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jokes around here are you people when you kick a football. Nil–nil against Manchester United? That was a joke. Let me tell you, it’s not just nature that abhors a goalless draw, it’s me, too. We can’t win unless we score and that’s all there is to it, gentlemen.
    ‘Now, as many of you know, I read a lot about history so that my team can make it. Which is crazy because you people aren’t fit to make the tea on the bus home, let alone history. Seriously. I look at you all and I think to myself, why did I bother coming to manage this club when they don’t even bother to try? Yesterday, some prick of a journalist asked me some crap about what makes a good manager. And I said, winning, you idiot. Winning is what makes a good manager. Now ask me a better question that doesn’t suck like the last one; ask me what should be the aim of a good manager and I will give you a longer answer for your readers. I will write your copy for you, you prick. As always I was doing his job for him, okay? Because that’s the kind of helpful guy I am. Zarco is always good copy. The aim of a good manager in football is to show eleven assholes how to play as one man. But today I think this task is beyond even me. Each manager in this league is a product of the era in which we live, but in my opinion I’m the only manager who can raise himself up above the ordinary thinking of his time. I can make the impossible happen, it’s true. But I’m not Jesus Christ and today I think that even I can’t make the biblical miracle of getting eleven assholes to play like one man.
    ‘The biggest assholes I’ve seen this morning are you, Ron. You, Xavier. And you, Ayrton. Lazy is what you are, which is to say lazier than the others. Lazy with the ball and lazy when you don’t have the ball. If you can’t find the ball then find space. You remember Gordon Gekko in that movie? Greed is good. That’s what he said. And that’s what I say, too. Be greedy to get the ball back from the opposition, Xavier. By any means necessary. Ron, you should want the ball the way you used to want your mama’s tit.’
    ‘Yes, boss,’ said Ron Smythson.
    ‘Which is probably last week in your case, Ayrton. You play like a stupid baby. Not a man. Look at you. Bootlaces undone, socks hanging down – why don’t you suck your thumb as well, like little Jack Wilshere? You’re not even out of breath, my friend. I look at you and I see an asshole that’s not good for shit. An asshole that’s not even worth fucking. And another thing, Ayrton: playing football for the love of the game and because you once read a poem about being an English gentleman is a luxury that even Viktor Sokolnikov can’t afford. You want to play football this way you’d better go and play for Eton College or Harrow or one of those other homo schoolboy sides where they play up and play the game because they really want to win the Battle of Waterloo. But don’t do it for London City. Better still, go and suck some cock at FIFA and maybe they’ll give you a fair play award. Me, I’m not interested in that shit. If you have to get a hard-on to poke the fucking ball in the net with then you’d better do it. And I don’t care if you ruin your chances of ever having children in order to score a goal – that’s what you’d better do, my friend. That’s why you’re being paid a hundred grand a week. To win. So the next time the ball comes off your hand and goes in the net you’ll swear on a stack of Holy Bibles it came off your head or your foot or you’re out of this fucking football club. Do I make myself clear?’
    ‘Fuck you,’ said Taylor. ‘I don’t have to take that kind of bullshit from you or anyone.’
    I closed my eyes for a moment. I knew what was coming now. I thought I did, anyway.
    ‘Yes you do.’ Zarco took two steps forward, stood in front of poor Taylor and shoved him. ‘Yes, you fucking do, you stupid child. My job is to talk. And part of your job is to listen.