|
|
|
|
Dear
Gaffer
What's
a bloke to do?
Last week we were
knocked out of the
FA Cup by a
bloomin' Internet
striker. I said to
myself: "You
know what, Peter?
It's time you
signed up for this
computer lark and
got an Internet
striker of your
own." I went
down to the local
Dixon's, and
picked up the
latest model
computer. Cost a
bloody fortune,
but Gordon Bennett
it's an amazing
machine! It's got
a CD player an'
all!
I
didn't half go
through a bleedin'
ton of strife
before I got it
working, I don't
mind telling you,
but after a few
days and about 10
packs of Rothmans,
I finally got
meself hooked up
to the Internet. I
went to one of
them web sites
where you can buy
stuff, asked them
for someone good
at scoring, and
gave them me
credit card
number. Bob's your
uncle, they said,
and I thought all
me problems were
solved.
A
few days later,
instead of a
striker arriving
at the club, out
of the box pops an
Internet bride!
And she has the
papers to show
we're legally
married! I'm
already a happily
married man,
Gaffer. What am I
to do? Natasha
refuses to get
back into the box
and let me drive
her down to the
post office. I've
had to hide her in
me office for the
past five days!
The trouble and
strife will kill
me if she gets
wind of any of
this!
Peter
T.
|
|
| Peter's
Internet blunder...
|
|
|
|
|
| The
Gaffer replies...
|
|
|
Strewth,
Peter!
That's a
fine mess you've gotten yourself
into! I'll tell you a story by way
of a bit of advice. A long time ago,
during my coaching days with
Vanuatu, I had a young centre
forward name of Neeanoo Awoomhella.
Little skinny lad he was, always at
the bangers and chips I had them
serve up during team training days,
but never gained an ounce. The time
came when we had to fly to
Christchurch to play the Kiwis in a
World Cup qualifier. Young Neeanoo
brought his wife to the airport,
expecting to be able to take her on
the trip. I blew me top and had a
big barney with the two of them. I
had me way in the end, and she
stayed put.
We were
pasted by the Kiwis. Seven-nil to
them, it was. When we got back to
Vanuatu, I found my villa trashed.
Everything was up in a regular heap!
I called the local cops, but they
weren't much help. I fixed the place
up, and what do you know, the next
time I came home from a training
session, it was trashed again. This
went on for about two months, until
I was proper sick of it.
Then one day
I came home and caught the culprit
in the act. Strike me blind if it
wasn't was Neeanoo's wife! I was
right livid, I was! I asked her not
very nicely where she got off
wrecking me gaff like that. To make
a long story short, we got to
talking, one thing led to another,
and a week later she divorced
Neeanoo and became Mrs Gaffer IV.
To make a
longer story even shorter, eighteen
months later she took me to the
cleaners in the divorce and went
back to Neeanoo. He was the best
striker we had, but I never selected
him again!
So my advice
to you, Peter, is watch yourself
around the birds. They've always got
an angle or a scheme or somesuch.
You never know where you stand with
them at the end of the day. Keep
schtum with 'er indoors, and keep
Natasha sweet. It'll pay off in the
long run.
|
|
Impressed by The
Gaffer's advice? Then send
your
footballing problems to thegaffer@dangerhere.com
Click here for more from the Gaffer. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| MY
LEFT FOOT, GAFFER!
Dear
Gaffer
I
have been playing
Association
Football for many
years now and have
recently
discovered that I
am, at the very
most, a poor
player. In
particular, my
left foot just
kind of follows me
around and messes
things up. I
associate my
unpopularity with
the rest of the
team with my
failings as a
footballer. Any
tips?
Worried
|
|
|
The
Gaffer replies...
Right mate,
A very common occurrence. Nothing is worse
than the day you realise you can’t hack it or that you are only
hacking it when it comes to your left peg!. But, perhaps it’ll
comfort you to know that your colleagues will have spotted your
failings ages ago. You are right to make the connection between
this problem and your lack of popularity. The team probably wishes
that you’d stop coming to training.
In my days in Laos, I had a player in my
charge with a similar disability. Lame Duck, ‘e was, or was that
actually his name? Anyway, not to worry. Nice bloke though, but a
chronic case. I mean really bad. He used his left so rarely that
he more or less lost the use of it. It trailed limply behind him.
One day I jokingly said he’d be better off hopping, and what do
you know, two weeks later, he turns up for training sans his left
peg! Ruined his career, it did. No sense of humour.
Anyway, the moral of the tale is a simple
one - if your left peg is weak, don’t get it hacked off - work
to try and improve it. If that fails, completely ignore it - look
at the Merse at Villa and Phil Neville at Utd. Never stopped them
from making it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
