A former Premier League manager approached us here at Tales and asked that we publish his diaries, so he could show the public what life is like out of the game. His only request was that he remained anonymous. Below is this week’s entry:
This week, I had to take a little time away from my incredibly successful consulting business. You see, readers, a ‘friend’ of mine was in need. I am referring to Alan Pardew of West Bromwich Albion. I say ‘friend,’ because I wouldn’t ever choose to hang out with Pards, but we happen to move in similar circles.
I’ll be honest, the idea of the two of us spending time alone chills me to the core. If Tony Pulis rang me up to see if I wanted to spend the weekend on one of his canal boats, I’m there. Big Sam wants to go to a gravy tasting evening, count me in! Pards wants to take me to his favourite brothel, Bareback Jane’s Pussy Emporium? Sorry, Alan, I’m washing my hair.
This time, however, I was called by Candice, Alan’s boa wearing… er, lady friend is probably the most diplomatic way of phrasing it. Apparently, she was really worried about him. Since he had returned from the squad’s break in Barcelona, he had lost some of his ‘vigour’, as she put it. I dreaded to think what she meant.
‘He’s just not his usual self, full of lust and life,’ she said down the phone, clearly exasperated.
‘Don’t you mean ‘lust for life?’’ I asked.
‘No, I mean he doesn’t even want to ****’ (Ed note – We can’t include exactly what Candice said as it is too disgusting. Even for this website)
‘Christ, how does he still digest food? No, wait, that’s not the point. What do you want me to do about it?’
‘He’s always spoken so highly of you. I thought maybe you could bring him around?’
‘Well, I’m certainly not using any of your techniques.’
Foolishly, I agreed to help.
*
I found Alan alone in his office at West Brom’s training ground. He was slumped on his desk with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. The room smelled of booze, sweat and sorrow.
‘Pards… are you okay?’ I asked tentatively as I entered the room.
‘Al!’ he drawled, lifting his head for a brief moment. His suit was covered in stains, it was clear he hadn’t showered for days. He took a large swig of his whiskey.
‘Come, pull up a pew!’ For a split second, he attempted to get up to grab me a chair but decided it would be best to remain seated after his knees buckled from the strain of standing.
‘So, what’s up then Pards? What happened to that jovial, man about town we all know and love?’
‘These…bastards,’ he spat, waving a hand towards the first team photo above his desk. ‘They’re not playing for me Al.’
‘Why not? That’s what you’re best at! Bringing blokes together!’ My voice wavered as I said this. The truth is, I have very little respect for Alan’s managerial ability. I saw the mess he left at West Ham first hand and it took every trick in the book to sort that out.
‘Thanks, Al, I always knew you respected me.’ The fool. No wonder he’s in such a state, the man can’t read people at all.
‘Whenever my teams have started struggling I use the same technique. One hell of a piss up.’ He beamed as he said this as if this was some sort of hidden truth that was the key to all his success. Well, that puddle of piss in the corner of his office didn’t exactly say ‘successful Premier League manager.’ There were no such puddles in my offices, at least, they weren’t made of piss.
‘I took West Ham to Marbella, Newcastle to Zante, Southampton to Bangkok… It worked then! Nothing builds team spirit like seeing Jose Fonte railing a ladyboy!’
I found every part of that last sentence highly unbelievable. This man is a stain on the underwear of human existence.
‘But this time… those turncoats f***** me over,’ he said, attempting to spit in the bin by his left foot. Rather than properly gob in the bin, he simply drooled onto his knee. The saliva hung in the air for what felt like minutes as we both just stared at it in silence.
‘Do you mean the lads that stole the taxi?’ I asked, trying to wipe the last few seconds from my memory.
‘C****! Boaz, Gareth, Jake and Jonny.’
Not one nickname!? Things were worse than I thought.
‘We’ve all stolen things when we’re drunk Al,’ I said, thinking about putting my hand on his shoulder before deciding to keep my hand clean instead. Of course, this was another lie. The only thing I ever stole when drunk was Carols’s heart. Better show her this. Wait, did I write that down? Did I then write that down? (Ed note – this went on for pages.)
‘A taxi though…’ he stood up with his arms wide open. ‘That’s f***ing small fry! They should have been smashing windows, robbing banks! Landing the honeys!’
‘You can’t be serious Pards?’ I said, standing up.
‘THEY’RE F***ING VIRGINS!’ he bellowed, taking a huge swig from his bottle. At this precise moment, his pants fell down.
I saw everything. Everything. But what I saw wasn’t just a ballbag. It was a man at his lowest.
‘You know, Al. I think it’s time you called it quits. On everything. You’re obviously not happy. Just jack it all in and go to Jane’s. You’ve got the money to retire happily there.’
‘No!’ he snarled, attempting to round the desk, but his pants were still wrapped around his ankles and restricted his movement. He ended up just repeatedly brushing himself up against the drawers. That might have been the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve managed Danny Murphy.
‘Look at you for Christ sake! You’re pissed up, surrounded by your own waste and blowing in the wind!’
‘That’s exactly what this bullshit club deserves! I’m taking them down with me! I’m going to piss in every corner I can find! S*** on every desk! They’ve broken me Al!’
I had enough. I turned and walked out the door, looking back just once to see Pards attempting to pull his trousers back up, only to vomit down his legs.
Even my consultancy business can’t help him now. Old Vomit Legs Pards was done. Good riddance.