Noel Draper continues our ‘If I Was The Boss’ series by imagining being installed as gaffer of a mysterious Premier League outfit. The first reader to correctly guess the club will receive a tweet from Daisy informing the Twittersphere of your cleverness.
My dream, sort of, has come true. I have cleaned out the cupboard of alcohol that the previous incumbent left behind in his rather rushed departure (apart from the Scotch, obviously) and have lowered the chair a few notches. In front of me are the facts and figures about the rather dishevelled group of players I have been left with. On the walls of my new office are some inspirational posters telling me and anyone else who reads them that they can achieve anything if they put their minds to it. I rip them down. I plan to chat to my players in small groups and don’t need some American clap trap to get in the way. A timid knock at the door nearly fails to attract my attention as I have found a picture of Rod Stewart in a drawer but I shout ‘enter’ and the first group slowly shuffle in.
I’m going to be blunt with all the players but this, the goalkeepers, is the easiest group. I pour three scotches and hand them to my guests. The American with the funny name drops his. The other two raise their eyebrows at him. I tell them that they are safe from my big axe. The Irishman sniggers and then stops when I look at him. They finish their drinks and then leave. The Englishman bumps into the door on the way out.
I vow to get rid of the mad Scottish bloke as he looks ill and I think he will kill me.
Next up is the defenders. One of the problem areas. They all wander in. The bald Welshman and the weird look in his eyes Irishman appear to be holding hands. In the corner is what appears to be an escaped lunatic, all bald headed and eyes on stalks. Plus he is Scottish. I tell them all, even the Spaniard and the American that they are all under pressure. I will be either trying to sort them out with training or replacing them with real defenders. A Liverpudlian voice squeaks in a distant corner. I tell myself to count the scotch bottles after he has left. The mad Scottish full back is now head-butting the wall next to him. He turns to look at me and I look at the floor. They all leave. A bottle of scotch and a glass has gone missing. I hear shouting. I vow to get rid of the mad Scottish bloke as he looks ill and I think he will kill me.
The next group appears to have more members than it should have. This is soon sorted out when the big old bloke and the weird looking one mutter something about not knowing what position they play before I tell them that they are both English international forwards and to come back later. They both leave. It would appear that I don’t have any wingers. This will need sorting out. I tell the group in front of me that some of them will stay but obviously I don’t need nine central midfielders. The bald one with the pink tracksuit looks uninterested. The foreign looking one in the funny small hat looks smug. They soon leave without even looking at each other.
The last group walk in, including the two forwards from the previous meeting. This is a small group as I have already got rid of the one who was on holiday. I look at them. They all appear to be capped English centre forwards. I vow to give them the service that they need. Two of them have pace, lots of pace and one appears to have no pace what so ever. Target man I think out loud. They all look at each other as though they have no idea what I’m talking about. I sigh. This will be harder than I thought.