The Alfa Romeo Metaphor

Ok 2 hours well spendt reading the last 30 pages of this story while playing my own career game :D

I got to say this is awesome stuff! The highlight for me so far is when King Vinny came visiting.

Keep up the good work!
 
Conn said:
Ok 2 hours well spendt reading the last 30 pages of this story while playing my own career game :D

I got to say this is awesome stuff! The highlight for me so far is when King Vinny came visiting.

Keep up the good work!
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Thanks! Vinnie is an awesome character, isn't he?
 
As Hanks told the players it was both a lucky (that we didn't lose) and unlucky (that we didn't score) draw, my phone pinged in my pocket. I pulled it out and it was a text from Gwen:

Don't get on the bus

Okay, I'll bite:

Why? Al Queda? IRA? Bad dance music on sound system?

Within a minute, she replied:

LOL, no. I'm at St James w Dad n bro, have hotel reserved for us.

Rather than try and talk, which I can't, or use semiphore, don't know how, or hand signals, I just showed Hanks and Wools the text thread. They both thought it funny. Wools thought it was so funny that he slapped me on the back which caused a coughing fit which they also thought was funny.

Further instructions arrived and I wandered over to a nearby pub. As I entered, I saw Gwen waving from a booth in the back corner. She was sitting with her Dad and brother.

"Hi," I croaked.

After the obligatory handshakes and peck on the cheek, her Dad said he could've been to the loo and had a pie and a beer and just gone into the stand to watch the last ten of each half.

I nodded and typed message and handed him this message: Yeah, it was pretty bizarro.

We continued our conversation in this manner until Gwen announced that they had a train to catch and she and I had dinner reservations.
 
Spent the last couple of days reading through the 71 pages. Enjoying it.


71 pages and not finished the second season, pretty.. impressive?

Are you much further ahead in your save or at the same point as the story?
 
CantGetEnoughOfJelavic said:
Spent the last couple of days reading through the 71 pages. Enjoying it.

71 pages and not finished the second season, pretty.. impressive?

Are you much further ahead in your save or at the same point as the story?
Click to expand...

Glad you're enjoying it. No, I'm not that far ahead. It varies between 1 and 3 matches usually.
 
Sunday, 15 February 2015 10:05AM

"Sorry I'm late," I said as I burst into the conference room at New Malden.

"Not a problem," Hanks replied.

"How was your Valentine's Day ... night?" Rachubka asked. Wools snickered.

"Italians do not kiss and tell," Chief Scout Lil Fuccillo said. Then he snickered, too.

"What am I missing out on?" I replied. "Obviously you see why I'm always early so you all can't gossip about me."

"Wools saw the billboard," Hanks said.

"The bill ... oh? Where?" I asked. So the spring fashion campaign was officially kicking off and I was likely to see Gwen more often but not in person.

"Tube stations," Wools replied. "She looks great. That much skin on display makes me feel like it's almost spring. My tube station, my transfer and here at Berrylands."

"And you took a pic, right? And you're going to let me see, right?"

He held up his phone.

"****, that is a lot of skin," I said. "I'd better text her. She'll want to know the campaign has kicked off. Then we'd better get started."
 
Friendly: AFC Wimbledon v. Westfield FC

View attachment 378082Everyone got 45 minutes since we were unable to score against Exeter. Matteo Nole opened the scoring, Michael Smith bagged a hat trick and Jack Midson was in the right place at the right time. He seems to have a penchant for doing that.

What was galling was the goal that Westfield scored. Captain Andy Frampton misjudged a punt and let it bounce over his head. Then dove in on a tackle and missed. He didn't even take the striker, Liam Whymark down. A true comedy of errors.

Also, Simon Johnson's brace is heartening because I don't want to rush George Francomb. According to Whitney, George is mostly over the flu but extremely weak.

This was more or less a training match in which we got to practice against a static defense that had parked the bus. I must admit I'm pleased.

Today's game makes me feel confident that we'll be firing on all cylinders this Saturday against York.
 
Wednesday, 18 February 2015 2ish in the afternoon

"Enrico, I'm glad I caught you," Chairman Erik Samuelson said.

"Erik, how are you?" I asked.

"Good, good," he replied. "I just wanted to check on fitness facility we're funding and remind you of two contract items you may have forgotten. They're both of the fine print variety."

"Oh?"

"Yes, both Reuben Hazell and Andy Frampton have clauses in their contracts that I agreed to that if they were to play 25 matches, they get automatic extensions."

