Nebbiolo
Valuation: £108 million
Someone posted this on RAWK, and he lifted it from an Arsenal forum. It's funny, very funny (if you like that sort of thing).
FAT SAM'S DIARY:
April 11th 2009.
That Rafael Benitez. Rafael they call him. Goatee beard, whatever that is. Not like mutton chops. No, not a manly beard. Not facial hair. Not like my moustache. I miss my moustache. Mr Ferguson though, Mr Ferguson, said it tickled. Gave him a rash. Leant it to Phil at Hull.
Standing. Standing aloof in 'his' technical area. 'His' like he owns it. Staring at 'his' players. 'His' like he owns them. Staring at my players. Does he want to own them? Not likely says Big Sam. Big Sam, too big for England. The FA, too scared, too scared about what Big Sam can offer. Too scared of 4:5:1 with Upson up front. Matty Upson, big, strong. Manly, leading the line.
There he is. The Spaniard. In Big Sam's country. Applauding a goal. By Torres. Another Spaniard. He were imported. Imported into Big Sam's country. The arch of the ball. Leaving his boot. Leaving Robinson, my Robinson, staring at the English sun. Flat-footed like a bobby. A bobby on t'beat. Don't see many of them nowadays.
The noise. The noise of northern men. Northern men and women. Celebrating. Celebrating a goal. Scored by a Spaniard against an English 'keeper. England's best 'keeper. The horror. The horror. Horrible. Treason.
And then. More. The cross. The header. The score. In bold. Spain two. England Nil. Big Sam's England. And there he is. The Spaniard with his facial hair and note book. He's looking at Big Sam. He's looking at me. Past me. Or at me.
Looking. Smiling. Mocking Big Sam! Him! Mocking Big Sam! The arms. Moving. The Smile. The language! Si!? Todo bien?! Todo bien?!!! A chocolate bar?! That's a chocolate bar! He's shouting foreign bloody chocolate bars at me! I half-choke on my Boddington's! Game over. That's what he's saying. Game over Big Sam! Hidden in that language. Game over. He's mocking me. I look to Benni.
Benni. Benni McCarthy. McCarthy. Like Big Mick down t'road. South African. Practically British. A war there. You know? Boars or summat. A war about pigs? Wasn't that to do wit' Cuba? I look to Benni. Benni's waiting. Benni's a striker. He's pleading with his eyes. He's pleading with that raised finger. 'Play me Big Sam.' 'Play me.' We lock steely eyes. I placate him with crossed arms. Strong, crossed arms. 'Samba'll do a job Benni. Samba'll do it.' I say. I say with my arms. I say with my shrugged shoulders. There's still time. 55 minutes. No need for Benni. Samba'll do it.
I march back to give the fouth official advice. 'I could have been England manager!' I tell him. He stares. He's laughing. They're all laughing. Hateful. Spiteful. Mocking me. Mocking Big Sam. Bile rises. I march to t'bench. I almost trip, almost stumble over Winston. Winston. Winston the whippet. My whippet. Big Sam's whippet.
It's over. The Spaniard won. Beat me, beat me; Big Sam. four nothing. Cheated. They all do. Foreigners. I can't abide cheaters. Can't abide players who go around, go around like they own the place. I tell El Hadji. El Hadji agrees. He were booed. Mocked. They all mock. They mock Big Sam and his British Blackburn Rovers. Andre agrees. As does Morten. Never cheats, that Morten. Zurab. Zurab, a strapping lad from Rangers. Rangers in Scotland. British Scotland. He agrees. As does Carlos. Carlos. Funny lad. Says he's chilly. I give him me cap. A cap and a Woodbine.
The FA. I'll go t'FA. Mocking me he were. Taunting. Teasing. Terrible behaviour. Undermined me. Undermined me 4:5:1 with no recognised strikers. Mocked me. I phone Phil. I phone Brian Horten. Spaniards. All of 'em. Mocking. Spitting. I hate that. El Hadji agrees. We all agree. Mocking. Malevolent.
