“Were gonna party like it’s two-thousand-and-eight” Clint Dempsey shouted as he made his grand entrance to the Estoria nightclub. He was closely followed by the rest of the Fulham ‘glitterati’, as I liked to call them.

Dressed up to the nines and with young women fawning all over them, the players were in their element. “The night is young” Armand Traore crowed whilst surrounded by a bevy of beauties on the dance floor, as the music pumped and the party came alive.

I had opted for a more subdued entrance and hurriedly made my way through the back door of the club, shortly before 10:30pm. “The gaffer is in the house” I heard, as Simon Davies pointed in my direction. The players waded over to me and began arguing over who was going to buy me my first drink, “This round is on me” I proclaimed, to cheers from the players, “Now point this man to the bar”.

I was determined to have a good time and forget all my past troubles. The players jostled for position behind me as I ordered ten bottles of Crystal from the bar. The barman gave me a shocked look and told me to make my way to the VIP area and said he would deliver the drinks to our table.

As I struggled to make my way through the bustling crowds, I spied Mr. Al-Fayed sat in the VIP lounge. He beckoned me over and with the players following me like lost children, we approached his table. “Evening gentlemen” he said. “Are you having a good time Mr. Al-Fayed?” an eager to impress Mauro Zarate chirped in. “I’m having a wonderful time Mauro, thank you very much. That was a magnificent goal you scored yesterday” Al-Fayed said, whilst smiling.

The players quickly dispersed to different corners of the club as they honed in on their pray for the night. That left just me and Mr. Al-Fayed and despite our previously uneasy relationship, I felt more at ease with him now that I was back in his good books. “This is some party” I said, “Nothing but the best for my team” he replied.

We spoke at length about the team and how things were going, but as the drink flowed and the New Year approached, I left Mr. Al-Fayed and wished him a happy New Year. “Oh, one thing Jonathan. Make sure your still hear when the guests of honour arrive. I guarantee you wont be disappointed”. I smiled and made my way to the toilet.

Had Mr. Al-Fayed really ordered us all a stripper? I thought to myself, as I washed my hands. Sure, the drink was getting to me and my rational thinking had gone out of the window, but hey, this was a party after all.

As I began to make my way out of the toilet, a bunch of well dressed men pushed there way past me. “Oi, watch where your going” I shouted. “Watch who you are talking to, boy” came the reply. I couldn’t help but look incredulous and with my heightened sense of bravery, shut the door and made my way back into the toilet. “What did you just say?” I said, placing my hand on one of the men’s shoulders.

He turned around with a look of pure anger on his face, but as he caught my eye, his expression softened and turned into a smile. “Mr. Wolstenholme… surprise!” came the response, “We were coming to visit you as Mr. Al-Fayed’s guests of honour, but you’ve caught us ‘on the hop’, as you say”.

I would have recognised that familiar European accent anywhere, it was Mr. Chervenkov. I have to say that I was quiet relieved after all of that, I was heavily outnumbered, with all of Mr. Chervenkov’s bodyguards swarming around me. “Dmitri”, he shouted to one of the tuxedo-bound brutes “Dmitri, come and say sorry to Mr. Wolstenholme for offending him”.

The nigh-on seven foot tall monster came over and in an almost comically squeaky voice said, “Please forgive me Mr. Wolstenholme, I meant no offence”. I decided not to push my luck and forgave him. “Let’s leave the lavatories, shall we?”, Mr. Chervenkov said, placing his hand over my shoulder and leading me back into the club.

With the blaring music and bustling noise coming from inside, Mr Chervenkov lead me to the exit door. Mr. Al-Fayed was waiting for us outside and as we all stood in the dingy alleyway, he began “Great news Jonathan. Mr. Chervenkov and his associates have decided to invest more of their capital in our project”. Chervenkov continued “We are putting forward fifteen million of your English pounds to ensure that the soon to be great Fulham Football Club becomes the English champions, how does that sound Mr. Wolstenholme?”

I smiled uneasily, I couldn’t help but detect sinister undertones in Mr. Chervenkov’s voice, but replied “Excellent, the squad really needs some reinforcements at the moment and fifteen million will go a long way”. Mr Chervenkov raised his glass, “So were all in agreement; to Fulham, the next champions of the English Premier League”. “Here, here” Mr. Al Fayed responded.

What? Were they saying that they wanted the title this year? That was ridiculously optimistic. I looked around at all their smiling faces and felt unable to register my objections. “To Fulham… Premier League Champions” I murmured, raising my glass.

Mr. Chervenkov really did have this aura about him. I couldn’t exactly place him, the best way I could describe him was as a character out of Goodfellas or even the Godfather, he had that unspoken authority.

As I heard the countdown beginning, I made my excuses and headed back inside. “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1... Happy New Year!” the excited crowd shouted, as 2008 kicked off to the sounds of the Black Eyed Peas. As I bounded over to the players, to celebrate with some less intense fellows, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.

I quickly diverted and made my way to the toilets “Hello” I shouted, as I tried to hear over the music. “Hello” I shouted again, I pulled the phone away from my ear, unable to hear anything and then tried again “Hello?”. Then, in a mumbled foreign accent, the caller replied “One down, one to go…”. My heart started pounding, “One down, one to go, Mr. Wolstenholme”. As I listened on in horror, I could hear screams in the background. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like “Help me! Help me!”.

“Who is this, what do you want?!”, I screamed, overcome with hysterics. “We want what is due to us Mr. Wolstenholme… otherwise, he dies…” came the reply, followed by a hideous cackle that chilled me to my bones. “Or who dies? Or who dies?! Who is this?!” I wailed.

I continued to hear the blood curdling screams, as the voice continued, “Did you really think we wouldn’t find him? We have eyes and ears all over the globe Mr. Wolstenholme and if you don’t meet our demands, that is all that will be left of your little friend”. I could hear the crack of what sounded like a whip, followed by more screams and a familiar voice, begging for mercy.

There was no doubt in my mind - it was Ricky. “Stop, stop it!” I pleaded, “Name your price, just don’t kill him, he has a family”. “Do you think it is that simple Mr. Wolstenholme” the voice spat, “We don’t want money, we want you”.

As I struggled to find the words, the doors of one of the lavatories swung open, it was Mr. Chervenkov, he fixed me with a steely gaze before holding out his hand. Struggling to come to terms with what I was hearing, I placed the phone in his hand. “This is Roman Chervenkov, who the f**k is this?!” he said in his authoritarian manner.

I could hear over the speaker that there was no reply, “If you dare to threaten Mr. Wolstenholme, then you are threatening one of the highest ranking men in the Russian government”. Chervenkov, put his hand over the receiver and asked me for Ricky’s name. “If Ricky Sbragia is not returned safe and unharmed within the next twenty four hours, you will pay for this with you lives, do you understand?”.

The line went dead and Chervenkov handed the phone back to me, “Your friend Ricky will be returned safe and well, I guarantee it”. Mr Chervenkov winked at me and then left as if this kind of occurrence was the most natural thing in the world to him. However, the call had rocked me to the core and I left the club shortly after, in a daze of fear and bewilderment.