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The Qatari Job, Part V: One Hump Or Two?
January 27, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
الوظيفة القطري
Blinding sun, sweltering heat, gritty, swirling, gusting wind, and no sign of relief as endless dunes of burning sand stretched from one shimmering horizon to the other. Apparently there were worse places than Inglaterra. Not for the first time, Carlos cursed the way the City regime treated him.
The current first squad, led by Mancini, were met at the airport by a horde of welcoming fans and escorted to Sheikh Mansour’s Qatari palace in a caravan of gleaming, air-conditioned limousines. Carlos and Kia, along with the rest of the City exiles, were forced to make the same journey in a more traditional, less comfortable form of caravan. Had the exiles been bused, or even trucked, across the desert, he would have taken the indignity in stride. He had been raised in the barrio after all, and his success hadn’t smoothed over all the rough edges. Not hardly. But camels? This was humiliation on a new level.
He and Kia rode at the head of the players, just behind the lead group, which included Brad, George, Sparky and Bridgey. The two actors were treating the experience as a grand adventure, but Carlos knew that Sparky and Bridgey were every bit as incensed as he and Kia. Still, they were doing their best to control their beasts, remaining both tall and proud in the saddle to set an example for the squad.
Carlos was dressed in similar fashion to the London training session, with a chequered ghutra and an ogaal wrapped around his head to shield him from the heat, rather than a toque and snood to ward off the cold. Heavy, dark sunglasses shaded his eyes, and had there been any press along to record their journey, his bushy brows and bulbous nostrils again would have been the only exposed features by which to mark him. Carlos fumed at the lack of media, both because they were never about when they might be of use and because he knew that his enemies had made sure of their absence, so that this insult could easily be denied.
Most of the other players were grumbling as well, all having difficulty keeping the temperamental beasts in line. All that is except for Bellamy. His particular dromedary was meek and cooperative. Carlos supposed that the sight of a nine iron being substituted for the standard issue riding crop had made the beast think twice about causing any mischief. The wary dromedary hadn’t stepped out of line once along the trip, leaving Bellamy to whistle a tune and give his mates stick for their poor ‘horsemanship’.
They day wore on and the sun continued to beat down. Carlos thought they’d never reach the palace. Then, just when he was ready to give in, they crested a dune and the edifice rose up before them, perhaps two kilometres away. Outside the walls of the large compound, a huge square of ground had been platted off and leveled. Next to it, a large, inflatable tent had been erected, with large generators connected to it by thick, ribbed hoses. It had to be the air-conditioned practice pitch, which had been negotiated as part of the deal to stage the special charity match between the exiles and City’s first team.
To one side of the big tent were pitched nearly twenty smaller tents: their sleeping quarters. Sheikh Mansour had refused to welcome the banished players inside his luxurious walls. Carlos had been outraged at yet another snub when he was informed of it during the London meeting. He had been ready to pack it in, but George and Brad had brought him around, insisting that being housed outside the palace walls actually played into their plans.
Now, they rode into camp and slid awkwardly off their beasts, who having arrived, simply plopped down in the sand and brayed for water. Carlos stumbled to his tent, carrying his own gear. The kit wasn’t very heavy; but the long, herky-jerky ride had done something to his sense of balance. This must be what it is like to have sea legs, he thought.
As he was about to duck into his tent and take a nap, he heard Sparky call out to the entire group. “Stow your things and report to the mess tent. We’ll have a light lunch and get you all re-hydrated.”
الوظيفة القطري
In an opulent stateroom, done entirely in marble, with fine tapestries draped along the walls, three men stood near a bank of security monitors. Behind them, in the centre of the room, stood a trophy case of ebony and glass. Periodically, floating motes of dust revealed otherwise invisible laser beams, which, along with sensor pads and an array of strategically placed cameras, protected the case. Inside, polished to a blinding sheen, stood an official winner’s replica of the FA Cup. It went wherever the proud owner of Manchester City traveled.
Khaldoon Al Mubarak, Manchester City Chairman, bowed deeply to His Highness, Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed Sultan Al Nahyad, then turned to watch the monitors. Although it had not escaped his notice that the other man, the Italian, Mancini’s bow had barely been more than a nod, he followed his master’s example and ignored the insult. Infidel! His arrogance would one day be repaid in kind, as soon as he outlived his usefulness. These Europeans were such fools. What made the man think his own fate would be any different than his compatriots outside the walls?
“The match will be good for the club’s image.”
