|
|
|
|
Monsieur
Gaffer I
write to you in
despair. It was my
lot recently to
suffer the
cruellest of blows
- my boys did
battle with our
greatest enemies
and suffered a
defeat the like of
which has seldom
been seen in our
team's proud
history. Truly it
was a day that
will live in
infamy. However,
my problems did
not end there. No
sooner had my boys
heard the
referee's blast
signalling the end
of this ignoble
rout than a
section of our
band of followers
pronounced
culpability on a
single one of our
number - Big Igor
from Eastern
Europe, whose
performance that
day has been
accurately
described as
"craven".
They gave chase,
and he took refuge
under the desk in
my office. He has
been there ever
since. My
plea to you is
this: Big Igor has
now spent ten days
trembling beneath
my desk,
whimpering and
crying, and
generally
displaying
cravenness far
beyond that which
originally drew
the fans' ire. I
have tried coaxes,
threats, appeals
to his sense of
dignity - nothing
has worked! I have
much work to do,
Gaffer. I need my
desk. How
can I resolve this
crisis?
Arsene W.
|
|
| Igor's
shame...
|
|
|
|
|
| The
Gaffer replies...
|
|
|
I
sympathise, mate. I remember when I
was with My Paa, a long time ago, we
had a Kyrghyz winger name of Yynddh
Azarardhynekh - nice bloke he was,
too - who got on the wrong side of
the local fans. He was a good enough
player - nippy, you know? - but he
had a tendency to get past his man
and then continue bombing down the
wing with the ball until he flew out
over the end line and straight into
the crowd. One day, after we'd had a
heavy drubbing in the qualifying
round of the Finnish version of the
FA Trophy, the locals decided
that they'd had enough. At full
time, they chased him all the way to
the local docks. Poor old Yynddh
dived straight into the hold of a
herring-trawler that was just
leaving port, and... well, the long
and the short of it was that two
months later a gang of fishermen
dumped his frozen corpse at the
gates of the My Paa stadium, and I
had to go out and arrange a loan of
a replacement from Danish club
Finbogsed for the rest of the
season. From then on, I used to
mention Yynggh's name whenever I
wanted to buck the lads up. So
my advice to you is this: tell him
about Yynddh. If that doesn't sort
him out, I suggest you leave him
where he is and get yourself a new
office. Or a new club. The choice is
yours.
|
|
Impressed by The
Gaffer's advice? Then send
your
footballing problems to thegaffer@dangerhere.com
Click here for more from the Gaffer. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| PLEASE
SOLVE MY SOCIAL
PROBLEMS, GAFFER!
Dear
Gaffer
Disillusioned
by caption
competitions and
sidelined by
injury - a
crippling sloth
genetically
inherited and
sparked into
action by
combination of
Quincy and more
Quincy - I turned
my attention to
simplifying the
simple game. After
days of thinking,
I came to a
conclusion: while
eliminating the
running, jumping,
tackling,
shooting,
shouting, gouging,
clutching and toot
toot tooting from
the game would
make it less
energy consuming,
it would also take
away the game's
how do you say, je
ne sais quoi.
I
am no stranger to
the shaving
mirror, and I did
not flinch while
informing myself
of my conclusion,
as hard as it was
to come to. Days
of work slithering
down the drain
before my very
eyes, like icy
Margarita on the
bonnet of Civic.
It's time to push
the envelope and
think outside the
box, I thought to
myself. How about
eliminating
running, jumping,
tackling... No no
no - sure that was
the same idea I
had before.
Pressing Esc on my
keyboard didn't
help either - I
had retreated back
inside the box. My
only hope lay in
the hands of the
Gaffer. My
question to you is
- How do we get
the horse to
France?
Rictung
Rosenheimerplatz
PS
I have serious
social problems.
|
|
|
The
Gaffer replies...
Dear
Rictung,
Gordon
Bennett, you’ve
got it bad, my
son!
But
funnily enough, I
reckon I see where
you’re coming
from. Life
imitating art. Art
imitating
football. Football
imitating football
- it's philosophy,
innit? I mean, I
ain't got one of
them FIFA coaching
badges. You need a
philosophy cert
for that, like
Arsene and Gerard.
But I seen this
kind of problem
before.
It's
very simple -
philosophers don’t
make great
players. I know
that geezer Camus
played in goals,
but did you see
top clubs queuing
up to get his
moniker on the
dotted line? Not
on your nelly,
geezer. There’s
no substitute for
hard graft. Same
with Rodney Marsh
- plenty o'
lollipops in his
bag, and a ton of
brains, but at the
end of the day, he
was busy pleasing
himself.
It’s
a simple game my
son, so long as
you don’t think
too much. Get it
in the box early
doors, that’s
the ticket.
Diamond.
All
the best
The
Gaffer.
|
|
| FOOT
AND MOUTH CRISIS
SOLVED BY THE
GAFFER |
|
Dear Gaffer,
What
with the outbreak
of the Foot and
Mouth disease,
should all
footballers
refrain from
attempting
overhead kicks
until Government
officials give the
all-clear?
Regards
Ger.
McCarthy
The
Gaffer replies...
Nice
one, Ger. Topical.
Actually, in my
old neck of the
woods in London,
we don’t meet
the farmers that
often, so I'm no
expert. Sure I
sympathise - we
all do, but top
flight association
football and
piggeries don’t
mix.
Although
some of the
players' wives….
Anyway,
I think we should
play ball. Maybe
the overhead kicks
could be given the
old heave-ho for a
while as a sort of
compromise. I know
me old mates
Deadly Doug at the
Villa and Batesie
at the Bridge are
happy to see the
overheads
down.
An
overhead strike
into the top
corner does tend
to lead to
excessive
celebration from
the boys. I
remember Nk Yng
Jgaar from my 1991
Laos squad (great
lad) knocked in a
lovely overhead
from the edge of
the box against
Bali and then ran
clean out of the
stadium and
straight into town
to tell all his
friends. And that
was in the 25th
minute.
On
the practical side
of things, all
that celebration
can lead to
greater contact
between players
and between
players and fans.
The old Foot and
Mouth can spread
like wildfire.
Although I hate to
say it, let’s go
with the boys in
the grey suits on
this one. With
luck, the Republic
of Eire will
remain disease
free. I bloody
hope so - there's
a couple of horses
up the Curragh
I've got a few bob
invested in. All
legit, you
understand.
A
health-related
spotter’s badge
to you, Ger, me
old cock sparrow!
|
|
|
