by Alwyn Payne
If I was Sir Alex Ferguson, my first act of office would be to have all of my ribs surgically removed so that I could fellate myself whenever I felt the need to; as a nice little reward for being such a ruddy good manager. However, this is neither the time nor the place for sycophantic pornographic fantasies [sycophantasies, if you will] starring Glaswegian OAPs. Sometimes I disgust even myself.
Anyway, back in the real – imaginary – world, the very first thing I’d do as manager would be to ban all of my players from using Twitter. Apart from Bebé, I’d force him to tweet constantly, just for a laugh. When I first joined the fantastic social media site, I made a point of following every high profile footballer I could find, hoping for some sort of surreally satisfying glimpse into the lives of the rich & talented. What I actually got was pretend footballer Michael Owen chairing an entirely serious worldwide debate on the merits of particular brands of confectionery and, perhaps even more bizarrely, Wayne Rooney laughing at Phil Jones for looking funny. It was like being in the school playground all over again, though less fun. And there were no girls.
More importantly, no good can come of it. Compare the amount of criticism United have endured due to their players’ forays onto Twitter with the benefits it has afforded us this season. Basically, compare ‘some’ with ‘none’; it’s that simple. While I’m here, what is with footballers’ obsession with Nando’s? They speak of it like it’s some ethereal palace that spews ambrosia from infinitely wonderful pleasure fountains dotted around the place. It’s not. It’s a bit of chicken with some tasty sauce. If I was as rich as they were, I’d eat gilded quail’s eggs with an ivory jus, just because I fucking could. Honestly, they don’t know they’re born.
Giggs can go out and consume the blood of 1,000 virgins or whatever it is that he does to remain youthful.
Next task on my checklist would be to sort out of corners. Alex Ferguson famously commented that Charlie Adam’s corners were worth £10,000,000 alone. If that’s the case, we’d struggle to get any more than 50p and a packet of Hula Hoops for ours. How hard is it to clear the first man once in a while? Fucking impossible, evidently. I’d definitely put more emphasis on the whole squad practising set pieces in training – it’d also improve De Gea’s confidence in challenging attackers for high balls, too.
Ahhh, De Gea. It’s plain for all to see that he’s brimming with talent, but what he’s not blessed with is the abundance of confidence – perhaps arrogance – befitting of a top club’s number 1. You can’t instil confidence in a player overnight, but I’d give it a right good go.
“Dave mate, You’re fucking dynamite. Act like it!”
“Que?”
“Nevermind.”
I’d also issue a warning to the players that NOBODY, under any circumstance, is permitted to venture outside of the team hotel in Amsterdam with Ryan Giggs. He can, by all means go out and consume the blood of 1,000 virgins or whatever it is that he does to remain youthful, but any player caught going with him will be punished with extreme prejudice. They’ll be made to clean Mike Phelan’s tiny shorts after every training session, and stubborn stains take a lot of scrubbing. Some of you may be wondering what angle I’m taking with this; is it jizz, piss or shit? Well, try all three at the same time. Not only is he horny and incontinent, he also shits himself. That’s our Phelan, that is.
The pathetic irony in all of this is that, by writing these less than complimentary words, I have almost definitely written myself out of consideration for the manager’s job, when Ferguson leaves. Though what you may have gathered by my inane ramblings is that, by virtue of me not singling out any tactical or personnel changes that I’d like to make, I think Sir Alex has got most of it pretty much spot on.
If I was really full of intelligent, uniquely brilliant ideas that would improve my club dramatically, I wouldn’t be sat here in my y-fronts trying to think of uniquely brilliant ideas that would improve my club dramatically, and failing. I reserve the right, however, to complain about everything. Particularly Nando’s.