His master’s remark brought Mubarak back to the business at hand. “Yes, Highness,” he replied, his sour mood evident in his voice.
“You have reservations?”
“This has all come together rather quickly, and perhaps too easily, Highness.”
The Sheikh waved a dismissive hand. “That is not a difficult riddle to unravel. They simply are eager for some revenge; their pride has been hurt.”
“A vengeful man is a dangerous one, Highness.”
“Bah, what can they do?”
“We are not exactly at full strength, Highness, what with injuries and the Toures away at the Cup of Nations. We cannot afford for anyone to get hurt in a meaningless affair.”
“You think they would deliberately seek to injure their former teammates, Khaldoon?”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Mancini interjected himself into the conversation. “They all know what De Jong would do to them.”
The Sheikh nodded sagely at the manager, again ignoring his failure to show proper respect when addressing royalty, then he turned to Mubarak, spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. “There you have it. The situation is well in hand.”
Khaldoon Al Mubarak glowered at the Italian, then bowed his head to his master. “As you say, Highness. I just wish that I could be so sure. Somehow, I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. And the smiles of those two Americans remind me of hungry jackals.”
الوظيفة القطري
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part V: One Hump Or Two? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part III: A Dish Served Cold
January 20, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
الوظيفة القطري
Outside, the Capital Federal section of Cuidad Autonoma de Buenos Aires was in full swing, very much in parallel with UEFA’s winter transfer market. Under the hot January sun, pedestrians were scurrying, horns were blaring, cars were flying and cabbies were leaning out of windows hurl abuse, without slowing, as they passed along the Avenida Rivadavia. None of that was apparent to one of the city’s most well known citizens, however. With his business manager, he was sequestered inside the regal and well insulated confines of Confiteria las Violetas. The only sounds which fell on their ears were the hushed murmurs of their fellow patrons, the dulcet tones of piped-in Spanish guitar, and the clinking of bone white china and sterling silver dinnerware, and, although the room was lit as brilliantly as a cloudless summer’s day, its vaulted ceilings, supported by gleaming Corinthian columns, and its marble tile and hardwood wainscoting, contrasted by white and red overlaid table linens, provided the duo a peaceful elegance that was completely at odds with the chaotic hustle and bustle just outside the venerable cafe’s doors.
The calm of Las Violetas had been the perfect sanctuary for the Porténo in question during the past several months, since he had fled Manchester’s grey skies and the Machiavellian machinations of its nouveau riche football club, nestled in the newly christened Etihad Campus. Now, however, matters were coming to a head and he had a decision to make. Before the window closed, he expected that he would finally be sold by the club and could begin to pick up the shards of a career that had shattered like a toppled Swarovski figurine. Yet, before the expected transaction crystallised, another opportunity had presented itself. It was an opportunity for revenge.
Now, he and his advisor were meeting to make a critical choice. He felt not once, but twice betrayed by his Qatari overlords and their Italian taskmaster. The need for retribution tore away at his soul like a ravenous beast, but he knew that to enter into this venture put his future, and that of his family, at risk. He cared greatly for his wife and children, and had exacted much from his many erstwhile employers in their name. Yet, he put much stake in his pride as a man, as well. Could he continue to ply his trade on a global stage if he failed to exact a measure of vengeance from those who had so wronged him?
He listened again to the plan laid out by his advisor, thoughtfully rubbing the stubble dotting his cheek with the back of his fingers, then running his thumb over the burn which marred his neck, stretching the scar tissue to its limit.
“Yo no se, Kia,” he hedged, not for the first time. “Bridgey and I are hermanos in our suffering at the hands of City, but everything he touches seems cursed. I fear to enter into any pact with him.”
“Normally, I would agree with you, Carlos,” Kia nodded, “but while he may have started the ball rolling, he is no longer the principal in this plot. The Americanos have taken over.”
“The Americans?” Carlos sneered. “Bah! They are actors. What do they know of this?”
“Si, they are actors,” Kia conceded, “but they have dabbled in plots like this more than once and not been caught.
Carlos raised a doubting eyebrow. He scanned the daily that Kia had brought him, containing the ‘exclusive’ report on the friendly that had been scheduled in the desert. Under a smiling picture of one of the two men whom he most hated in the world, and a headline which read “Sheikh Announces Ambitious Friendly”, ran the following article:
Reuters — In order to help promote Qatar’s ability to keep its grand promises regarding the 2022 World Cup, new Manchester City owner Sheikh Mansour, of the neighbouring United Arab Emirates, has decided to stage a massive friendly involving his current squad, managed by Roberto Mancini, and a collection of former players to be guided by deposed City boss Mark Hughes. The event will be staged on the grounds of Mansour’s Qatari palace in one of the fabled portable stadia that were much hyped during Qatar’s successful bid to stage the ‘22 tournament.
