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Anfield Anonymous
February 16, 2012
— 2 Comments
By Carl Mungazi
The lighting in the bar of an exclusive, discreet Liverpool hotel casts a shadow that hangs menacingly over one corner of the room. Two Englishmen share a drink, seeking seclusion in that darkness. Hidden away from prying eyes, they lean back in their seats, sipping occasionally and watching other guests enjoy their dinner. Their waitress, long-legged and elegant, brings them another round. They pretend to ignore her, only stealing a glance when she walks away.
“Is this what it’s come to, then?” The smaller of the two men sips his drink. “Hiding out in hotel bars?”
“We’re not hiding. It’s just nice and quiet here.” The larger man’s gaze lingers on the departed waitress. Tilting his head back, he shakes his pony-tail.
“Well, we really can’t go anywhere else,” comes the bitter reply.
“I’m tired of it all.” Ponytail takes a long swig of his drink. “ I could have been a king on Tyneside but I decided to risk it and move here because that’s what big players do. I never asked to be bought for £35m, in any case. You had it easy in the Midlands.”
“Take it easy, you don’t want to get drunk do you?” His companion was becoming alarmed. “ The boss will kill you.”
“To hell with him. I’m my own man.”
“Yes, a man under contract. You know what will happen if you’re caught drunk again.”
Ponytail looks away, muttering under his breath, then reluctantly puts down the glass. It’s almost empty, anyway. At the bar their waitress has been sizing them up. A colleague joins her and the two whisper, cast mischievous glances in the men’s direction, and lapse into fits of giggles.
“Oh great, we’ve been spotted,” the smaller fellow groans. “ They’ll be bringing out their cameras next. “
Ponytail chuckles. “I heard that’s how they found you — some YouTube clip with you kicking balls into a bin?”
“I know, it’s embarrassing. The whole thing was choreographed. You’d have thought that Damien fella would have caught on before he went for me; even Becks did one on the beach and it looked dodgy.”
“Yeah but he’s a legend. You…you’re just alright.” Ponytail’s eyes bore through the table, in the direction of his mate’s moderately famous left foot.
His friend snaps back. “I’m more than alright.”
“Come on, you know what people say. Your service is so poor, you couldn’t deliver a pizza.” The pony-tailed man grins widely.
“Ha. Ha.” The smaller man isn’t smiling, attempting to hide his annoyance behind his pint glass. “And your forward play has the penetration of a eunuch.”
The second waitress approaches the table, not as pretty as her friend, but more curvaceous. Ponytail is instantly on alert. He fetches a chair from a nearby empty table.
But Pizza Boy is having none of it. “Two more please, and ten shots of that stuff there.” He points to a brightly coloured bottle on the highest shelf behind the bar.
“What are you doing, mate? I wanted her to sit down.”
“She’s supposed to be working.”
“So?”
“We should let her work.”
“She can work here.”
“No. She can work over there.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
“No.”
“You’re scared. You lack confidence and you go missing in big moments. Sunday was a prime example. I ran all afternoon but no delivery came. ”
“And when it did come you fluffed it as usual. So we’re even.”
“This isn’t a competition.” Ponytail shakes his head, then decides to try a new tack. “Why did you order ten shots, anyway?”
“Because I’m being adventurous. You just said that’s what’s missing from my game, and the boss agrees. I’ve got to start somewhere.”
“He also said we said we should improve our chemistry.”
“Why? I don’t want to date you.”
“No, but she might,” Ponytail nods. The voluptuous waitress returns with their drinks. Collecting the empties, she winks at Ponytail and saunters off, her hips swaying with every step.
“I reckon I’m in there.”
Pizza Boy snorts. “Whatever. Now come on, five shots each. Drink up.”
The pair down the shots quickly, Pizza Boy’s inexperience showing as he coughs and sputters his way through the five glasses. “Come on, then.” Using the seat rests to support himself, he rises slowly. “Let’s get us some girls.”
Ponytail leaps to his feet at the invitation and the duo set off in the direction of the waitresses. The foursome spend a moment chatting before the girls excitedly shed their aprons and split to fetch their belongings.
As they slip out of sight, Ponytail punches his tipsy friend playfully in the arm. “Who knew you had it in you? You sly dog!”
Standing in silence at the door to the lobby, they watch a group of revellers come out of the lift, shouting and jostling as they stagger through the foyer.
“Do people really say that about me?”
“Huh?”
“The stuff about my pizza delivery service.”
“Oh, I made that up.”
“Bastard.”
The pony-tailed man shrugs and scans the room. He’s tired of waiting.
“I’m going.”
“What about the girls?”
“What about them?”
Both men step out into the cold, crisp, night air, searching for a taxi. Pizza Boy waves one over, and when it pulls to the curb, opens the door with a magnanimous gesture. Ponytail hesitates, cocking his head quizzically at his companion.
“Is my forward play really that bad?”
