Sunday, 4 March 2012


Andre Villas-Boas at today's press conference announcing
his departure (with Marcus Trescothick looking on)

I have toyed with pyramid schemes, with inventing pharmacological breakthroughs in the fight against cancer, with the abduction and ransoming of elite footballers, with bank heists, with selling bodily organs (not mine; those of poor people in the Third World) – none of these have yet bootstrapped me from my precarious position over the gaping maw of poverty. However, as so often happens, from the point of maximum despair comes an ingenious new Get Rich Quick plan. Here it is:

  • go to a semi-peripheral European league and flash forged pseudo-academic certificates at club owners;
  • ad hoc your way to a trophy harvest, symbolically divesting yourself of the de rigueur Sports Science tracksuit to don some Armani clobber that yells AUTHORITY;
  • remain aware that the lenses of the powerhouse clubs of Europe are always peering into your wee pond, so cultivate the sort of cosmopolitan image that says: ‘I can make it in the Big City without Mama’s food parcels’;
  • at the first available opportunity, flutter your eyelashes at Roman (or, in certain cases, raise your eyebrow coquettishly), mouthing “I will win you Champions League…many glories” in a smouldering, gravelly, Russo-guese coo;
  • come to London and either (a) own it, or (b) lock horns with big stags, fret the place up, and generally give the impression you’re heading for a break in Ciudad Ataque de Nervios;
  • sit back in your Belgravia apartment, sipping vodka martinis;
  • buy wheelbarrow;
  • go to Switzerland, deposit money, cackle maniacally in your beautiful villa on the shores of Lac de Neuchรขtel or at the healing spas of Baden;
  • flick through brochures selling luxury modernist beachfront property in unspoilt yet accessible parts of the Tropics, inquiring with local planners about building runway for new Lear jet;
  • cackle maniacally, ad infinitum.

There you go. Cannot fail.

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