"Oh."

"Neither were starters when they signed," Erik continued. "Neal signed them as cover."

"And?" I asked. "You have that look that says there's something else."

"Reuben has started 18 matches and come on as a sub in 6 more. You've played him in the Cup and the St. Johnstone Cup. So he'll be here next season."

"Well, ****," I said. "I hate to disappoint them, but they won't cut it in League One. They're great guys. Great leaders but they simply don't have the footspeed. I wanted to offer them coaching positions not buy-outs."

"Let's talk more about how we deal with this," Erik said. "It may be entirely my fault. I thought I told you when we initially reviewed the existing contracts but there was such a vast amount to go over with you last June."

"Don't sweat it," I said. "Hopefully I can convince them to take up coaching. Cuz they certainly won't be playing for me next season. Thanks for the head's up."
 
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"Well, my lad, we've finally got some decent weather for football," the grandfather said to his grandson as the father sat down in their seats.

"Aw we going to win today, Gwampa?" the boy asked.

"Outside of last week, we've been quite ... what's that look for?" the grandfather said.

View attachment 377211"It's the team sheet," the father replied gawping at the matchday programme. "Jack Midson is starting instead of James Loveridge."

"Is he hurt?" the grandfather queried.

"No, he's listed as a sub and, look, he's out there in a track suit knocking the ball around."

"Wovewidge isn't pwaying?"

"What's gotten into Pucci?" the grandfather asked. "I ask you in all sincerity."

"And Leandro Depetris is starting instead of Danny Barlander," the father continued.

"Gwampa, you forgot to give me my hot dog," the grandson said. "Why isn't Wovewidge pwaying, Gwampa?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, my dear lad," the grandfather replied. "Here's your hot dog."

A mere four minutes after kick-off everyone was on their feet cheering a goal. Players in blue mobbed Michael Smith by the corner flag.

"I wathn't wooking, I was eating my hot dog, what happened?" the grandson asked.

"They cleared the header from the corner and Michael Smith volleyed it in," the father explained. "We'll see it on the highlight show tonight. It was really that good."

Two minutes later and Wimbledon won a foul 22 to 24 yards out to the left.

"Weaw going to score again," the grandson said as Depetris fussed with the placement of the ball. The grandfather patted his grandson ontop of his head.

The already standing crowd was cheering again after Midson side-footed the ball into the empty net after Depetris hit the crossbar.

They boy leapt into his father's arms nearly knocking him over into the screaming supporters adjacent to them. Nobody cared. Dons were up by two after six minutes.

"My dear boy, what has your father been feeding you," the grandfather said. Then addressing the father: "Can I take him to the track with me?"

The son laughed.

"What's Pucci doing?" the grandfather asked pointing at the Wimbledon manager who was at the touch line yelling to his players. "He can't be disappointed in anything can he? He baffles me."

"Judging by the hand gestures," the son replied. "I think he wants them to hang back, be careful about getting caught out."

"He's so Italian," the grandfather remarked.

Two minutes later and everyone was groaning as Midson shot wide despite being unpressured at the top of the box.

The match went quiet for a while with neither team having much possession.

At the half hour mark, York's Manny Smith thundered a header from a free kick off the bar to oohs from the crowd. The Dons raced upfield on the counter attack and won a corner.

As Depetris floated his cross toward the back post, the grandfather was up and out of his seat screaming THAT WAS A JUDO THROW along with most of the fans behind the attacking goal. Then everyone was cheering and hugging as the ref pointed to the spot.

"That was flagrant," the father said. "Who earned that?"

"Cam Dummigan," the grandfather replied.

Midson buried the penalty and the fans went ballastic in the stands. Midson ran back to the halfway line in front of the main stand kissing his badge to show everyone how much he loved scoring for the club.

"Pucci must've been on to something, must've seen something during training this week," the father remarked to his father.

View attachment 377210"Weaw going to win today, wight, Gwampa," the grandson asked.

"Most assuredly, my dear lad, most assuredly."

A few minutes later and the fans were serenading goalkeeper Chris Dunn. A York midfielder made a run from deep that wasn't picked up, received a through ball pass and Dunn deflected the shot for a corner. Then two minutes later makes a diving save from a free kick.

"DUNN! DUNN! CHRISTOPHER DUNN! DUNN! DUNN! CHRISTOPHER DUNN!" the fans chanted.

