To launch the blog we have a quite stunning exclusive, we have managed to gain access to the diary entries of a top level footballer during the close season. What follows may shock, it may appal, it may make you question whether these lucratively rewarded individuals are truly deserving of your adulation. For reasons that will soon become obvious we will protect the player in questions anonymity. Oh and by the way to all the naysayers out there, this is not just me making shit up to amuse myself and the one bloke on twitter who thinks I’m “quite funny occasionally” (thanks bloke on twitter) honest it’s not, well maybe a little bit.
The last day of the season
It’s the final game of the league campaign, our standard mid-table obscurity status was secured weeks ago. We had been widely touted as shoe ins for a Europa League spot this year but a run of bad luck and poor form (which was in no way related to discovering that the start date for that particular competition clashed with a pre-planned lads holiday) meant that there would be no European adventure for us this year (not in a footballing sense anyway).
July is for lads on tour hedonistic Ibiza shagathons, not playing a bunch of mid-table Romanians in a stadium that’s crumbling into dust, on a pitch that plays like it’s been tended by a herd of cattle.
There had been some concern within the camp after hearing we were top of the “fair play league” the “prize” for which being a place in the very first round of UEFA’s secondary competition. Some of the lads were (understandably) rather too eager to remedy this and a spate of red cards toward the end of the season meant not only that we slipped down UEFA’s made up league of fairness but that the club ended up getting fined for its ill-discipline. A furious chairman was a small price to pay for an extended summer holiday.
1 week into the close season
Disaster!!! After a spate of injuries there are rumours I will be placed on the standby list for the bloody Euro 2012 squad! How crap must our midfield options be if my half arsed performances of late have put me in contention for a spot on the plane to wherever the hell the Euro’s are being held this year? It’s that bloody new manager, he knows I’ve got the lads holiday to end all lads holidays planned, and after that time I shagged his daughter when we were together at ********* (club name deleted) he’s been looking for a chance to do me.
Problem solved, a quick statement is released announcing my retirement from international football to “concentrate on my club career” the widespread piss taking that ensues as a player with no caps feels the need to announce his retirement is well worth it to save the holiday we’ve all been working toward for so long.
2 weeks into the close season
Things are going well. Thankfully the tabloid press are still full of revelatory stories about how it regularly pishes it down during the British summer meaning there was bugger all interest in the “kiss and tell” story that that wee blond me, Big D and Smithey roasted the other day tried to sell to the Sunday wank rags.
Other than that wee bit of drama I’ve played a bit of golf, hit Nandos with the boys and engaged in some top level banter on twitter. There is nothing more important to a pro footballer than banter, if you’ve good decent banter, you’ve got a chance in the game and no doubt about it my banter is proper decent.
HOLIDAY TIME #LADSONTOUR
Yaasss it’s finally here. What a turn out! This is gonna be MEGA!!
For the duration of the holiday the diary will remain untouched as if the lads discover I can actually write they will run me over with the “banter bus” and on a lads holiday the “banter bus” always moves up a few gears!
We’ve all made it back home (just), parts of my body are excreting fluid at a volume and a frequency that is genuinely quite alarming, bits of me are red that have never been red before and everything itches. These are the badges of honour that denote a successful lads tour.
Of course what happens on tour stays on tour is the most strictly enforced of all the “footballers commandments” but suffice to say a Spanish prison cell is not in my top 10 places to endure a massive ecstacy comedown.
1 week ‘till pre-season training
Oh baws, pre-season starts in a week and the bathroom scales reveal I’m in for a serious bollocking and a hefty fine if I can’t shift the 2 stone I’ve packed on (damn you Nandos Peri Peri whole chicken with sides!).
I’ve dug out one of the missus detox diet books. What the bollocks is a “goji berry”?
Pre-season, day 1
I’ve haven’t shat solid in days and my breath stinks to the point of making anyone downwind of me come over all queasy but I’ve passed the arduous series of tests our physio takes such pleasure in inflicting upon us.
I can’t run more than 100 yards without passing out but you can always fake an injury to get out of that particular form of torture. Passing the body fat percentage test is harder to fake and the bane of every pro footballers life. Thank fuck that’s it over with ‘till next year.
So another season of mid-table mediocrity and early cup exits beckons, acht well at least there’s the club Christmas party to plan! #LadsOnTourInFancyDress
There you have it, pretty shocking isn’t it? And obviously not made up by me in order to alleviate the boredom that comes with having nothing going on in your life whatsoever.
Why not check out what other nonsense Alastair spouts on his twitter feed.