A day in the life of a top football scout:
09.15: Alarm goes off. Wake up in strange bedroom with no recollection of the night before. A multitude of women are draped across the bed - nothing new there then. I push my way through the sweaty throng of fanny and find my top designer suit, pristinely hung up. Looks, but more importantly image, is everything. I get dressed and head for the door, where I stop and turn back to see just how fit those fine young fillies are. One of them has a cock. Damn it… not again.
09.30: Walk onto landing and remember where I am and what I’m doing. I’m in a quaint little town called Stourport, where they’re still celebrating the advent of the age of electricity. Bless ‘em. More specifically I’m here to see the local team; the self-proclaimed ‘Mighty’ Abberley Vale football club. I’ve been put up at one of the fan’s house. They call him Gray but I think ‘Shrek’ would be more appropriate. Having scoffed a hearty breakfast of Walkers barbeque flavour crisps we head out into the morning air where we’re to be picked up by the team chauffer.
09:45: The car arrives. Not impressed. An old Ford Escort with a dodgy spoiler and weird smell. Let’s hope the football is better than the transport. To my disgust I discover the driver is also the right back and the mal-nutrioned looking individual to the driver’s left is the team captain. My attempts to ingratiate myself (not that I need to) falls upon literally deaf ears. A captain who’s deaf? What’s that about?! Maybe this isn’t the Real Madrid of Worcestershire that the gaffer had told me about.
09:50: Arrive at a local school where we meet the rest of the squad. I step out of the car and get introduced as the top professional scout that I am. The team are in awe of my suit. Completely understandable. Probably 6 months wages to these guys. The lads start to relax and begin the banter. A remarkably skinny Yvette Fielding look-a-like is exercising his vocal chords with particular rigour. He appears to be announcing his intention to throw the peel of his recently devoured banana into his captain’s face. Hmm. Surely the skipper won’t stand for this. Alas, as eluded to earlier, the poor fella is completely deaf. Yvette despatches his banana skin towards the captain where it hits him right between the eyes. I give a look of disgust; I’m actually thinking ‘Genius’. We head off.
10.10: Arrive at the home ground of the Drag Queens Sports and Social Club. Unfortunate name that. We’re taken to the changing room which I’m assured is one of the best around. Again, not impressed. Where are the massage facilities? The jacuzzi’s?! The kits hung up on individual hangers ready for action?!! I remind myself that I’m not at the Bernebeu anymore. Why do I punish myself like this?
!0.15: Camo comes and greets me. Seems like a pretty amiable sort of guy. He expresses his gratitude for my attendance then promptly turns round and leaves to address his team... I duck… fuck me that’s a big nose. I wander back into the changing room only to see the opposing team’s manager walking out with a genuine look of revulsion on his face. In fact, is he gagging? I mooch on into the change rooms only to be greeted by the most pure, unadulterated, horrific smell of shit I’ve ever had the miss fortune to encounter. A couple of the lads had been on the ale the night before and boy were their bowls letting me know. I enquire as to who, or what, could produce such a smell. Pointed fingers tell me that it’s the captain and Yvette (Dan and Mick apparently) who are to blame. If their footballing skills are anything like their shitting skills, then I’m in for a real treat. Everyone leaves the change room except Mick who’s ranting to himself about the joys of homosexuality.
10.45: Finally we get to the reason why I’m here (and the point of this bloody report!). The game has kicked off. The team are short of players so the gaffer has had to step in at full back. I’m on the sidelines with Shrek and the Gaffer’s brother Paul. A promising start. The team are making space for themselves however don’t seem to be making use of it. I find myself getting involved. “You’ve got time!”. “Use the wing!”. “Shoot!”. Paul strides over and hands me a little gem of advice “Don’t get too involved mate, they’ll only disappoint you”. Inspirational.
11.15: Abberley are on top and are pushing for that first illusive goal. Two performances are standing out more than others. Little Matty Simpson is playing well. Going on a few heady runs and slotting some good balls through the gaps. The keeper is also having a good game. Apparently he’s standing in for ‘the sofa’ who got married the day before and has hence, for some strange reason, decided not to play. I see this as a serious lack of commitment, punishable by lines-man duty for the remainder of the season. I recommend to the gaffer that this be implemented. He agrees.
11.22: 37mins in and the game sees it’s first goal. Unfortunately it’s gone against the Vale. A lack of marking led to a free header which the chauffeur (Stuey) got the last touch on. Unlucky. The game re-starts and the players are getting irritable. Sav is moaning about the lack of supply to the strikers, Camo’s having a go at the ref and Danbo is… well, just getting on with the game in blissful ignorance of the mayhem that’s ensuing around him.
11.40: Second half kicks off to rapturous applause from the crowd, though apparently the crowds have been dropping due to league management’s popularity of the 4-5-1 formation. Luckily, formations don’t worry the Vale and they get stuck in.
12.00: Twenty minutes into the half one of the strikers, Laana (a foreign signing from the eastern block), is presented with a goal on a plate with a great through-ball from the midfield. Unfortunately they mustn’t have football where Laana comes from as he somehow manages to spoon it wide. As it happens that was the vale’s best opportunity of the game and 15 minutes later the Drag Queens strike again. A ball came flying into the Vale’s area which Pedro skilfully controlled via his hand, without the ref seeing, and proceeded to hoof clear… right up Camo's arse. The ball dropped conveniently for the opposing striker who put it away with the kind of finesse Laana can only dream of. Game over.
12.25: The ref, who apparently is putting on weight (about 17 stone since the team last saw him), blows to signal the end of the game. The drag Queens have gone from being the whipping boys to the whipper boys (?!). The Vale look disappointed but soon perk themselves up at the prospect of me signing some autographs for them. I hop into the Lexus which has been hurriedly organised for me and head off. Next stop Juventus!
Yours, The Wobbler
