Inside the Mind of a Football Club Owner

This is football, this is fiction.

Or is it?

Eh aye it is.

If you feel like giving the protagonist of this tale an American, a Middle Eastern or a Russian accent then that’ll work just fine with me.

From the mind of an un-named football club owner

The mistake you (the great unwashed) make when you look at guys like me is you think it’s the number of zeros on our bank statements that turns us on. Pish, ironically the only people who really give a fuck about cash are those that don’t have any. Now, don’t get me wrong, of course the money matters, but it only facilitates what truly drives us.

Power.

If you’re reading this then I can guarantee you have never, and will never, know how it feels to have absolute power over another human being. I’d try and explain it to you but Jesus Christ look at you, you’re sitting there reading a fucking football blog for fucks sake. You wouldn’t understand, you and I are cut from an entirely different cloth.

“all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others”

Not that I make a habit of quoting fucking socialists you understand, but however he intended it Mr Orwell makes a fine point here. And yeah in case there was any doubt, I’m Napoleon and you cunts are the fucking sheep (what am I talking about you’re probably too engrossed in Nuts or Zoo to even be aware of ‘Animal Farm’)

How I made my way in the world is quite frankly fuck all to do with you, suffice to say when I needed something done, it got fucking done. Missing targets was not an option, genuinely not an option. You think I’m talking about violence don’t you? You think the reason these people did whatever I asked of them, without hesitation, without query was because they feared some sort of physical retribution. See that’s what I’m talking about, people like you are wholly incapable of grasping the concept of true power. Threatening someone with violence? How barbaric, how primitive and more importantly how unnecessary.

Now I’ve been building up to this, and you’ll appreciate this is a difficult thing for me to do. I am going to admit to a moment of weakness, a moment of weakness that has led to a strategic error which has in turn jeopardised everything I’ve strived for, everything I’ve achieved so far.

I bought a fucking football club.

In my defence, at the time it seemed like a brilliant move. In the circles I move in it’s not enough to be successful, you’ve got to be seen to be successful. Basically there’s fuck all point in having money and power if you don’t flaunt it. Exploiting some fucking third world labour and pillaging their natural resources to build a golf resort/hotel complex in the middle of the desert is all well and good, and yeah everyone loves a private jet, but nothing grabs the attention quite like turning up at a party and announcing you’ve just bought a football club. Combined with the knowledge that my good friend Mr Murdoch was pumping a shit load of TV cash into the game and the continuing fetish you proles display for spending what little money you have on some god awful tat just ‘cause it’s emblazoned with your clubs garish colours,  and my mistake can to an extent be justified.

You know what? At first it all panned out exactly as I had foreseen, the people whose talk matters were talking about me, I used to seal ‘deals’ on the golf course, fuck that, the boardroom of my own personal football club was my new ‘19th hole’. I was at the very top of my ‘game’.

And then the season started.

Like I said, my entire working life, things I’ve wanted done got done. No-one would ever dare tell me that something was ‘guaranteed’ unless it was, you know FUCKING GUARANTEED! What the fuck makes ‘football people’ think they can operate differently than the rest of the world?

Take the ‘tactical genius’ manager I hired, he promised me Champions League qualification, promised it. Fine, qualification for Europe’s premier competition and the financial rewards it brings could now be factored into the budget. That is how things work, you guarantee me something and I use that guarantee to plan for the future. Simple.

Well it’s not as if he even had to win the league, he had to come fourth in a league of twenty, a league where some of the teams have an annual budget lower than my golf club fees. Well fuck me, fourth? He somehow guided us home in fucking ninth! Below our apparent ‘local rivals’ who don’t have a fucking pot to piss in. Gross incompetence, sacked.

It wasn’t just him though, everyone was at it. None more so than my Director of Football Development and his fucking partner in crime (that’s what is by the way, a fucking crime) my Chief Scout.

When someone persuades you to part with the best part of £30million as a transfer fee, and a further £150,000 a week in wages for the next few years, whilst promising that the player in question is not only, the ‘future of the game in this country’, but is ‘guaranteed’ (that fucking word again) to ‘bang in the goals’ that’ll fire the club to glory, you naturally develop certain expectations relating to your multi-million pound purchase. Amongst those expectations is not that this so called superstar will not only be demonstrably not very good at football, but combine that with a penchant for getting explosively drunk and shagging pretty much any female unfortunate enough to wander into his line of sight. We sold him for a loss that even to this day I cannot bring myself to commit to print.

Even when I attempted to introduce perfectly viable strategies to maximise our potential revenue I was constantly foiled. What the fuck is wrong with football fans? How the fuck are we supposed to run a successful business when even something as trivial as changing the stadium name or moving the club to a more economically lucrative location is met with petitions, protest marches and death threats?

You consider yourselves the lifeblood of the sport you claim to love but in fact you are stifling your clubs marketing, and finance generating ability with your ridiculous tribalism and traditionalism. You will be what kills off football, and you know what? I’m gonna have a hell of a time at the funeral.

Oh and does anyone out there want to buy a football club?

Feel free to ask Alastair what the fuck he’s talking about in the comments section or on twitter

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