A Pint Between Reds by Carl Mungazi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Rafa’s Melwood Vacation
February 8, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
Fact. Hecho, in my native tongue. A strange word, fact. Not a beautiful word, yet simplicity personified in its meaning. To paraphrase the Oxford English dictionary: “a thing that is known or proved to be true”. The margin for error when comprehending this definition is as small as the latest bill from Pako Ayesteran’s barber.
And yet this word, fact, gave me many problems during my time as head coach here at Melwood, where I am currently spending the lion’s share of my ample free time. Musing. Conjugating. Observing the boys. My boys.
It was West Brom away. No, Stoke City. Definitely Stoke. I do not make mistakes with recollections. January tenth, 2009. Horrid, windswept evening. To say my boys were affected is a fallacy. Gerrard hits the post in the dying seconds. I stand by what I said the previous day. The boys were not affected. Incredible save by Sorensen from Kuyt. My boys were not affected. Unfortunate goalless draw meant we remained top.
No, it was the dictaphone monkeys who created the disease. Liverpool, Premier League Champions 2008-09. The best team did not win it. I stand by what I said. The press always against my boys. Look through history — and the present day.
Take Suarez. I watch him sell Luis Enrique a dummy in a six on six out on the pristine Melwood field. Beautiful. Pako would have praised him, let him know how beautiful a move that was. Steve Clarke merely nods. Dour Mourinho lackey. Don’t get me started.
My boys, Agger and Skrtel are synergising perfectly, defending their area like lions. Kings of their domain. Showing why only City have conceded less. Zero point nine one. Not bad for a pair no-one had heard of before I plucked them from obscurity. The boys agreed with what I said here at Melwood on that Friday afternoon; they had not been affected by it. Here’s what affected them: ghastly headlines; Rafa’s Cracking Up; Other Managers Tripping Over Themselves To Back Alex. Every word said and every pass played analysed. No-one can function well when every move they make is over-watched.
Good pass there from Gerrard.
Mike Dean. Ferguson — I’m searching for a particular word — ah yes — harangued poor Mr Dean after the Hull game that season. Steve Bennett. Harassed into giving the penalty at Wigan which won them the title in 2008. I predicted similar shenanigans in the corresponding fixture the following season. Lo and behold, another penalty, another title. Why does no-one call me Nostradamus!
My flask is nearing empty. I’d better switch on the heater in my Seat Ibiza. If you are prepared to get up early — very early — there is a small clearing in the bushes of the Melwood complex. On the other side of this, there is a gravelled area from whence I can observe my boys in total anonymity. No-one knows that I am there.
There has only been one moment where I felt my vantage point comprised, when Lucas was urinating in the bushes and pointed in my direction. Turned out he had spotted a starling. Very interested in ornithology, my boy Lucas. He can go on about cockatoos till the cows come home. But do not assume I am not welcome at the complex. It’s just…. awkward. Kenny prefers not to see me. At least, not with the clipboard, laptop and playbook. Says it puts the boys off. Maybe his boys, the lily-livered Downing, the potato-head Adam, or that pony-tailed, want-to-be ruffian from Newcastle, yes. My boys are made of sterner stuff. Gerrard is never phased. Even at half-time that night in Istanbul, when I only had ten players on the tactics board during the team talk. He got my message.
People are curious as to why I still persist living in the Merseyside area. The people here understand me. They shared in the success I created with my boys. Istanbul 2005. Cardiff 2006. The double over United in 2008-09. Ah yes, 1-4. The boys were not affected. They understood my philosophy. I was firm, yes. But I was fair.
Johnson is straying. Let him know, Clarke! Rodriguez can exploit the space. Go on Spearing, release. Nothing doing.
Do I miss them? I think — I believe — they miss me more. Defensively they are back to nearing the solidity which I instilled in the unit. In terms of attack, there is obviously more work to be done. Blackburn and Fulham have scored more this season. My boy Nando. Discarded. A hundred and fifty percent. You’re welcome, Mr. Henry. Who thought it safe to bring Bellamy back? At least he’s remained more than fifty miles from Riise. It’s for the greater good. I am convinced N’gog could have been a Kop legend.
OK, maybe I jest with that one.
I chuckle as I turn down Radio Five Live on my car radio. Alan Green has finished broadcasting for the day. I’m glad he liked the away shirt I sent him with all my boys signatures. Says he never misses a match. Nice man. Can’t say I enjoyed the six-pack of Kestrel he sent me in return, though.
Kenny has blown his whistle and brought them all in. Winding up for the day. Kuyt listens intently. Maybe he cannot decipher the strong Glaswegian brogue. Lord knows I struggled. Glaswegians. Not my favourite people. Alex played a little joke on me the day after he connived his way to the title in 2009. Sent the ’2009-2010 fixtures’ to my office, six weeks before they were released by the Premier League. Quite accurate, as it turned out. As a footnote, he wrote: ‘Better luck next year, you fat, bearded bastard. This is a fax’.
