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It seems as though Trent Crimm has always been a writer for The Independent.
While it doesn’t have the longevity of The Observer or the gravitas of The Guardian, The Independent and its writers have established themselves among British journalists in their relatively short tenure with equal parts respect and appreciation. The novel of modernity has kept the publication in the public eye and in good esteem. Sure, perhaps the stint as a tabloid wasn’t the most inspired decision, but no one can deny the staying power of gossip. At least they’re not The Sun, though that’s not much of a compliment.
Trent is respected, but not exceptional among his peers. With the journalism career plus a few books garnering national interest, his name is recognizable if one is at least passively online, and a sure thing if the internet addiction is chronic. He’s been covering Richmond AFC for years, and it’s not uncommon to wonder why he hasn’t started covering a more prestigious club in the meantime. People either assume he has a quirky fondness for the team, or he’s been relegated to cover it as an extended professional punishment.
Whatever the reason, it’s just common knowledge that Trent Crimm is Trent Crimm, The Independent, and—in the common vernacular—always has been.
And Trent would like to keep it that way.
He has a carefully crafted persona, both online and among the few colleagues he forces himself to have a friendly (if distant) relationship with. A childhood in Somerset, a degree from Cambridge, a brownstone in Notting Hill, a sparse Wikipedia article with all the above information on it.
It seems like Trent has always written for The Independent because he always has been. Since its inception.
He started in obits, but found it a bit too on the nose considering his other more permanent line of work. Spent a few years in politics—never boring, that—but managed to convince his superiors that sowing discord through football really was one of the more efficient methods of temptation.
Think about it—Trent has made this argument many times, nearly has it memorized—the majority of the British populace worships the sport, which is already one step in the direction of false idols anyway, so points there of the Judeo-Christian variety. You’ve got the inherent violence of the sport, both on and off the pitch: Wrath. Not to mention the egos that some of these players come with, there’s Pride taken care of. And then there’s Trent, inciting outrage in those who agree with his writing and bloodlust in those who don’t. Hell wins in every aspect.
(Beelzebub had hated the speech, rolled their eyes and everything, but all that mattered was the Big Guy’s opinion. The downstairs one, obviously)
Trent Crimm, The Independent, Servant of Hell would look amazing on business cards, but wouldn’t necessarily be good for his long term goals of at least somewhat passing under the radar.
And it works. It works for years, best gig he’s ever had, rivaling even the stint he did at the Olympics (that’s the original Olympics, mind you. Before Common Era. Feeding into Grecian polytheism was, admittedly, very easy at the time. Was it a little self-serving to involve the sports? Perhaps. Who really needed to know? Hell still got their souls, Trent got to wax poetic about pygmachia. Literally.)
Hell doesn’t need to know, but Trent likes football. He can already hear Beelzebub’s complaints, accusing him of going native for being in England for too long, and on Earth for far longer. He keeps the reports impartial, but the same cannot be said for the writing meant for Humans. He passes it off as being really good at his job (the Demon job. Well, and the journalist job. One must be accomplished).
He gets to make people angry on a daily basis, and he gets to watch football. It works and it’s great. Perfect, even.
Until Rebecca Welton takes over Richmond AFC and throws an unexpected wrench into the whole thing.
Trent is, in fact, impressed with Ms. Welton’s legal conniving to obtain the club in the first place, so much so that he almost considers asking her for an interview about it (she’d say no, of course, but putting in a report that he at least tried would look good). And he’d never had a fondness for her now-ex-husband, but his sexual misconducts were always easy to take ownership of (another admission: Lust is the easiest sin to take credit for).
He doesn’t even really suspect anything when she fires the long-time manager and hires an American; he almost froths at the mouth with the knowledge that so many people are going furious, and he doesn’t have to write a damn word of extrapolation, just the truth, in order for the masses to succumb to rage.
He’s gotten too soft in his old age, maybe. When Ted Lasso is escorted into the press room on his first day as manager for AFC Richmond, Trent’s skin starts crawling in a way he’d forgotten. An old feeling, biblical. Like the lead-up before being shocked, drawn out to a painfully numbing degree. Maybe Mr. Lasso's been blessed; frustrating, but Trent can work around that.
Ted is laughably affable, smiling confusedly at the flashing lights and the shouting as soon as the proverbial floodgates open for questions. It’s endearing how perplexed he is at the proffered cells on the desk in front of him.
Trent still doesn’t fit the pieces together, not until Ted points him out to speak in the lineup of journos and proceeds to immediately compliment Trent on his glasses.
Trent figures it out, then. Hides his surprise behind said glasses as he puts them away.
Ted Lasso. Theodore Lasso. Theódoros.
He’s a fucking angel.
“Is this a fucking joke?”