Hi, my name's Roger T. Dailly. That's T for Thrice, by the way. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm Roger Dailly and I earn considerably more money than you for doing basically nothing. How can this be, I hear you ask. Am I the guy who sends those scam emails? Well, yes, but that's just a hobby. No, my real job involves far less effort than that, for I am a football manager!
This is me. Honest.
Now if it sounds like I'm showing off, well I guess I sort of am, but really I'm here to tell you my story. Perhaps you'll be inspired by my tale, or find out some useful insider secrets and then maybe, one day, you can be a rich football manager, too. Probably not though. I'm not saying that to be nasty, just that it's a saturated market, you know? And there's thousands of hopefuls better qualified for the job than you. Not that I was qualified for it when I started, but I digress. Let's get on with the story shall we?
CHAPTER ONE: I AM BORN
Twas a starlit night, my father and heavily pregnant mother were travelling somewhere or other, I forget where. Well, I say forget, it'd be more accurate to point out that I wasn't really around to know in the first place. Anyway, the car ran out of petrol and, this being a time long before mobile phones were around, they couldn't exactly call the AA. Then again, my father spent half his life avoiding the AA, being halfway to an alcoholic after all. So, as I was saying, the car broke down in the middle of nowhere, which was presumably somewhere just not anywhere particularly interesting, and my poor soon-to-be-parents decided to walk a bit and see if they could find a Little Chef or perhaps a rock festival, this being the late sixties and all.
The sixties: Crazy!
After walking a little way, they found themselves at the door of a fine drinking establishment. The sort of drinking establishment where they also have lukewarm food and what apparently pass for beds. Unfortunately al the rooms were taken, but the publican, seeing that my mother was heavy with child, took pity on them and offered the use of a large shed. Their luck was out again however as, owing to it being a cold night, the local farmer had brought his livestock in, and some of them happened to be also taking shelter there. Still this was better than nothing so my folks accepted and took refuge within. Well, those animals must've given my old ma quite a scare as before the night was out I'd entered the world. A shepherd had come to see what the noise was about and ended up fainting, while three drunk blokes turned up and left behind a pound coin, a bottle of aftershave and something called a 'balm' which, fortunately, turned out to be an oitment and not a dangerous wild animal.
Not a balm, thankfully.
The next couple of decades passed by, but I'll not bore you with the details, partly because there's not a lot you'll be that interested in, but mostly because this way I'll still have something to put in my autobiography if I ever run out of money. Suffice to say that, having been born I was subsequently raised, encouraged at great length by my father to become a carpenter like him, and by my mother to become a rugby player like my real dad, I understandably rebelled against both these suggestions and instead set my mind to [strikethrough]ballet[/strikethrough] football. Oh, and somewhere in the mix I became an avid supporter of Accrington Stanley, whoever the **** they are.
Racists, apparently.
This is me. Honest.
Now if it sounds like I'm showing off, well I guess I sort of am, but really I'm here to tell you my story. Perhaps you'll be inspired by my tale, or find out some useful insider secrets and then maybe, one day, you can be a rich football manager, too. Probably not though. I'm not saying that to be nasty, just that it's a saturated market, you know? And there's thousands of hopefuls better qualified for the job than you. Not that I was qualified for it when I started, but I digress. Let's get on with the story shall we?
CHAPTER ONE: I AM BORN
Twas a starlit night, my father and heavily pregnant mother were travelling somewhere or other, I forget where. Well, I say forget, it'd be more accurate to point out that I wasn't really around to know in the first place. Anyway, the car ran out of petrol and, this being a time long before mobile phones were around, they couldn't exactly call the AA. Then again, my father spent half his life avoiding the AA, being halfway to an alcoholic after all. So, as I was saying, the car broke down in the middle of nowhere, which was presumably somewhere just not anywhere particularly interesting, and my poor soon-to-be-parents decided to walk a bit and see if they could find a Little Chef or perhaps a rock festival, this being the late sixties and all.
The sixties: Crazy!
After walking a little way, they found themselves at the door of a fine drinking establishment. The sort of drinking establishment where they also have lukewarm food and what apparently pass for beds. Unfortunately al the rooms were taken, but the publican, seeing that my mother was heavy with child, took pity on them and offered the use of a large shed. Their luck was out again however as, owing to it being a cold night, the local farmer had brought his livestock in, and some of them happened to be also taking shelter there. Still this was better than nothing so my folks accepted and took refuge within. Well, those animals must've given my old ma quite a scare as before the night was out I'd entered the world. A shepherd had come to see what the noise was about and ended up fainting, while three drunk blokes turned up and left behind a pound coin, a bottle of aftershave and something called a 'balm' which, fortunately, turned out to be an oitment and not a dangerous wild animal.
Not a balm, thankfully.
The next couple of decades passed by, but I'll not bore you with the details, partly because there's not a lot you'll be that interested in, but mostly because this way I'll still have something to put in my autobiography if I ever run out of money. Suffice to say that, having been born I was subsequently raised, encouraged at great length by my father to become a carpenter like him, and by my mother to become a rugby player like my real dad, I understandably rebelled against both these suggestions and instead set my mind to [strikethrough]ballet[/strikethrough] football. Oh, and somewhere in the mix I became an avid supporter of Accrington Stanley, whoever the **** they are.
Racists, apparently.