Big Sam'll be back. You'll see.
April 15th 2009.
Training. Training my Blackburn squad. We’re pushing, pushing hard for 13th place. Big Sam. Our Phil from Hull. Phil. Wonderful Phil. And the new lad at Pompey. Us, three Musketeers. No. Too French. Three Amigos. No. Too Italian. Three crusaders. Better. Pushing for 13th. Tight. Too tight. I need signings. Signings like only Big Sam can make. British steel. British talent. Jay-Jay. Jussi. Ivan. Bernard. Stars. Stars, the lot of 'em.
But Big Sam is angry. Big Sam is upset. Eight months. Eight months I’ve been looking. Looking for him. Looking for the one. The one who I signed on the dotted line for. The dotted line of Big Sam’s latest contract. The Blonde. The player that sums up Big Sam. Robbie. Robbie Savage. The player’s player. Eight months. Eight long, drawn out months. Searching, searching high and low. Calling. Coaxing. Is he in the showers? ‘No’ says El Hadji. Is he in the physio room? ‘No’ says Ryan. Is he out on t’pitches? Practising? Practising his free kicks. Practising his penalties. ‘No’ says Brett. Then, after eight months. Eight long, precious, Robbie-less months. Big Sam hears. ‘Brighton Gaffer!’ Brighton?! What’s Brighton? Who is Brighton? Where does he play? Sounds English. Our Craig is ready. Pen in hand. Calculator out. ‘No’ says Stephen. ‘Robbie’s at Brighton. It’s down south.’ Down south?! I’m sick. Physically sick. Our Craig – good lad my Craig – fetches my brown paper bag. I’m sick. I’m sick to my stomach. Robbie. My Robbie. My hope. My playmaker. Down south. There’s no hope. ‘Gays’ says our Craig. ‘Lots of gays down there in that there Brighton.’
Craig wakes me. Says I fainted.
The training goes well. Paul. England’s number one ‘keeper. Paul is a marvel. The lads. My lads. Big Sam’s lads. They’ve swapped the balls with Easter eggs. Easter eggs on sale at Asda. Paul is catching every one. England beckons. Blackburn’s Paul. Big Sam’s Paul. England’s number one again. Put on me Blue Tooth. Nike on Speed-Dial. Will they change the Premier League ball? Hook up with Cadbury? ‘No’. No says Nike. I spit. I spit out my gum. Foreigners. Scuppering England. My England. Fabio. At my desk. Should have been my desk. My gum. My last gum. Stuck on the floor. Stuck on the floor of a Portakabin in Blackburn. Irony. Irony they call it.
No more gum. I send our Craig to Mr Asiv’s round t’corner. Our Craig. Out on his own. I give him some petty cash from t’drawer. Let him keep his ten percent mind. Look after family. Disaster! Disaster strikes Big Sam. The flavour. My flavour. Big Sam’s flavour. Sold out! Our Phil has bought the last pack. Our Phil who came over to show off his Blue Tooth. He’s bought my gum. ‘No sour grape left Dad’ comes our Craig round t’corner, ‘It’s all gone.’ Disaster. I console the boy. Yes. Yes, you can keep that ten percent lad.
I phone Arsene Wenger. Arsene Wenger. Sat in that training ground. All curves and corners. Like Paris I dare say. Arsene puts me on hold. Talking to Gilles. Gilles?! Big Sam is angry. Angry at being on hold. Arsene, on his phone. Sat in his office. In his training ground. Probably sunny down there too. No good. Credit running low. Big Sam doesn’t need his advice. His sports’ nutrition advice. His advice is of no use to Big Sam now. I send our Craig back to Mr Asiv’s. Five pounds credit. Ten percent for our Craig.
