further
item of news for you. My Master has decided that a slight addition must be made
to the grandstand, and workmen will commence work upon it this morning. That is
all, Mr Hopkins. Good Morning.” With the silver salver under his arm, Sam
Hopkins’ strange visitor walked out of the office with dignity. “The Master!”
Sam Hopkins gasped to himself. “Who on earth is the Master?” He kept asking
himself the same question over and over again.
THE NEW CENTRE-FORWARD
The news broke in Redburn that afternoon, and the evening papers were
full of it. All other news was swept off the front pages. Everywhere great
head-lines spoke of “Sensational Transfers.” Interest in the local team had
been waning, but now everybody became excited about the Rovers.
But there was one item of news the
newspapers could not furnish, and goodness knows, they tried hard enough.
Nobody knew the name of the unknown man who had spent so much money on the
team. Sam Hopkins still thought he was living a dream when he turned up at the
ground on the Thursday morning. An annexe was being built on to the stand, and
already it was beginning to take shape. This was due to the fact that the
workmen had worked all through the night by the glare of floodlights. That
morning the new players were again present for their training, but they had no
information to offer. The transfers had been made without their coming into
contact with the new owner of the Rovers. Sam Hopkins positively jumped when a
respectful tap sounded upon his office door. When the figure of Jenkins,
complete with silver salver, appeared, Sam rose to his feet and eyed his
visitor. In his usual, dignified way, Jenkins approached the desk and again he
bowed stiffly. “Good morning, Mr Hopkins,” he said. With another bow, the
visitor proffered the silver salver, and Sam saw that a neatly-typed sheet of
paper was lying upon it. “The compliments of my Master,” the visitor said. “I
have been instructed to bring you the names of those men selected to play
against Wolverton on Saturday.” Sam Hopkins picked up the list and saw at once
that there was one omission. All the new players were, of course, down to play,
but there was a blank where the name of the centre-forward should have
appeared. “Isn’t the – the Master playing Brown at centre-forward?” Sam wanted
to know. The other shook his head. “Brown does not come up to the standard
required by my Master,” he said. “The name of the centre-forward will be added
to the list later.” Giving another stiff bow, he tucked the salver under his
arm, and with dignified tread he went away. When the list was posted, everybody
crowded round it. And everybody came to the same conclusion as the manager. The
name of the centre-forward, they thought, had been left blank because another
sensational transfer was expected. By the Friday the whole town was seething
with excitement. So much so that by noon a
dozen or more enthusiasts had started to queue outside the main gates. They
intended to camp there all night for the game next day. By nightfall the queue
stretched halfway round the ground. On the Saturday morning the gates were
opened two hours before the usual time, and at two o’clock—with still an hour to go before
kick-off—they were closed because the ground was completely filled. And still
the streets were black with men and boys hurrying towards the ground. These
unfortunates massed themselves in the great square outside the main gates.
There was no uproar among them, however, for a voice made itself heard over a
series of loud-speakers that had been erected during that night. “Don’t go
away,” it said. “We regret that so many spectators must be locked out. However,
a running commentary will be made so that you can follow every move of the
game.” Never before had there been scenes like this at the Rovers’ ground. And inside
the ground the fortunate spectators were staring at the addition to the stand.
It had been painted white and gold, and in the centre of it was a door facing
the touchline. All kinds of guesses were made as to why the addition should
have been built. And still the spectators wondered who the Rovers’
centre-forward was going to be. They were not the only ones who wondered. Sam
Hopkins was wondering, and so were the rest of the players. For the Master’s
butler had not appeared again, and no announcement of a new transfer had been
made. With only a few minutes to go before it was time for the Rovers to take
the field, Sam Hopkins looked at Brown, the former centre-forward. “You’d
better get changed, Brown,” he ordered. “It’s obvious that this latest transfer
hasn’t come through.” That was the moment when the Master’s butler appeared.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s no need for Brown to change. The
centre-forward position will be filled.” Everybody stared at him. “Who’s the
new player?” Sam Hopkins demanded. “Why isn’t he here?” “All in good time,”
said the butler. “I’m ordered to assure you that the Rovers will field a full
team. You’ll therefore take the field at the stated time.” Sam Hopkins dropped
down on a bench. “It beats me!” he gasped. “The whole set-up beats me. I wonder
why this Master of his is keeping the centre-forward’s name such a secret?” The
players could only shake their heads. With a few minutes to go, the referee
stuck his head into the dressing-room. “Time you were on the field,” he said.