Or maybe he meant facts…
Rafa’s Melwood Vacation by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Legend Of Nando and Carroll
December 29, 2011
by Emelie Okeke
Window’s ajar, rumours swamping the press,
Agents abound, they flog their pound of flesh.
From guarded boardrooms do chequebooks appear,
Threats of P45s fuel coaches’ fears.
Millennium’s twelfth year, the first month’s end,
Fallen giants with designs to pretend.
Once-proud liver birds with little to sing,
Hope rekindled with return of the King.
The Kop’s poster-boy of a previous reign
Has lost his lustre for club and for Spain.
Still, past exploits guarantee a suitor:
Interest from an Italian tutor.
Ere contracts could even be ink-embossed
Tough terms were imposed on the Russian boss:
Serious money would have to change hands,
But the Blues did not quake at Red demands.
Whilst trophies were laden the past two years,
(Cup, League and Shield caused Mancunian tears)
Half way table a truly sorry sight,
Champions flounder, with rivals in full flight.
February entered its first vestige,
Saw a deal struck of premium prestige.
Young matador adorns the shirt Number Nine,
A larger fee no-one had ever signed.
Their idol departed, roster not set
The Yanks had to purchase a new goal threat.
Burning pockets emptied upon the Tyne,
A rash amount spent, given sight of hind.
Rash followed Rush, and Aldridge and Fowler,
This Geordie lad best not have a howler.
Talented, troubled, scourge of Capello,
No-one’s cost more, but Nando and Dzeko.
What the future holds is yet to be seen,
Scarce optimism is left to be gleaned.
Anfield goals still rare as sitters are missed,
No trip to Ukraine a likely last diss.
And as for new Blue Boy, panic ensues,
The bench is his rest; upstarts earn their dues.
AVB and Kenny at pains to nurse
Their multi-million pound transfer curse.
The Legend of Nando and Carroll by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at strangebounce.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://strangebounce.com/2012/01/13/the-great-spl-brainstorm/.
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)?
December 24, 2011
‘Twas the night before Christmas; all tickets were sold
For Elland and Loftus and old Vicarage Road.
The press rooms were wired and ready to air
In hopes that King Kenny might break down and swear.
The Reds were nestled so snug in their suites,
All happy and eager, except for Luis.
His reputation sullied, mood turned to black;
Eight games he must sit for racial attack.
And over in Paris, there arose such a ruckus,
Cried PSG coaches, “They’re going to f— us!”
Qataris forsaking wisdom for cash,
In Kombouaré, not seeing a name with panache
To Castile, whose white knights again were run through,
As Pep and his mob rocked the Bernabeu.
And thus did the Special One’s ire provoke,
Though there was no eye to hand, so lovely to poke.
Looking to FIFA, excuses were tired, retread and lame,
But spouting them freely, Old Sepp stayed the same.
Louder than wolves, how his critics they howl,
While he lies, and dissembles, and at the British does scowl!
“Poor losers! Abusers! Disillusioned and vain!
From Triesman to Coe, Not a one has a brain!”
Thus, to the edge of the desert and the land of the Steppes
The hosting’s been given, and the rest have all wept.
Like piss in the wind and pie in the sky,
The bitching and moaning, and crying, “Oh Why?”,
Has left the Brits and the Yanks all feeling blue,
Predicting heat stroke, no-shows, and race riots, too.
And then, in a sound bite, it all comes to a head
and no-one believes what the Swiss boss has said.
Should f-word or n-word, or more dire be heard,
Just proffer a hand and it never occurred.
Now then at Christmas, while the remainder do sit,
The Prem and Championship increase their remit
Suarez and Terry likely both will appeal,
And wounds slashed wide open may never quite heal.
But Rio will Tweet! and Anton won’t matter,
Fergie will grumble; and Keane-o will chatter.
His droll little mouth runs on and how,
Happy as ever to cause a big row.
Yet, not far away, just a hop, skip and jump,
The disagreement at City is the one which holds trump.
Tevez’ work rate, his untiring hustle,
Give no carte blanche for a manager’s tussle
Though Anzhi, Milan and Paris beckon and call,
His pride has left him no ground to give all.
Therefore, Manchester Town a hero now needs,
Be it City or United whose colours he bleeds.
Over land and cross sea, in a Lear Jet will he ride,
Posh wife and fair children close by his side?
Title now won as was the design;
A new challenge, not money, for that he will sign
The time draws near when the window yawns wide,
and Sir Fergie might choose to add to his side.
Becks is old and he’s slow, lacking all pace,
But his touch is still there, and evergreen grace.
So, he smiles on camera and gives us his plea,
It’s been a long time, but United needs me.
Carrington’s halls echo empty, with no-one to deck them
A leader is needed… so why not sign Beckham?
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