I phone Mr Ferguson. I take notes. Knight of t’relm. Hero. Idol. Martyr. I note it down. Pining. Straining. I listen. I note. Hovis. Check. Dripping. Check. Vimto. Check. Done. Done and dusted. 13th is ours. I won’t tell our Phil mind. Phil has Kia-Ora. Kia-Ora. Too orangey for crows. Too orangey for crows apparently. I tell our Phil that he needs to cut down. Cut down on those tanning salons. Not right. Not at Bolton I told him then. No salons at Bolton. Met Robbie in a salon though. That’s when he left. My Phil. Gone. To Hull. Hurt. Sorrow. Reconciliation. The Kia-Ora is too orangey for crows. Right. Right I tell him. Crows. Crows, bleak, circling. Looking for the weak. The disabled. The dead. There’ll not find that here. Not at Big Sam’s Blackburn. We’re alive. We’re alive and well. We’ve got 13th to fight for.
Switch off lights. No change from t’meter. The phone hasn’t rung. The phone hasn’t rung again. The red phone our Craig installed. The red phone our Craig installed last year. The phone linked direct to t’FA. It’s not rung. It’s not rung again. That job were mine. Too big. Too big for t’job. Capello. Italian. Managing my England. Big Sam’s England. Not right is that.
Blue Tooth bleeps. Bleeping that Phil, our Phil is calling. Can he take me to see Kightly? Kightly. Big Mick’s lad, down t’road at Wolves. English. English lad. Next Beckham. Next English Beckham. ‘No’ says I. Big Sam is off. Big Sam is scouting with our Craig. Craig is next to me in t’car. A Rover. British. A British motor. A lovely big British motor. Our Craig is checking. Checking flights. Checking tickets. Checking passports. Checking he’s packed the scotch eggs. Checking for holes in t’roads. Four thousand. Four thousand holes in t’road they say. Flight’s booked. Bag’s packed. Ginster’s in glove compartment. Donetsk. Ukraine. Brazilian lad. Jadson. Do well. Do well up north. Have to move Dunny along though.
April 20th 2009.
Holding my own. Holding court. Holding their attention. Rapt. Alert. Laughing. Jamie. Big Sam. Andy. Richard. Sky. Sky Sports. Lovely, caring Sky Sports. Talking. Joking. Love it!
Spoke to Andy. Spoke to Andy and Richard. ‘Don’t mention El Hadj. Don’t mention Morten.’ Big Sam’ll ignore you. Blank you. Black-list you. Boycott you. Boycott. Geoffrey. Northern. Northern hero. Good with a bat. Only hits a ball, mind. I divulge. Sky. No more opinion. Insight. Big Sam. ‘Okay’ say the lads. ‘Deal’. Deal. So we talk. Talk penalties. Talk Arsene bloody Wenger.
Jamie. Not like his old man. Handsome. Handsome lad. His wife? His wife. A rose. A Lancashire rose. But not. Southern. Never mind. ‘Arry. Good old ‘Arry. One of us. One of the Brits. Supports our players. Our lads. I phone ‘Arry. Speed dial. Speed dial number three. Our Craig, number two. Our Phil, lovely Phil, number one. Always. ‘Arry, can’t lend me players. On the quiet. Not allowed. Not allowed these days. QUEST, or summat. Wanted steel. Hard, winning steel. British steel. To help British Blackburn. ‘No’ says ‘Arry. ‘They’re watching us. BBC. Your Craig. Those envelopes. Police raid Big Sam. Police raid. My gaff. The missus. In her curlers. Can’t help, soz mate. Diamond.’ Subtitles. I need bloody subtitles. These southerners. But no. I got the ‘no’. Understood no. I hear it. All the time. From Arsene. From Rafael. From Guus. Undermining. Disrespecting. Carlos Vela? Loan? No. Daniel Agger? Loan? No. Franco Di Santo? Loan? No. No players for Big Sam. And ‘Arry? Luka Modric? Loan? No. Conspiracy. The south. Out to hunt me. Hunt Big Sam. Deny him. Deny him players. Deny Blackburn. Mocking. Mocking and undermining.
Sky. Laughing. Big. Big bold elephant in the room. But the lads. The lads, Richard, Andy and Jamie. They’re quiet. They respect Big Sam. They fear a Big Sam boycott.