Hughes’ lineup has yet to be confirmed, but it is expected that Wayne Bridge and Carlos Tevez, the two players currently at the top of Roberto Mancini’s outgoing pile, will be involved.
The event will benefit Amnesty International, a pet project of the two Hollywood stars, George Clooney and Brad Pitt, who recently flew to the tiny Emirate and pitched the idea to Sheikh Mansour.
“Do you really think they can pull this off, Kia?“ Carlos asked doubtfully. “What they intend requires muy grande cojones, amigo.”
“Who better than the biggest stars Hollywood has to offer, then? I have been thorough in checking out their credentials,” Kia assured his client. “I would not recommend this course if I hadn’t done a complete investigation. Do you doubt me?”
Carlos’ brow rose higher in answer.
Kia’s expression saddened and his voice took on an injured tone. “You insult me, Carlos. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Only every step of the way, Kia,” his client laughed bitterly. “I left Corinthians because you said London was one of the greatest cities of the world. Yet, for all it’s greatness, the sun seems disinclined to visit very often; the place is grey and raining all the time. All of Inglaterra is like that. I will grant you that you rescued me from the misery of West Ham in a very creative manner, but then you talked me out of my happiness at Old Trafford for the sake of money. I was a fool to listen then, as I am now!”
Kia laughed. “You are a fool for the money, Carlos. Every step of the way, I have made you and your family richer. It has been a difficult road, si, but I know you appreciate me for that.”
Carlos had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his agent’s forearm. “You know that I do, Kia. I apologise, this is all very stressful.”
Kia waved off the apology. “I understand, amigo. Do not trouble yourself. Shall I tell Bridgey that you are in?”
“No se, amigo, no se.” Fear was etched on Carlos’ troubled face. “The match appeals to me. I would love nothing better than to show both the Italian and the Sheikh just how foolish they were to mistreat me. It is the theft which bothers me. You know that Juan Alberto is already in prison for trying such a thing. What would it do to mi madre if both her sons were to shame her so?”
Kia shook his head, sadly. “I am very sorry for Juan, as you know, although I still hold anger in my heart for the way your own brother tried to implicate you in his guilt. Still, this is a very different matter, amigo. For one thing, this affair will be well hidden, not attempted in the light of day. For another, there will be no guns; no one will be hurt — except in their wallet, of course. And that is the least that City deserves, no?”
“Si, that is the least of it,” Carlos agreed. “You are certain that we will not be caught?”
“There is always a danger when you stick your neck out,” Kia shrugged, “but in this case it is minimal. The Sheikh will not want such affairs to become public knowledge, as it will tarnish his reputation and reflect badly on his country’s efforts, whether we succeed or fail. But, si, I have every confidence that we will succeed, amigo, and that it will be both satisfying and profitable.”
Carlos looked deep into the eyes of the man who had brought his career to such heights, then he bowed his head and stared into the demitasse of espresso sitting before him. He knew that Kia’s heart was ruled by money, but not his mind. That was as astute as they come. For himself, he wanted — no, needed — vengeance but it could not come at the cost of shaming his family. That was too dear a price for him to pay.
He pondered the situation for a long time. So long, that Kia was tempted to offer more encouragement. Yet, the businessman knew that he had given all the advice that he could to his friend and client. Anything else he said would be going past the point of sale. Therefore, he just sat motionless, while the footballer wrestled with his inner demons.
Finally, Carlos looked up. There was a fiery determination in his eyes. He picked up the demitasse, downed the hot liquid in a single gulp, and replaced the tiny cup in its saucer with enough force for the porcelain to echo throughout the cafe.
As startled faces swung to face him, he nodded at Kia. “Call Bridgey,” he said. “Tell him we’re in.”
الوظيفة القطري
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part III: A Dish Served Cold by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part I: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
January 12, 2012
الوظيفة القطري
It had been almost two years ago to the day, now, but the memory was still crystal in Bridgey’s mind.
Although the letters had been scraped off, there was still a faint outline visible on the door, spelling out the old gaffer’s name: M Hughes. It was hard to accept that Sparky was gone; Bridgey had come to trust the Welshman, and that was saying something. He had learnt some harsh lessons in trust, of late.