Another goal by Midson after the half and every Womble wandered home happy. They remained top and had thrashed a promotion-challenging side. Everyone applauded Midson who was annointed Man-of-the-Match.

"That was more like we played a Conference side," the grandfather remarked as the threesome walked back towards the father's car.

The father nodded.
 
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"Cheers!" Gwen said as we clinked our wine glasses as we waited for take-off.

On the spur of the moment, I'd decided to reward my players with two whole days off. I texted Gwen that we escape to Cadiz for these two days. She unsurprisingly thought it was a great idea. After throwing a few items into carry-on bags, we roared off to the airport in the Alfa.

"My friend, Esteban, how are you?" I asked in Spanish. Most people in the first class cabin could hear someone yelling on the other end. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm sitting on an airplane that will be taking off in a moment for your fair city."

Head's in the cabin turned as the voice on the other end yelled some more.

"Of course, she's sitting right next to me," I said as I stuck an elbow in Gwen's ribs. "No you can't pick me up. I'll text when I land and you direct me to where you'll be. Of course. Ciao."

Gwen raised an eyebrow.

"Esteban is crazy excited to meet you," I said. "You'll love Cadiz."
 
The magic of going somewhere warm during the winter is the first taste of the air at your destination. It's 15C (60F) at 8pm in Cadiz as we deplane. It's not damp. There's a pleasant breeze. I don't feel the need to wrap a scarf around my neck and zip up my parka. In fact, I only brought a light jacket with me and mainly for when we return to London.

"I can see why you liked it here," Gwen said as we walked through customs. I smiled.

"You went to the south of France in January so you get the idea already," I said.

I felt like a dog sticking my nose out the window as we drove from the airport at Jerez down to the coast, thru Puerto Real and into Cadiz. The air felt so fresh and clean. And warm. We checked into our hotel in Old Cadiz then walked to the restaurant to meet Esteban.

I opened the door for Gwen and followed her in. The thing about going anywhere with Gwen is men's heads always turn when we enter. Tonight we were in Spain and this effect was only amplified except that one man jumped up and ran across the restaurant. He gave me a great big bear hug then hugged and kissed Gwen. This only drew more eyeballs.

"Gwen meet Esteban," I said.

"So nice to finally meet you, Enrico has told me so much already," Esteban said. I translated. "And your head, my dear friend, is looking quite good. Your shave is not an embarrassment. Are doing the buffing yourself or is she helping?"

"It's all me."

Esteban introduced Gwen to his friends. We drank wine, told stories, ate dinner, told lies and drank more wine then shut down the restaurant. While the immediacy of our jokes, double entendres and puns were lost in the translation for Gwen, I doggedly translated even the embarrassing stories about me. Translating is exhausting. Especially after many glasses of wine.

"You haven't made those kind of friends yet in London," Gwen remarked as we slowly wobbled toward our hotel.

"That's true," I agreed. "He's one of a kind. Where else on the planet am I going to find a barber like him? Of course, you weren't here. You were in London hanging out with those boring English boys."

"You're just saying that to get in my pants," he replied.

"That's not true," I protested. "You're not wearing pants. You're wearing a skirt."
 
View attachment 376919Sunday, 22 February 2015

We enjoyed a light, late breakfast then walked off to see the sights. Like many old cities, Cadiz is compact. We started with a walk along the Mediterranean. We meandered through the old parts of the city. Gwen did some shopping.

View attachment 376916

After lunch we strolled around a bit more then had a siesta back at the hotel.

Our plan was to meet Esteban around 6pm at a bar near the Ramon de Carrenza and watch The Yellow Submarine play CD Alcala. Alcala were in the relegation zone and were certain to be feast for the league leaders.

View attachment 376914Esteban supplied me with a Cadiz ballcap to better disguise me. With my sunglasses on, I hoped nobody would recognize me. I hoped it would be easier because the stadium was only about a third full.

My hope for anonymity was nearly immediately quashed as Esteban introduced me to all his friends who sat around him for every home match. But everybody was pretty cool about it. The advantage is nobody in our entourage paid for our beers.

Only three familiar figures were in the starting line-up. Jose Aurelio Gay (my replacement) had entirely gotten rid of all the defenders that had given me nightmares during my tenure. That was probably why they were sitting in first. Airam would be the lone striker, my Captain, Mikel Martins was running the midfield and Perico would be terrorizing Alcala down the left flank.

