Oh God, what’s happening. What are these papers he has? Are they photocopies of his arse? I really hope they aren’t photocopies of his arse. This is bad. This is bad. This is bad. They’re going to eat him alive for this. What do I do? Should I just run? I can run and run and run and start a new life in Vienna, maybe. Surely they have nice, quiet football clubs where the managers don’t know how to use Microsoft Excel there.
Now I know why Rafa Benitez’s old press agent still has that thousand yard stare. I’m sitting too close to the man who has compiled a dossier to refute the claims of a person he is literally called “Big Sam” in an official club press conference. They’re all going to think I’m a part of this. Maybe there’s a way I can hint at how I had no part of it to the journos without further angering the long-ball crazed lunatic sitting beside me.
Oh no, he wants to me pass out his papers. This is going to look like an endorsement of them, but I’m doing it. I’m doing it and I’m not burning them. Why am I not burning them? I’m handing them over. Just — pull a face when he’s not looking that says “please don’t hold this against me — I really don’t care about long balls or what Big Sam says or anything else except going home and drinking in the dark until none of this seems real anymore.”
Did he see it? I don’t think he saw it. The television cameras definitely picked it up, though. So I have until Sky Sports News airs that to get as far away from here as possible. This is my chance to pursue my dreams. I’m going to change my name to Veronica Vandelay and never speak of this experience again.