But now the new man had sent for him. Rapping on the frosted glass, he saw shadowy movement on the other side, then a clipped voice said, “Entrare!”
Bridgey turned the knob and stepped inside. The Italian was standing in a corner, on the opposite side of a large, ornate desk, his back to the room. In front of him was a full length mirror on a swivel. Mancini wore a knee-length black coat, its collar turned up, and a club scarf in sky blue and white draped around his neck. Alternating poses between full frontal, three-quarters and left and right profiles, he was clucking at his appearance. Occasionally, he ran his fingers through a thick mane of silver hair, searching for the perfect casual look.
Finally, he relented. “It will have to do,” he sighed.
Without turning, he addressed his guest. “You are Bridgey, no? The cuckolded left-back.”
“Yeah — ‘ere, ‘ang on, what did you call me?” Something had to have been lost in the translation.
“You are the English full-back, from Chelsea?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s right,” Bridgey sighed in relief. He had just misunderstood the man’s limited command of English.
“The one who tried to run away and hide when Terry stole your woman?”
“What?!”
“I am sorry, I have it wrong, perhaps?”
“Have it wrong?” Bridgey spluttered. “I’m sorry, but why do you have it at all? I mean, what business is it of yours, mate?”
Mancini finally turned and faced him. His smile had a wry look about it.
“Well, the — what is the English — chemistry? Si, chemistry. The chemistry of a squad is very important, do you not agree, mio tradito amico?”
“Yeah, of course it is,” Bridgey replied. “But I’m a professional. My personal life is separate from the club.
“Besides, those paparazzi bastards have moved on to other targets. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“No, no,” the Italian chuckled. “You misunderstand. I am not concerned about reporters.”
“You’re not? What, then?”
“Well, mio uno evirato,” Mancini began, “You have surely heard Calcio referred to as ‘The Beautiful Game’, no?”
Bridgey nodded in acknowledgement.
“Buono,” Mancini’s wry grin took on an air of condescension. “But the question is how is it beautiful, eh?”
Bridgey shrugged and searched for an answer, but before he could spit out more than a couple of feeble words, the new boss overrode him, making it completely evident that the player’s opinion was both unwanted and inconsequential.
“If you go to Spain,” he continued. “They will tell you that the game is — ai, I haven’t the words in English – intricato e delicato. Is this something you understand?”
“Yeah, sure,” Bridgey smiled. “Intricate and delicate.”
The Italian cocked his head. “Is so?”
Bridgey nodded.
Mancini grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. “Hmmph, and I thought the English would be difficult.”
Bridgey smiled again, like a child. Maybe the foreigner wasn’t so bad, after all.
“So,” the gaffer continued. “Intricate and delicate. In Italia, however, it is not so.”
“No?” Bridgey asked.
“No,” came the reply. “Calcio is beautiful like a wolf. We hunt down il delicato and choke the life from them, as il lupi stalks the deer. It is similar in England, I have been told. Here, you play like lions! You use power and force to subdue il delicato, no?”
Bridgey shrugged his shoulders. That wasn’t really his style.
Mancini carried on with his lecture. “Here, as in Italia, the game has a…”
He searched for the proper term, but could not find it, instead settling for the Italian. “Selvaggia bellizza.”
Bridgey’s face was complete incomprehension.
The manager scowled. “Ai, basta!”
He pulled a smart phone from his coat pocket and punched several keys.
“Ah,” he said triumphantly. “A savage beauty!”
“Okay,” Bridgey nodded. “Sure.”
“Ah, bene,” the manager spread his hands, palms up. “You see the problem.”
Bridgey shook his head. He was lost again. The manager held his pose and raised his eyebrows, hoping the player would catch on. Bridgey just shook his head again. An encouraging shrug didn’t help either. Mancini closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Mio Dio,” he muttered in frustration. Then he raised his head and held Bridgey’s eyes with a hard gaze. “It is my intention to win everything in England,” he explained. “The chairman will give me all the money I need and any player I require. I do not require you.”
“What?” Bridgey was taken aback. “Why not? I’m the England number two left back!”
“No,” Mancini said coldly. “You are not. You walked away from that because another man took your ex-wife to bed. And that is the problem. You are weak, a coward. I want players who will fight for everything. I do not care if they make trouble, if they hurt feelings. I only care that they fight.”