FAT SAM'S DIARY:
April 11th 2009.
That Rafael Benitez. Rafael they call him. Goatee beard, whatever that is. Not like mutton chops. No, not a manly beard. Not facial hair. Not like my moustache. I miss my moustache. Mr Ferguson though, Mr Ferguson, said it tickled. Gave him a rash. Leant it to Phil at Hull.
Standing. Standing aloof in 'his' technical area. 'His' like he owns it. Staring at 'his' players. 'His' like he owns them. Staring at my players. Does he want to own them? Not likely says Big Sam. Big Sam, too big for England. The FA, too scared, too scared about what Big Sam can offer. Too scared of 4:5:1 with Upson up front. Matty Upson, big, strong. Manly, leading the line.
There he is. The Spaniard. In Big Sam's country. Applauding a goal. By Torres. Another Spaniard. He were imported. Imported into Big Sam's country. The arch of the ball. Leaving his boot. Leaving Robinson, my Robinson, staring at the English sun. Flat-footed like a bobby. A bobby on t'beat. Don't see many of them nowadays.
The noise. The noise of northern men. Northern men and women. Celebrating. Celebrating a goal. Scored by a Spaniard against an English 'keeper. England's best 'keeper. The horror. The horror. Horrible. Treason.
And then. More. The cross. The header. The score. In bold. Spain two. England Nil. Big Sam's England. And there he is. The Spaniard with his facial hair and note book. He's looking at Big Sam. He's looking at me. Past me. Or at me.
Looking. Smiling. Mocking Big Sam! Him! Mocking Big Sam! The arms. Moving. The Smile. The language! Si!? Todo bien?! Todo bien?!!! A chocolate bar?! That's a chocolate bar! He's shouting foreign bloody chocolate bars at me! I half-choke on my Boddington's! Game over. That's what he's saying. Game over Big Sam! Hidden in that language. Game over. He's mocking me. I look to Benni.
Benni. Benni McCarthy. McCarthy. Like Big Mick down t'road. South African. Practically British. A war there. You know? Boars or summat. A war about pigs? Wasn't that to do wit' Cuba? I look to Benni. Benni's waiting. Benni's a striker. He's pleading with his eyes. He's pleading with that raised finger. 'Play me Big Sam.' 'Play me.' We lock steely eyes. I placate him with crossed arms. Strong, crossed arms. 'Samba'll do a job Benni. Samba'll do it.' I say. I say with my arms. I say with my shrugged shoulders. There's still time. 55 minutes. No need for Benni. Samba'll do it.
I march back to give the fouth official advice. 'I could have been England manager!' I tell him. He stares. He's laughing. They're all laughing. Hateful. Spiteful. Mocking me. Mocking Big Sam. Bile rises. I march to t'bench. I almost trip, almost stumble over Winston. Winston. Winston the whippet. My whippet. Big Sam's whippet.
It's over. The Spaniard won. Beat me, beat me; Big Sam. four nothing. Cheated. They all do. Foreigners. I can't abide cheaters. Can't abide players who go around, go around like they own the place. I tell El Hadji. El Hadji agrees. He were booed. Mocked. They all mock. They mock Big Sam and his British Blackburn Rovers. Andre agrees. As does Morten. Never cheats, that Morten. Zurab. Zurab, a strapping lad from Rangers. Rangers in Scotland. British Scotland. He agrees. As does Carlos. Carlos. Funny lad. Says he's chilly. I give him me cap. A cap and a Woodbine.
The FA. I'll go t'FA. Mocking me he were. Taunting. Teasing. Terrible behaviour. Undermined me. Undermined me 4:5:1 with no recognised strikers. Mocked me. I phone Phil. I phone Brian Horten. Spaniards. All of 'em. Mocking. Spitting. I hate that. El Hadji agrees. We all agree. Mocking. Malevolent.
Big Sam'll be back. You'll see.
April 15th 2009.