It must have been because I was in the stands, but the defensive began the game defending like I was used to. My palm was covering my face and everyone was groaning in the third minute as Alcala's striker jogged unmarked through the defense and side-footed home a cross to give the visitors an early lead.

Then just before half-time their other striker played a give-n-go beat two defenders and slotted home to put the Yellow Submarine down by two.

"***** ******** *** **** ********!" Esteban cursed. "They're defending like when you were, boss. We've lost five, count them all, five matches at home. You know how many we've lost on the road? Yes, you do don't you. One. We've given up nine goals on our travels and double that now at home. It's a ****ing disgrace."

"Swearing is so much better in Spanish," Gwen said. "That first bit was swearing, right?"

I nodded then translated what he'd said.

"What'd she say?" Esteban asked once I was done. I told him. He laughed.

I told him about how she liked it when I swore in Italian. He laughed some more.

Perico won a penalty in the 50th minute which Airam converted to get Cadiz back in the match. But in typical Cadiz fashion, they nearly immediately gave up a third. Gay was screaming at his players after the third goal.

Both sides went through the motions until the ref ended the Cadistas' misery and we could go drown our sorrows over a late dinner.

View attachment 376911
 
Monday, 23 February 2015 9ish

"Good morning, Esteban," I said as Gwen and I walked into his barbershop. "Give me the business."

"Sit down, my friend," Esteban replied. "Would you tell the lovely Gwen to feel free to peruse the latest fashion magazines we've laid out for her?" I obliged. "Have you read the Dario de Cadiz this morning?"

"I didn't."

He handed me the sports section as I sat down. I scanned through the article about the loss and found this at the end:
Sightings

Former Cadiz manager Enrico Pucci was spotted at the Ramon de Carrenza. He is rumored to be scouting his former charge, Airam, who has not agreed to a new contract. Pucci may want to bring him to England to play in London for his current team Wimbledon. Airam and Pucci are reported to be on good terms and Airam speaks English which would smooth any move to England this summer.
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"That's funny," I said. I set the paper down and Esteban began wrapping me up for the upcoming shave.

"Well, would you be interested?" Esteban asked.

"I don't suppose why not," I replied. "I know what I'm getting if I were to sign him. Are you proposing to talk to him on my behalf?"

"He comes in for a shave now and again," Esteban said. "I could broach the subject. Now hold still while I lather you up."
 
Tuesday, 24 February 2015 noon

"Gentlemen," I said as I sat down. "Everyone have a good time off?"

They all nodded. We discussed our mini-vacations for a few minutes.

"I'd love to scout Espana for you," Chief Scout Lil Fuccillo said. We all laughed and nodded.

"I would think that if we can get into the Championship, the Don's Trust Board won't laugh at me when I ask to expand our scouting," I said. "But first we gotta get into League One. And that means we need to beat Cambridge United this Saturday."

"Well, they've been on a roller-coaster ride all over the bottom half of the table," Lil said. "They're top scorer is Bolton's Conor Wilkinson. He's big and nasty just like Smith. We need to watch their central midfielder, Luke Berry, he's their only other threat with five goals. They play a four-four-two. They are on a four match losing streak. Furthermore, they've only won two out of their last eleven."

"They don't have a single weakness," he continued. "They leak goals from all over. However, they won six straight before the festive period. That's why they aren't in the relegation zone ... at least not yet. They probably will be though. Our match is Wilkinson's last match for them. With him gone, they have nobody who can score."

"Will they sit back and let us attack?" I asked.

"Undoubtedly," Lil replied. "With other top teams, they've tried to hit on the counter."

"We need to practice attacking through and around the parked bus," I said. "Mark's positioning will be key. We'll need him to make sure to slow it down to give us time to recover. And we need to work on free kicks on Friday afternoon as usual."

Hanks and Wools nodded.
 
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League Two: Cambridge United FC v. AFC Wimbledon

View attachment 376417I'm told that Cambridge is a beautiful and picturesque city. Like every other metropolitan area, city and town I've visited in the UK, I've caught a glimpse from the train as it pulls into the station and/or from the bus as we drive through town and up to the stadium.

Maybe during my May and June holiday period, I'll tour England a bit. Somehow, I think Gwen expects a month in Italy although Spain might be acceptable. We'll see.

At any rate, we pull up to Abbey Stadium after a not terribly long bus ride. The boys seem relaxed and focused.