Bridgey’s anger was written all over his flushed face, and his restraint brought a derisive laugh from the manager.
“You see?” he continued. “Were I you, I would leap over this desk and do my best to murder me. But you? No, you haven’t il palle — the balls. You hold back. This is not what I want.
“And besides, if you were still the England number two, my opinion would not change. Is it not so that in English, number two is another way to say shit? As a left back, that is what you are, Signore Delicato.”
Bridgey’s temper overflowed. Unfortunately, true to his nature, the spill was more a dribble than an eruption. His British civility just wouldn’t relinquish its hold on his personality.
“You may be the new boss,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “But I don’t have to take that rubbish from you! Put me on the pitch and I’ll show you how shit I am!”
Mancini shook his head sagely. “No, that I will not do. I am already sure that you will show me exactly how shit you are.”
“Then sell me!”
Again, the manager’s head offered a negative response. “I have already — how do you say — put out some feelers? Sadly, £95,000 per week is more than anyone is willing to pay for such a plain flower, however delicato.”
“Well, cancel my contract, then.”
“No, no. I cannot do that. There are other players who will ask for the same, and sadly, UEFA insists that we make some effort to do good business. Your own weakness has buried you.”
Bridgey wanted desperately to wrap his hands around this arrogant foreigner’s throat and squeeze the life from him. Instead, he decided to beg. His tone became plaintive.
“All I need is a chance.”
Mancini looked at him with thinly veiled scorn. “I cannot — no that is incorrect — I will not give you even one. Only when I must, will I use you — when I have no other choice, when everyone else is injured o morto, and then, only until I can buy another player. Capito?
Bridgey couldn’t stop himself from nodding.
“Buono. You have no place at this club. Now, go. I have players I must speak with.”
“You bastard,” Bridgey held the Italian’s mocking gaze for a moment, before turning and walking out of the office on shaky legs. He didn’t even have the energy to slam the door. As the anguish of being rejected yet again rushed over him, he barely took note of two diminutive figures seated in the outer office, awaiting their audience.
“Si, si, Kia,” the one with the long scar growled. “The money is muy bueno, but I think the billboard is maybe too much, no?”
الوظيفة القطري
Now, two years later, Bridgey was still in limbo with City. But he wasn’t alone, anymore. There was now an endless parade of players who had been chewed up and spit out by Mancini. Tevez was merely the latest. Bridgey had been brooding on his revenge for some time, and now that the Italian had denied his one, last, public appeal, it was time to put his grand plan in action.
He punched the number his agent had given him into his cell, and listened to the rhythmic chirp as it rang an ocean away. Just when he thought he might have to leave a message in his meager Spanish, there was a click and a rush of static.
“Hola?”
Carlos?”
“Si. Quién es?”
“It’s Bridgey.”
“Quién?”
“Bridgey. Wayne Bridge. You know, from City.”
“Oh, si, si,” the name finally clicked with the Argentine. “Kia said you would call. Lo siento, I forgot. He said you wished to talk about a new project?”
“Yes, Carlos, I do,” Bridgey smiled. “How would you like to stick it to Mancini and City but good.”
There was a pause on the line, then a very enthusiastic response. “Si, I would like that very much, amigo! Dimé, dimé! Tell me more.”
“Alright. Here’s what I have in mind….”
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part I: Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
UEFA New Year’s Irresolutions: What Will Almost Certainly Not Happen in Football in 2012
January 9, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
JANUARY
In a desperate attempt to curry favour with his club’s owners and to escape the wrath of the vehement Ewood Park home ‘support’, Steve Kean reaches an agreement with the Premier League and Venky’s to play the remainder of Blackburn Rovers’ home games this season at the Wankede Cricket Stadium in Mumbai. In their first game in the club’s new surroundings, Blackburn lose to Fulham by an innings and 26 runs. A defiant Kean claims after the match that Rovers played in a style worthy of the name of this great stadium.
“Yeah, by playing absolute wank,” chimes in a nearby journalist.
FEBRUARY
Manchester United make their long-awaited debut in the Europa League, away to Ajax. Despite the widespread criticism of the tournament’s format and credibility, United manager Sir Alex Ferguson maintains the club will take their involvement in UEFA’s second competition very seriously.
“We want to win it,” he proclaims as the teams run out on the pitch, with United boasting seven players from their under-14 squad and a strike partnership of Brian McClair and Sir Bobby Charlton. Channel 5 broadcast proceedings live from Amsterdam, with commentator Stan Collymore enthusiastically poring over the action in his Tactics Truck situated in a nearby car park.