Sam Hopkins shrugged helplessly. “This is the first time that ten men have left
this dressing-room for the start of a match,” he said. There was a tremendous
roar from outside, signifying that Wolverton had already appeared. When the
Rovers ran out of the alleyway underneath the stand the applause was terrific.
And then somebody spotted that the Rovers had only ten men. “They still haven’t
got a centre-forward!” somebody shouted. The referee began to look anxiously at
his watch. And then from the other side of the ground came a mighty shout.
“Look! Somebody’s coming out of the Royal Pavilion.” The white and gold annexe
had already been named the “Royal Pavilion.” The door of the annexe had indeed
opened, and it was Jenkins, the butler, who appeared. Once again he was
carrying a silver salver. On it was standing a small bottle and a syringe. In
his slow, dignified manner, he paced to the touchline, and here he half-turned.
There was a hush over the packed ground that could now be felt. As though by
instinct all attention had switched from the butler to the open door of the
annexe. And then another figure appeared in the opening. It was a tall figure,
clad in a very long and very gorgeous-looking dressing-gown. And this figure
moved with even greater dignity than the butler. Every eye was focused upon
him. He was tall, and his face was strikingly handsome. Moreover, his hair was
so blond that it seemed to glow under the rays of the winter sun. The hush
still held as the robed figure reached the waiting butler. Jenkins stepped in
front of him, and as he did so, the Master opened his mouth wide. Jenkins used
the syringe then in order to spray the Master’s mouth and throat. With dignity,
the Master divested himself of his dressing-gown, and taking it from him, Jenkins
folded it carefully over his arm. And now the hush was shattered by a
tremendous gasp. For the Master stood clad in a football shirt of the Rovers’
colours, and shorts. Those of the crowd who were near enough declared that both
shirt and shorts were made of heavy silk. Very carefully the butler arranged
the hang of the shirt over the shoulders, and he ran his fingers along the
well-marked crease in the shorts. That was the moment when two boys, carrying
large notice boards, started to circle the ground. The spectators looked at the
words written on the boards, and they could only gasp. This is what they read—
‘The Rovers’ centre-forward position will be taken
to-day by the Earl of Boote, G.B.E., K.C.B., D.S.O., M.C.
THE GOAL THE MASTER SCORED
Standing in the alleyway, Sam Hopkins swallowed hard. “The – the Master
himself!” he gasped. “He – he’s the new centre-forward!”
The
referee and players were staring just as much as the spectators. In fact, the
referee had completely forgotten the passage of time. He stood staring as if
thunderstruck as the tall, stately figure came slowly across the field to him.
“Good afternoon, my man,” the Master greeted him. “I understand that before a
football game can be commenced, a coin must be spun. I have here my lucky five
guinea gold piece. With your permission, my man?” The referee gulped. “Of – of
course,” he said. It was indeed a heavy gold coin that the official took from
the Master and spun in the air. The Master called correctly. “We’ll play
against the wind for the first half,” he said. The teams lined up, and
Wolverton kicked off. Instantly the Rovers jumped into action, with the
solitary exception of the Master. He just stood where he was! Wolverton made a
quick raid, but it came to nothing against the great play of Bill Power and
Sandy Duncan. Sandy
cleared the ball to Leslie Crump at centre-half, and Leslie sent the ball a
little ahead of his centre-forward. It was a wonderful chance for the Master.