My subs today are:
Daniel Lincoln (GK), Reuben Hazell (D), Brad Smith (D), Steven Gregory (M), George Francomb (M), Daniel Barlaser (M), James Loveridge (F)

I tell Leandro Depetris to watch Simon Walton and for Mark Tomlinson to mark their danger man Luke Berry. I have Kris Thackray in instead of Hazell because their on-loan Bolton forward Conor Wilkinson is a large beast of a player in the mold of our Michael Smith. Also, Thackray's tall and Hazell isn't so much.

Apparently, the players were too relaxed and not particularly focused.

Cambridge started the game by pinning us back in our end and out-working us. There's nothing I hate more than being out-hustled. That's not to say we wobbled around utterly bereft of any skills or ideas. We broke twice on the counter with Smith grazing the crossbar from a Matteo Nole cross and Jack Midson shot directly at the keeper from the top of the box despite having plenty of time. But we played the opening fifteen minutes in our end. Also and to make matters worse, Jim Fenlon pulled up limping.

To make the start worse, Wilkinson opened the scoring in the 16th minute. Their other forward Petros Skapitis launched a high ball straight upfield into our box. Thackray reacted a full second later than Wilkinson. I swear that Wilkinson used his left arm to pull the ball down and fire it past Dunn. There's simply no way for any human to run under a ball over your right shoulder and control it with the left side of your chest.

1-0

I screamed at the ref and berated the fourth official for a while but only got an explanation that he chested the ball down.

"But he was completely out of position to see the play," I said to the fourth official. "First, he was still in the center circle when Wilkinson received the pass. Secondly, he couldn't even see through Conor's back to see that he handled. Yet, you are trying to tell me that he was correctly positioned?"

"Yes, go sit down Enrico," the fourth official said. "He's made up his mind, don't get yourself in any trouble."

Whitney had run out onto the field of play since play was stopped. He signaled that Fens was done. I turned around to tell Brad Smith to start warming up, but he was doing some sprinting down by the far corner flag already. Hanks had read my mind.

Five minutes later and I was replacing Kris Thackray. Why would I be replacing my tall, strong and relatively quick defender with the slower, older and shorter Reuben Hazell? Because of the goal that Thacks let Wilkinson score.

U's left midfielder Emmanuel Dieseruvwe curled a cross into Wilkinson. Thacks was literally five feet away. Wilkinson controlled the cross and, feeling no defender on his back, spun. His shoulder fake froze Thacks, he dribbled right past him and hit a piledriver that hit Dunn managed to get a hand to but couldn't keep out.

2-0

I'm still fuming about the goal that Thacks conceded three minutes later as we're playing tiki taka, Barcelona-style football at the halfline. Then Depetris does a cute little back heel to Nole and suddenly players in blue are flooding forward. Nole races down the flank but instead of running to the end line, hits an early ball toward Midson. Midson controls the ball and makes Cambridge's Ian Miller look as useless as Thacks before blasting a shot through their keeper.

2-1

My opposing manager, Richard Money, is up off the bench screaming ****** murder at his defense. Can't blame him. It's not like Midson is all that great of a dribbler of the ball.

For the remaining twenty minutes of the half, both teams race up and down the field. Dieseruvwe hits the post and just seconds before half-time Michael Smith gets hauled down in the box, but no call.

Once again I'm up and screaming at the ref and berating the fourth official. Tomlinson tried a Route One ball that Midson flicked into the path of Smith. Once again the ref was in the center circle when the Cambridge defender upended Smith.

"Listen," I say in the changing room. "The fat pig in the center circle doesn't run much. He's not in position to see much. We need to take advantage of that. He's not going to see the subtle tug, the elbow out while you're running, all that ****. We can't let Wilkinson or anyone else have as much space as we let them have in the first half."

"So go out there, play our game, our game and show me something different in the second half," I said.

And they did.

Midson drew both defenders and squared to Smith. With the net gaping and no pressure, he shot wide. I was suddenly looking at my own palm. If we lose, this is the worst way to lose.

In the 49th minute, Leandro whipped in a free kick from the left touch line. Cambridge defender Harry Worley bear-hugged Midson, preventing him from controlling the cross or shooting or whatever he intended on doing. Thankfully, the fat pig was 10 yards away and even he couldn't miss this rodeo hot-tying.

TWEEEEEEEET! And he pointed to the spot.

Midson went and fetched the ball then buried the penalty.