Sensibly, Wayne Rooney is kept away from the Red Light District. And female-only senior persons’ homes.
MARCH
After successive, damaging defeats to Napoli, Manchester City and Tottenham, Andre Villas-Boas is unceremoniously sacked by Chelsea. In a short statement issued in the aftermath of the dismissal, Roman Abramovich expresses his regret, then confirms the details of Villas-Boas’ “modest” severance package: £17million, multiple share options, five yachts, and the Maldives.
The young Portuguese coach departs Stamford Bridge denying claims that he was not mature or experienced enough to stand up to the big characters in the Chelsea dressing room — but immediately spends half his severance money on Vimto and Wham bars, while texting his dad to help him shift the yacht, so he can get home quickly for a mega Championship Manager sesh.
APRIL
Manchester City wrap up the title with a typically emphatic 8-0 victory over Wolverhampton Wanderers. Mario Ballotelli has a quiet game, scoring four goals in the first 10 minutes, before being sent off for round-housing a mascot (Wolfie the Wolf), whose only offense is sporting the same haircut as the young Italian. Balotelli is then spotted in the Molineux Main Stand during the second half, distributing 5,000 chicken balti pies amongst supporters, the resultant case of mass indigestion sparking an epic pitch invasion at the final whistle.
Upon receiving a six-month suspension from the FA, Ballotelli’s appeal consists of only three words: “Why Always Me?” The FA respond by extending his ban by another month.
MAY
Real Madrid defeat Barcelona 5-4 in one of the greatest Champions League finals of all time, at the Allianz Arena in Munich. Departing manager Jose Mourinho denies any foul play on his part, dismissing claims that he needs ‘dirty tricks’ to defeat the Castilians’ great rivals. UEFA, however, announce an investigation into Real’s fourth goal — scored from a Cristiano Ronaldo free kick, wherein Barcelona’s keeper Victor Valdes appears to be shot by a firearm.
“A bullet was found in Valdes’s midriff etched with the initials J.M.,” a UEFA spokesman confirms.
Meanwhile, as Euro 2012 comes to the forefront of the minds of fans and players alike, Real’s German international players, Mesut Özil and Sami Khedira, deny setting out to deliberately injure Barca’s Spanish contingent with a string of highly dangerous tackles. Still, accounts of Xavi, Andres Iniesta and Sergio Busquets, all seriously injured, being driven aimlessly around the streets of Munich for hours, with the ambulance drivers maniacally singing the German national anthem, suggest that UEFA might launch another investigation.
JUNE
Eyebrows are raised by Fabio Capello’s squad selections for England’s forthcoming European Championship finals campaign. “You want-a youth, I want-a experience, we both-a happy!” Capello defiantly declares as he picks Brooklyn Beckham, Tom Daley and the kid from the John Lewis Christmas adverts, to provide “fresh impetus” into the squad, alongside “experienced heads” Jimmy Greaves and Peter Shilton. As well, he announces Papa from the Dolmio adverts as his new Assistant Manager. England are eliminated at the quarter-finals stage, losing 3-0 to Italy. It is to be Capello’s final game as boss of the Three Lions although footage of ‘Don Fabio’ high-fiving Papa Dolmio as Italy’s third goal goes in, as well as reportedly enjoying a post-match bunga bunga party in the victorious Italian dressing room, leave more than a smidgen of doubt into where his allegiances really lay.
JULY
Germany win the European Championship for a record fourth time, defeating a surprisingly depleted Spanish side 3-1 with an excellent display of attacking verve. Mesut Özil does not succeed in deflecting the pressure surrounding the ongoing Champions League final investigation, delivering a cryptic message during his post-match interview on German television: “My undying thanks to the Munich ambulance drivers. You can pick up your envelopes at the party!”
AUGUST
English Champions Manchester City conclude their summer spending in typically reserved fashion, splashing out £100 million to buy Blackburn Rovers. Manager Roberto Mancini insists the deal is good value for money, and that all of Rovers current staff and facilities will be utilised.
“It’s a good deal — Ewood Park will be our new training ground, Steve Kean takes on an even more challenging position than his last, as Mario Balotelli’s anger management coach. Also, I am happy to say that I now have at my disposal three full teams capable of challenging for trophies — plus the current Blackburn squad — and the buy-out includes Rovers’ history, too.”