Training. Training my Blackburn squad. We’re pushing, pushing hard for 13th place. Big Sam. Our Phil from Hull. Phil. Wonderful Phil. And the new lad at Pompey. Us, three Musketeers. No. Too French. Three Amigos. No. Too Italian. Three crusaders. Better. Pushing for 13th. Tight. Too tight. I need signings. Signings like only Big Sam can make. British steel. British talent. Jay-Jay. Jussi. Ivan. Bernard. Stars. Stars, the lot of 'em.
But Big Sam is angry. Big Sam is upset. Eight months. Eight months I’ve been looking. Looking for him. Looking for the one. The one who I signed on the dotted line for. The dotted line of Big Sam’s latest contract. The Blonde. The player that sums up Big Sam. Robbie. Robbie Savage. The player’s player. Eight months. Eight long, drawn out months. Searching, searching high and low. Calling. Coaxing. Is he in the showers? ‘No’ says El Hadji. Is he in the physio room? ‘No’ says Ryan. Is he out on t’pitches? Practising? Practising his free kicks. Practising his penalties. ‘No’ says Brett. Then, after eight months. Eight long, precious, Robbie-less months. Big Sam hears. ‘Brighton Gaffer!’ Brighton?! What’s Brighton? Who is Brighton? Where does he play? Sounds English. Our Craig is ready. Pen in hand. Calculator out. ‘No’ says Stephen. ‘Robbie’s at Brighton. It’s down south.’ Down south?! I’m sick. Physically sick. Our Craig – good lad my Craig – fetches my brown paper bag. I’m sick. I’m sick to my stomach. Robbie. My Robbie. My hope. My playmaker. Down south. There’s no hope. ‘Gays’ says our Craig. ‘Lots of gays down there in that there Brighton.’
Craig wakes me. Says I fainted.
The training goes well. Paul. England’s number one ‘keeper. Paul is a marvel. The lads. My lads. Big Sam’s lads. They’ve swapped the balls with Easter eggs. Easter eggs on sale at Asda. Paul is catching every one. England beckons. Blackburn’s Paul. Big Sam’s Paul. England’s number one again. Put on me Blue Tooth. Nike on Speed-Dial. Will they change the Premier League ball? Hook up with Cadbury? ‘No’. No says Nike. I spit. I spit out my gum. Foreigners. Scuppering England. My England. Fabio. At my desk. Should have been my desk. My gum. My last gum. Stuck on the floor. Stuck on the floor of a Portakabin in Blackburn. Irony. Irony they call it.
No more gum. I send our Craig to Mr Asiv’s round t’corner. Our Craig. Out on his own. I give him some petty cash from t’drawer. Let him keep his ten percent mind. Look after family. Disaster! Disaster strikes Big Sam. The flavour. My flavour. Big Sam’s flavour. Sold out! Our Phil has bought the last pack. Our Phil who came over to show off his Blue Tooth. He’s bought my gum. ‘No sour grape left Dad’ comes our Craig round t’corner, ‘It’s all gone.’ Disaster. I console the boy. Yes. Yes, you can keep that ten percent lad.
I phone Arsene Wenger. Arsene Wenger. Sat in that training ground. All curves and corners. Like Paris I dare say. Arsene puts me on hold. Talking to Gilles. Gilles?! Big Sam is angry. Angry at being on hold. Arsene, on his phone. Sat in his office. In his training ground. Probably sunny down there too. No good. Credit running low. Big Sam doesn’t need his advice. His sports’ nutrition advice. His advice is of no use to Big Sam now. I send our Craig back to Mr Asiv’s. Five pounds credit. Ten percent for our Craig.