2-2

The remainder of the match was probably great for the neutrals. Both teams raced back and forth, exchanging chances. With my team this is usually a risky but often rewarding formula. We can usually outgun any other League Two team. BView attachment 376414ut this is the kind of match that visually ages managers. I had no hair to fall out or turn prematurely gray, but I have no more fingernails left. Both teams played horrid defense and we each missed a dozen clear-cut chances.

I also spent the last ten minutes checking the other scores. York rebounded from the thrashing we gave them with a victory to reduce our cushion to seven points. Second place Cheltenham got spanked 3-0 away at Wycombe. Thank you Wycombe. Third place Burton Albion drew away to Rochdale.

We get lucky again in that everyone at the top, except York, had a bad weekend.

"This is one of those games, guys," I tell my players afterward. "Football is a crazy, crazy game. Our passing was great at times. Our defending aged me. I have no fingernails left. I feel like I've been through an emotional wringer we missed so many chances. We could have won 6-2 easily ... well ... at least 6-4 if they didn't misfire as badly as us."

"But the bottom line is this," I continued. "First goal should have been called off for hand ball. We leave with a point. We're still top the table and our cushion is seven points. Forget today and let's get ready for next week. Get showered and let's get the **** out of here."


View attachment 376411
 
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Sunday, 1 March 2015 10:30AM

"I'm all over the news," I groused. "The BBC, Sky, ESPN, Daily Mail, Times, Independent, ****ing everyone has my quote about the ref. I know I should have kept my mouth shut. It's gonna come back to haunt me. I expect an email Monday morning from the FA."

"It'll probably just be a fine," Goalkeeper coach Paul Rachubka said. "And probably a small one."

"Or a slap on the wrist for being a naught boy," Assistant Manager Sean Hankin added.

"He was horribly out of position," Coach Matt Woolley said. "You can just show the video. He runs as little as possible."

"The fat pig," Hanks added.

"So that was then, this is now and we face Hartlepool next Saturday," I said. "They're fifth after their draw and York's victory. Lil?"

"Cedric Baseya is as much of a beast on his day as Michael Smith is," Chief Scout Lil Fuccillo said. "He's not a clinical finisher, but when he's in the mood few defenders in this league can handle anyone that big and that strong. And if you shut down Cedric, Toni Silva and Adda Djeziri will pop up and slay you."

"They play the 451 Barca-style formation," Lil continued. "But with Cedric up front, they do resort to Route One when the beautiful game isn't working."

"Their defense is not particularly fast nor do they communicate all that well. I think we can exploit their weaknesses providing we can shut down Baseya."

"Thanks, Lil," I said. "Now how do we go about recovering our scoring touch after yesterday's match."

"First of all, we're doing all the right things up until we need the finishing touch," Wools said. "Yes, as you said in the changing room, we need to write off the performance, but we need to regain our calm in front of goal."

I nodded. Wools realized I was hoping for him to come up with a solution.

"You feel like getting a work out, Paul?" Wools asked. Rachubka nodded. "Okay, maybe we have some one-v-keeper drills this week."

"Yup and let's continue working with our wingers delivering crosses to our forwards," I added.

"How do we contain Baseya?" Hanks asked. "What should we focus on?"

"Staying close to him and not giving him any breathing room," I replied. "Thacks gave Wilkinson far far too much respect yesterday. Baseya isn't that good with the ball at his feet so hassling him is the way to go. We can't win headers as he's got six inches on Haz and Andy, but if we at least jostle him every time he jumps, he won't win many clean headers."

"I can work with that plan," Hanks said.
 
Monday, 2 March 2015 10AM or so

"Hey John, favor to ask," I said to our communications/website/social media/video guy. I'd gone into Kingsmeadow to talk to him. "I said some stupid **** to a reporter about the ref's performance Saturday. The FA have offered a phone interview, but since I'm in London I can appear in person. I need a video clip showing how out of position the ref was throughout the match. Do you have time to pull something like that together?"

"When is your hearing?" John asked.

"Tomorrow at three in the afternoon," I replied.

"I'll put something together for you," he replied.

"I like your new wheels," I said. "The Jag. Very stylish, very posh. Are you moving into a new flat, too?"

"How'd you know?" he said grinning. "Is Gwen wanting to move, too? I can hardly believe that radiantly baby blue Volvo SUV she bought."

"Yeah, we're going to get a new flat this summer," I replied. "I can't believe you're still coming into work here."

"I love it here," John replied. "It's not just a job for me. I'm a supporter first. But seriously, promise not to tell Erik, but I'm probably done in the summer."

"I figured. Later. And thanks."
 
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