The Wolverton defence had followed up its forwards too closely, so that the
Master had a clear field ahead of him. The crowd expected him to chase after
the ball, snap it up, and go dribbling forward. “Now’s your chance, Gorgeous
Gus!” somebody yelled. The Master did not run. He walked after the ball in
dignified fashion. An opposing back beat him to it by yards, and once again
Wolverton were attacking. And then the crowd began to yell. “Get off the
field!” “This is a football match, not a picnic!” “Put a jerk into it, Gorgeous
Gus.” But the Master had not turned a hair. Having lost the ball, he strolled
upfield to the Wolverton goal area. Again a Wolverton attack was broken up, and
Dai Morgan, on the right wing, put in one of his flashing runs. Over came a
perfect cross, and again the Master had a chance. Had he been running, he might
easily have swept the ball into the net. Instead, he simply strolled towards
it, with the result that the Wolverton left-back cleared with ease. Not only
did the crowd inside the gates hoot, but the crowd outside the gates also hooted
for the commentator had described what had happened in exact detail. “Get rid
of him!” was the wail. “Take him off.” That was the moment when the Master
walked up to the referee. A moment before the ball had been kicked into touch.
“Pardon me, my man,” the Master said. “But I believe I have to ask permission
to leave the field. Instantly there was a great burst of ironical cheering.
“He’s going off! He’s had enough!” The moment the Master turned towards the
touchline the door of the Royal Pavilion opened, and a small procession started
out. First of all came Jenkins the butler. He was followed by a servant pushing
a wheeled cabinet. This servant was followed in turn by a man carrying a huge
fan, and after him came a man carrying a chair upholstered in purple.
Straightaway the spectators forgot all about the game as they stared at this
amazing scene. The chair was put down just outside the touchline, and slowly
the Master lowered himself into it. Instantly Jenkins draped the dressing-gown
over his shoulders, and the man with the fan began to sweep it backwards and
forwards before the Master’s face. Opening the cabinet then, Jenkins took out a
jug of water and a tumbler. Filling the tumbler with water he placed it upon
the salver and offered it to the Master. The latter held it up to the sun, and
then slowly he drank it. The man who had carried the chair now went down on his
knees and began to massage the Master’s legs. “What’s that for?” was the yell.
“He hasn’t moved yet.” Suddenly attention was switched to the field of play.
Wolverton were attacking. They forced two corners in quick succession, and then
their centre-forward drove in a shot that gave Joe Prout no chance. It seemed
that the Rovers, despite their star-studded team, were in danger of defeat. For
ten minutes the Master continued to recline at his ease. “I am rested now,” he
said, and he stood with the dressing-gown draped over his shoulders. Patiently
he waited until the ball again went into touch and then he motioned for the
dressing-gown to be taken away. Jenkins took it from his shoulders, folded it
carefully over his arm, and to hoots of derision, the Master walked back on to
the field. “I crave permission to return,” he said to the referee. The Master
walked to the centre of the field and the play continued. A quarter of an hour
went by, and he scarcely moved a yard, except to keep himself onside. The play
rushed by him, and many times the ball came within easy reach. Never once did
he make any attempt to go after it. Only once did he quicken his stately
footsteps a little, and that was when a harassed Wolverton back brought down
Martinson with a foul tackle. It was a tackle that the referee had failed to
see. But the Master had seen it, and he walked up to the offending player. “My
man,” he said, “fair play is a jewel.” The player in question was notorious for
his surly manners, but it seemed there was something extraordinary about the
Master, for the full-back coloured to the roots of his hair. “I—I’m sorry,” he
mumbled. “Granted,” said the Master. In the next Rovers’ attack the ball passed
from man to man and if an ordinary, mediocre centre-forward had been playing, a
goal would have been a certainty. As it was, Fingley tried a shot and the
goalkeeper tipped the ball over the crossbar. Dai Morgan took the corner kick
and he sent in a perfect one. It dropped right in front of the goal and rolled
to the Master’s feet. The Master took two steps forward and his boot swung.
