Woy Hodgson here, I don't know if you wemember me but I happen to be the most wespected coach in Euwope. I have pinballed awound outlandish footy outposts for 35 years desperately searching for a language that will adequately hide my disarmingly charming lisp. Alas there is no such language or culture and I have returned to the banks of the Mersey from the great bustling cosmopolitan eyesore that is london town to assimilate my lisp into the rough vocalisation that is scouse. I am here to impose my tough, british stlye of football (cobbled together very britishly in football backwaters across europe for 35 years) upon the bastion of british footballing pride that is liverpool football club. Gone are the dastardly ways of Senor Benitez. Professional analysis of everything possible to do with the game therefore leading to well informed decisions in the future? GONE. A far reaching and studied network of contacts across Europe? GONE. Pride in the club and an instant innate understanding of what the fans stood for? GONE. Finishing games having scored a goal? GONE. Progression to the latter stages of cup competitions on a regular basis? GONE.
Upon my appointment by Mr.Purslow I was given two directives. Chiefly I was to get those players smiling again. As we all know there is a direct cowwolation between smiling players and football success. And if you follow the 'mass media' (a term I coined in the opening stages of the Finnish season back in 19 tickety too)I am sure you will have spotted a picture of Steven Gerrard smiling in a training session. I myself took this picture with my wind up polaroid camera which I acquired in Marbella on holiday with my wife in the summer of 1912 on our 30th wedding annivewsawy. I took the liberty of posting it directly to my inside man in the Sun newspaper. You'll not see Steven glumly answering questions at Champions league conferences before semi finals and finals. He can now answer with relish as we plummet like a lead weight to the 2nd division. Oh and you wont see him frowning as he has to start out of position on the wight wing AGAIN and finishes the season with an FA Cup winners medal, a champions league winners medal and his highest ever goal tally for a season in the clubs most successful period for twenty years. No not under me, Woy, I have used knowledge of football psyche I learned from the Inuit when I lived in an igloo shaped like an 'R' and meditated under the auwowa bowealis while managing a team of seals, to diagnose Stevens real condition. A twemendous feaw of sidelines. Woy will wemedy this. Straight down the centre for Steven from now on.
My second directive was to get the club to a nice healthy league position. Now I want people to judge me after ten games. I know we lie in a lowly 19th place, having not strung two successful passes together all season, but I have a solution to this. Bwing up Fewnando Towwes evewy chance I get, I hate him because I cannot say his name. I am going to show him not one whisper of a morsel of support in the 'mass media' for the entirety of the season, therefore earning his respect (in truth I am clueless as to how to win the respect of a top player, let alone convince one to sign for me. I have however acquired Paul Knochesky for the tidy sum of 5 million pounds. He has the most piercing blue eyes I have ever seen. They wemind me of the sunsets in the fjords of Trondheim when I managed there in 1321 AD).
All in all I have devised a sure fire means of us winning a league title. After some long nights spent in my scwiptowium (built by belgian monks I became fwiendly with while touring the continent in a white van solving football mysteries) by the light of my womanian waspbewwy candles (bought while I managed a pub team of vampires in neighbouring twansylvania) using my pinewood abacus (got that as a goodbye pwessie fwom Mr. Al Fayed down fulham way) I have concluded if Liverpool continue on our inverse upward trajectowy we will win the league by March. 2097. Of couwse this is allowing for a sewies of catastwophic nuclear howwow wars that wipe out most of humanity and set us back as a species to the stage where we thought our shadows were out to get us and dreaded when they popped out the second the fire was lit. Bastards, all they wanted was the heat from the cutting edge technology flames (which I actually invented just west of eastern borogrovia in the winter of blah blah blah blah blah........................).
He blindly pushed the door of the off license open and staggered out into the bright daylight. It stabbed his vision like sharpened bar white lasers. The world was a gaudy blur. He tipped the bottle of sangria to his lips and put it on his head. A world of new memories to wash away the old ones gushed into his mouth and streaked down through his stubble. Specks of the liquid alighted on his maroon and blue shirt. They immediately dulled and blended in, just darker than before. Darker than before.
He set off for a busy square in town. Loads of people milling about on a day like this. Producing a tattered cardboard sign from the recesses of his shabby pants he set it down and pulled a dirty leather football from a bin he kept it in. He began to do keepyups while taking deep messy gulps from his bottle. Scrawled on the sign was ‘Will split defences for money/alcohol’. His beleagured form took this position for the rest of the scorching afternoon. Whenever someone would offer him a few euros to show off his skill he would burp and instruct them to take up any position they wanted amidst the constant milling bustling crowd. He would then instantly pick a delicate perfect pass straight to their feet wthout them having to move.
Later in the warm Barcelona evening he lay prostrate and forgotten across the cobbles. One arm wrapped around his tattered leather football, the other clutching an empty sangria bottle. The wind gently blew his cardboard sign a few feet, then a few feet more, but it may as well have blown it to Madrid. Draped around his neck was a grubby reminder of past glories, of the the days before Thiago Alcantara stepped into the team. Draped around his neck were some champions league winners medals that the shine had long ago left.
- Pep Guardiola is adamant that short sleeves and a tie look good. Not unless you're managing people who stock shelves I'm afraid.
- Ronaldo never actually uses skill to get by an opponent. He does it to bolster brand Ronaldo. Then he stampedes past them like a wildebeest.
- Mourinho instantly reverts to a version of a disaffected teenager when things dont go his way.
- More to come, my mind is lazy.