I phone Mr Ferguson. I take notes. Knight of t’relm. Hero. Idol. Martyr. I note it down. Pining. Straining. I listen. I note. Hovis. Check. Dripping. Check. Vimto. Check. Done. Done and dusted. 13th is ours. I won’t tell our Phil mind. Phil has Kia-Ora. Kia-Ora. Too orangey for crows. Too orangey for crows apparently. I tell our Phil that he needs to cut down. Cut down on those tanning salons. Not right. Not at Bolton I told him then. No salons at Bolton. Met Robbie in a salon though. That’s when he left. My Phil. Gone. To Hull. Hurt. Sorrow. Reconciliation. The Kia-Ora is too orangey for crows. Right. Right I tell him. Crows. Crows, bleak, circling. Looking for the weak. The disabled. The dead. There’ll not find that here. Not at Big Sam’s Blackburn. We’re alive. We’re alive and well. We’ve got 13th to fight for.
Switch off lights. No change from t’meter. The phone hasn’t rung. The phone hasn’t rung again. The red phone our Craig installed. The red phone our Craig installed last year. The phone linked direct to t’FA. It’s not rung. It’s not rung again. That job were mine. Too big. Too big for t’job. Capello. Italian. Managing my England. Big Sam’s England. Not right is that.
Blue Tooth bleeps. Bleeping that Phil, our Phil is calling. Can he take me to see Kightly? Kightly. Big Mick’s lad, down t’road at Wolves. English. English lad. Next Beckham. Next English Beckham. ‘No’ says I. Big Sam is off. Big Sam is scouting with our Craig. Craig is next to me in t’car. A Rover. British. A British motor. A lovely big British motor. Our Craig is checking. Checking flights. Checking tickets. Checking passports. Checking he’s packed the scotch eggs. Checking for holes in t’roads. Four thousand. Four thousand holes in t’road they say. Flight’s booked. Bag’s packed. Ginster’s in glove compartment. Donetsk. Ukraine. Brazilian lad. Jadson. Do well. Do well up north. Have to move Dunny along though.
April 20th 2009.
Holding my own. Holding court. Holding their attention. Rapt. Alert. Laughing. Jamie. Big Sam. Andy. Richard. Sky. Sky Sports. Lovely, caring Sky Sports. Talking. Joking. Love it!
Spoke to Andy. Spoke to Andy and Richard. ‘Don’t mention El Hadj. Don’t mention Morten.’ Big Sam’ll ignore you. Blank you. Black-list you. Boycott you. Boycott. Geoffrey. Northern. Northern hero. Good with a bat. Only hits a ball, mind. I divulge. Sky. No more opinion. Insight. Big Sam. ‘Okay’ say the lads. ‘Deal’. Deal. So we talk. Talk penalties. Talk Arsene bloody Wenger.
Jamie. Not like his old man. Handsome. Handsome lad. His wife? His wife. A rose. A Lancashire rose. But not. Southern. Never mind. ‘Arry. Good old ‘Arry. One of us. One of the Brits. Supports our players. Our lads. I phone ‘Arry. Speed dial. Speed dial number three. Our Craig, number two. Our Phil, lovely Phil, number one. Always. ‘Arry, can’t lend me players. On the quiet. Not allowed. Not allowed these days. QUEST, or summat. Wanted steel. Hard, winning steel. British steel. To help British Blackburn. ‘No’ says ‘Arry. ‘They’re watching us. BBC. Your Craig. Those envelopes. Police raid Big Sam. Police raid. My gaff. The missus. In her curlers. Can’t help, soz mate. Diamond.’ Subtitles. I need bloody subtitles. These southerners. But no. I got the ‘no’. Understood no. I hear it. All the time. From Arsene. From Rafael. From Guus. Undermining. Disrespecting. Carlos Vela? Loan? No. Daniel Agger? Loan? No. Franco Di Santo? Loan? No. No players for Big Sam. And ‘Arry? Luka Modric? Loan? No. Conspiracy. The south. Out to hunt me. Hunt Big Sam. Deny him. Deny him players. Deny Blackburn. Mocking. Mocking and undermining.
Sky. Laughing. Big. Big bold elephant in the room. But the lads. The lads, Richard, Andy and Jamie. They’re quiet. They respect Big Sam. They fear a Big Sam boycott.