Woosh! The sound of the boot meeting ball was heard outside the ground. The ball
travelled so fast that thousands of spectators declared afterwards that they
never even saw it in flight. Straight to the goalkeeper it went and he crouched
to take the impact. “Ah-h-h-h-h-h-h!” There was another thud as the speeding
ball made contact with the goalkeeper and then the goalkeeper was off his feet
and travelling with the ball. Slap into the centre of the back of the net he
was carried and then there was the sound of rending cord. The amazed spectators
gazed in stupefaction at the gaping hole in the back of the net, and at the
goalkeeper lying on his back three yards beyond it.
THE GOALIE DIDN’T WAIT
There was still a hushed silence as the two teams lined up for the
restart. The ball was kicked off and dribbled a few yards and then the whistle
shrilled for half-time. Immediately the door of the Royal Pavilion opened and
Jenkins, the butler, appeared.
This
time Jenkins broke into a run, and the strange thing was that he still managed
to maintain his dignity. He was carrying the Master’s dressing-gown. Reaching
him, he draped the dressing-gown over the Master’s shoulders, and so clad, the
Master began to walk from the field. And still no sound came from the massed
spectators. In silence they watched the dignified, blond figure pass through
the door of the Royal pavilion. But the moment it closed behind the Master and
his butler, everybody on the ground seemed to give tongue at one and the same
time. And everybody spoke about the same thing – that terrific shot which had
put the ball and goalkeeper right through the back of the net. Surely such a
kick had never been seen upon a football field before. A horde of photographers
were all taking snaps of the broken net before the ground staff started to
patch it up. After the half-time interval the players came back to the field,
but nobody took much notice of them. All eyes were focussed upon the door of
the Royal Pavilion. It swung open, and Jenkins appeared, carrying his silver
salver as always. The dressing-gowned figure of the Master followed behind him,
and on the touchline the Master’s throat was syringed. Carefully Jenkins
adjusted the hang of his shirt and shorts, and then sedately the Master walked
forward to take up his position and kick-off. And then the crowd yelled. “Good
old Gorgeous Gus! Let’s see you score another goal.” The Master kicked off in
the orthodox way, and the Rovers’ forward line got moving. Then one of the
backs intercepted a pass, and Wolverton took up the attack. For a full twenty
minutes they kept the Rovers penned in their half, but try as they would, they
could not score. At the end of twenty minutes Wolverton had shot their bolt,
and the Rovers started to take command. Down the field swept the forward line,
and the ball came to Stanley Martinson. He just trickled the ball forward so
that it rolled along about a yard in front of the Rovers’ centre-forward. All
in a flash the ground was silent. The Master took a casual step forward and his
boot swung. Woosh! Once again the sound of boot meeting ball was heard outside
the ground. Straight for the goalkeeper the ball flashed, but this time the
goalkeeper did not wait. As far as he was concerned, once was more than enough.
With a scared yelp, he dived forward right underneath the ball, and it sped
right through the patched part of the net to clear the heads of the crowd and
drop far beyond the ground. The Master had scored his second goal. That was
when the spectators went wild. They shouted and stamped, and they cheered
Gorgeous Gus to the echo. But the Master had turned to the referee. “Once again
I crave your permission to retire,” he said in a sedate way. “I feel that my
presence is now no longer necessary upon the field.” The referee could only
gulp, and the Master took that for assent. When he reached the touchline,
Jenkins was waiting there with his dressing-gown. The Master passed into the
Royal Pavilion and he was seen no more that afternoon. The game continued, and
the Rovers, hanging on to their lead, were the winners by two goals to one. As
the excited crowd slowly filed out of the ground, one name was on every lip—the
name of Gorgeous Gus, otherwise the Earl of Boote, G.B.E., K.C.B., D.S.O., M.C.
GORGEOUS GUS – 10 Episodes The Wizard issues
1292 November 18th 1950 – 1301 January 20th 1951.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2006