22 April
Surely it is time for Gerald to wipe the germs from his clogs and leave this place. The last day of the season against the Wolfies was a disaster. A penalty is given away and Gerald as the sure-fire hot-shot spot man steps up to do the businesses. But Coo-chie, that dreadful alien interloper hugs the ball to his ample bosoms and says “flip off beanpole – I earned it, I’ll take it! And then the Chupa-Chump misses it! Afterwards I protest long and loud but the badly haired manager manager tells Gerald to stop being a ‘mardy arse’ (some sort of Spring Festival?) and Wily Donkey tells me there is no use crying over spilled milk. If any milk is spilled at Gerald’s home, Mrs S usually wipes it up with a coypu.
24 April
So, Bad Hair and Wily Donkey are staying on, and Dave Allen remains at the helmet. As an avid watcher of UK Gold I tell Mr Allen ‘I liked you better when you told jokes about religion and had to keep wiping ash off your trousers.’ He tells me to belt up or I’ll end up replacing the hare at the dog track (I would be better employed replacing the manager’s hair). My mind is made up to leave and I e-mail Barcelona and both Milan clubs about my availability.
15 May
Fantastic – my annual holiday carrot spotting in the Dordogne. Mrs S and I drive the camper van across France (even my camper van is camper than Coochie’s) and I buy a space in a field from a farmer with a plastic duck and 23 euros. In my leisure time I practice free-kicks by lining up eighteen 10 year old Woodcraft Folk, tying their legs together with wool and kicking the ball hard against them (in a strictly non-competitive way, of course).
3 June
The World Cup of nations has started and while sucking on an artichoke I am overcome with the injustice of my non-participation. In a masterstroke of genius I resolve to change nationalities to increase my chances of making a national squad. I decide to become Slovenian and begin practising straightaway by calling in Mrs S from the vestibule and shouting ‘Hey fellow, after you with that potato!’
1 July
Close season training starts with a big disappointment. Bad Hair calls me into his office and says he wants to talk to me about Ajax. My mind is filled with memories of my old club – the camaraderie, the mind altering half-time oranges, the club sponsored ostriches delivered to your door by a green clad valkyrie. But no, Bad Hair is furious that no one has bought me yet and says that I’m costing so much they’ve had to sack the cleaners. He hands me a tube of Ajax and sends me off to disinfect the showers…..
8 July
Two new strikers have joined the club. On getting home I coat the patio with bacon fat and get out my abacus. By my calculation Bad Hair now has the option of five strikers, an avocado and an arthritic penguin up front. Mrs S and I decide it is time to talk and over pints of Mateus Rose we debate Gerald’s future. By daybreak we decide there are only two options – to stay and fight or sell the mongoose and head for Turkmenistan.
17 July
We are in Sweden where even the clouds (and indeed the carpets) are interesting. We are doing a pre-season tour where we all get to play half a game each before all heading to town and damaging our custard. In downtown Trelleborg a flaxen haired maiden asks Gerald if he would like a good time. I spend 47 minutes explaining that when I wake in the night my life seems just a void where even the anteaters have flown south. As for my days they are filled with the bitter sweetness of almonds and the sound of ants refusing to take their medication. And so for me a good time is an illusory, transitory beast which forever avoids my childlike butterfly net. The maiden pays me 117 krone to go away.
23 July
The Scandanavian tour is complete and once again Gerald is the hero! Two wins and a draw and the Dutch Maypole scores 3 out of 8 goals. ‘I’m the daddy now’ I say to Coo-chie ‘and you the mummy on account of your ample bosoms’. When I return home Mrs S and I celebrate by baking a rhododendron loaf and taking it in turn to snog the smaller of the two wolfhounds.
25 July
Bad Hair tells the local media he is thinking of allocating me a role in midfield. I am hoping this field is somewhere in Kent with the smell of apple poo redolent in the air.
2 August
And so all is set up for the start of the new season. Gerald is still here and, I have calculated, still earning enough to keep myself in sandpaper until October 2043. I have informed Mrs S that I now intend to see out my contract and then become captain of a hot air balloon giving tourist voyages around Basingstoke. In the meanwhile, I will concentrate on being kissy-darling of the fans, and trying to figure out why those men in the orange boiler suits keep waving to me, and why when they all sit in a line the letters on their pith helmets spell BOSIN.