The last, somewhat controversial clause is confirmed by a new plaque unveiled at the start of the season, inscribed “Welcome to the Etihad — home of Manchester City Rovers, Premier League champions 1995 & 2012.” Rumours of City Rovers naming a stand after Graeme Le Saux prove unfounded and Mancini remains defiant in the face of the subsequent outrage.
“What do you think, we have more money than sense?!” Mancini chuckles, as he refutes the rumour during a press conference unveiling the signing of Michael Owen from rivals Manchester United for £20million. “Besides, it’s not like it’s the most money we’ve ever spent. We did invest £130 million in seven vials of Lionel Messi’s sperm for our new youth project.”
SEPTEMBER
Jose Mourinho makes his long-awaited return to Chelsea, replacing interim coach Guus Hiddink on a long-term contract.
“I wanted a contract duration that suited both my long-term ambitions and symbolised my relationship with the very patient Mr. Abramovich,” Mourinho insisted, as he put pen to paper on a three-week tenure, with a clause stating that first class air tickets to Manchester be purchased immediately if “so as much as a sneeze” is heard from Sir Alex’s dugout.
Mourinho finds it difficult to find believers willing to accept his claims that he is less egotistical nowadays, especially after arriving at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea’s opening game parading down Kings Road in a giant white chariot, with each of his three Champions League winners’ medals adorning a separate FHM High Street Honey — one blonde, one brunette and one redhead.
OCTOBER
Despite Arsenal falling 15 points off the pace after just 10 games, Arsene Wenger remains adamant that he will not yield in pursuing his club’s evidently flawed transfer policy.
“We will only make value signings,” he vows in a press conference, where he denies claims that he threatened to give Thierry Henry back to the New York Red Bulls “piece by piece” if they did not stop making daily calls enquiring on his return.
“Probably, we should have not kept him past March. Or April. Or May. Or against his will,” Wenger admits. Now, after having made short-term moves for previous playing legends Sol Campbell, Jens Lehmann and Henry, Wenger remains coy on rumours that Igors Stepanovs is his next target for a temporary mid-season spell at the Emirates.
NOVEMBER
Harry Redknapp enjoys a golden honeymoon period at the outset of his reign as England manager, winning all of his first four World Cup qualifiers. His task is made somewhat more arduous, however, as he is no longer able to call on the services of captain Steven Gerrard, nor regular squad members Glen Johnson, Stewart Downing and Jordan Henderson. Fueled by increasingly strained relations with English football’s governing body, Liverpool FC dramatically withdraw from their affiliation with the FA.
Embittered Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish confirms, “We have had enough of being victimised. Its always big old FA picking on little old Liverpool. There’s been the Suarez affair, refs picking on poor shy Bellamy, and the final straw was today, when Fergie cheated at Kerplunk at the managers’ summit and no-one told him off!
“With our 40,000-capacity stadium and countless trophies, I’m sure we can find a new league to accommodate us.
“What? No, it doesn’t matter that the hardware is mostly from before 1990, or that we haven’t played post-Christmas European football for quite a while now.”
At month’s end, Liverpool proudly join the SPL, but do attempt to leave the door open for a return by offering Andy Carroll back to the FA and Harry Redknapp’s England set-up. Redknapp says, “Thanks, but I’ll scrape by somehow.”
DECEMBER
The year closes with Mario Balotelli returning from his seven-month ban just as City Rovers open up a 20-point lead at the top of the Premier League. Balotelli gets into the spirit of the season by doing a lap of honour dressed as Santa Claus, whilst spraying the contents of a Lucozade sports bottle clearly marked “FOR SPECIAL USE ONLY” into the adoring City Rovers crowd, who lap up every drop.
At exactly the same time, Roberto Mancini bursts into the home dressing room, frantically asking, “Has anyone seen Messi’s semen?”
UEFA’s New Year’s Irresolutions – What Will Almost Certainly Not Happen In 2012 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/.
The Down Side Of Beating United
January 5, 2012
by Roge Slater
Brrrrrt-cht, Brrrrrt-cht.
Brrrrrt-cht, Brrrrrt-cht.
“Ullo, Pards here.”
“Ciao, Halan. Iz Roberto, current King of Manchezzda, he-he! I ring coz I wanna said thanks to you.”
“Hi Roberto. No problem, it was nothing”.
“No, no. I no juss wanna said thanks you for the United’s no score, I wanna said thanks for the goalz you score also. It makes a big difference, no?”
“As I said, not a problem. We did it for us, really, not for you”.
“Ah Halan, that is so — ow you say — cute? But come, you know dis teetle race iz really only between City and United, no?
“Oh?”
“Look around, il mio amico. Arsene, he’s a nice guy, but he spenn more time to learn his good Henglish than to run his team. He gotta many sharp suits but no sharp shooters — escep’ than Van Persie. Everyhuan know you can no make de team from one person. You can never have enough, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so, but then, you have raided Arsene’s cupboard more than once, ‘aven’t you Robbie?”
“Well, if he no pay his players, someone must. He-he.
“Anyway, oo helse make a challenge, eh? Villas Bore-us? He bring the Portuguese manner to the dressing room, no? Much Latino blood running hot a-dere. Dey no gonna win, dey no even talk. Iz more likely eez old blokes throw a –- ow you say –- a strop?
“An as for Tottingham –- dat Arry, lovely bloke I tink. But I can no unnerstan a word he said! His team, dey good one day, den dey no so good dee nest. I tink he’s a few players short — maybe, I send Arry more elp… what you tink, Halan?”
“Actually, I’d prefer you send it to us, Robbie!”
“Hmmm. I tink about tat. I do owe you one. You see on the internet for Ales? He spend last week sit in a dark room for his birtday, he no believe the result. He drink and someone tell me he smoke again. He sit there with some transistor radio to listen to us play, and he only come out when we lose, like iz ‘Game On’ or something. He tink dey av a chance again because we loose. But I know — I know is jus’ one of dose tings –- we play well and sometime, we lose. They play sheet, and of course dey lose. Iz different, no.”
“Yes.”
“But look I say thank you an, okay, also I say you need any elp dere? Iz mad January, so maybe you wan’ me send you a couple of players? Dey no play against us, of course, but I like to elp you for gratitude. I got Bridge, De Jong, uuhm, Tavares, you take any you like. But, of course dey no come cheap but maybe we elp a little. De capo has a few quid, so we can — ow you say — split the difference? You pay and we pay and you get the players you want, eh? You still ave to play Tottingham and Harsenal has well, no?”
“Yes, well I’ll think about it, but the result was really for the fans. They’re great up here, and really get behind the team and the club…”
“Haha, Halan. That is — what is the word — quaint? LOOK Halan, you know dis really no matter. My chairman ave more money than some countries, so we can buy a players to stop him signing somewhere helse. Like Carlos bloody fandango. He go nowhere, unless I said he go. An he no go anywhere is a close game. Iz why I say you can have him. Maybe I even ring Sir Ales and see if he wan take him back…”
“You don’t think we can give you a game, Robbie? We’ll have to see about that. You’d best hope the title’s wrapped up come May, boyo!”
“No, no, Halan! I no meena this with you –- iz my Heenglish –- is okay but not great. You become my friend after last night, so I wan to elp you out. Iz always a difficult match with you, but I still think we shade it! Anyway, you ave interest? Bridge iz no bad, maybe he get fitter up there with games and he do a job for you. Or De Jong. He iz ard player, so he fit right into your midfield, no? Tavares, he is de same, an he score goals no doubt. Only, I be onest to you. He will sing like a canary about hanything if you let him. An, if you no let him, he go home at de drop of a hat.”
“Look, Roberto, thanks for your call. I’m grateful, honestly, but we’ll go out and try and win every game, whoever we are playing because that’s what’s best for us, not because of what it means elsewhere. You’re doing well and perhaps we’re a bit envious, but I’m sure we’ll get up there with you soon. I’ll let you know about the players, but I need to think about that. Our Club Secretary will be in touch formally if we’re interested.”
“Okay, Halan. But you know dese boys, dey no be around all month, so think fast, eh?”
“I will. Goodbye –”
“HALAN, HALAN!! Don go, yet! Iz one more ting. Dis Ba, ow much you wan for him? I reckon he do a job an fit in well here. Maybe we do a deal, yes? Perhaps you take Teves, and Ba, e comes as part of the fee, no?”
“No!”
“No? Tink about dis, Halan. Milan, dey are tinking has well. Can he sing?”
“What? No!”
“You sure? Maybe you juss no bring it out in him, yet?”
“Goodbye, Robbie!”
“Ok Halan, you think about it, yes?”
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye — iz good to talk! I tink I watch another ‘Carry On’ now, to elp my Heenglish. Now which one has dose Red Devils in skirts? It always make me laugh.”
