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A Life In The Day Of… A Premiership Manager

West Ham site of note, Knees Up Mother Brown ran, ‘You’re the next manager and given a £10 million budget, plus what you can get through sales. How would you move the club forward?’ as a conversation piece. Amongst all the serious replies was this ‘gem’ from SwearyTheiry.


Day 1

7.30am Blimey! Never won anything in my life, I just answer a few questions on that 0871 number in Asian Lesbian Sluts and, look Ma, I’m the new manager of The Hammers!!

7.31am Nah, it can’t be a wind-up. Look, it’s a proper letter from Dave and Dave, hammers crest, nicely typed, no spelling mistakes, envelope’s got a stamp and everything. Besides, I never gave my so-called mates the new address when I did the moonlight from Obama Towers last month.

7.32am Check HammersMad. Nope, definitely not a wind-up. The news is on the streets. Amer’s posted a ‘Swearry Out’ thread and it’s already had 310 replies. Worryingly, they all agree with him.

7.40am Well flip ‘em. And what does that ginger Scotch **** know about the game, anyway? And Ashiflipingkodi? If there’s one thing worse than a perv, it’s a jealous perv having a hissy fit. Why not me? Bit useful, I was. Back in the day. No nonsense midfield destroyer with a cultured left foot and a tasty right jab. I’ll fliping show the *****…

7.45am Anyway, no time to waste on losers. Limo’s coming to pick me up at 8.45 and drive me to The Academy. Just time to put my ’97 away shirt and trackie bottoms on the economy cycle and stuff some odour eaters in the trainers.

8.50 am Economy cycle my arse. Shrunk the flipers down from XXL to youth size and I look a right tosser. And did I say limo? fliping Ford fliping Mondeo. V reg and the back seat smells vaguely of sick. Driver gives me the run-down on all the West Ham stars he’s had in the back and it turns out Kieran Dyer was his last fare only a couple of hours earlier. Drunk as a ****, as per usual, but the two birds he had with him were well fit. Hmmm…wonder if I can offload him to Villa?

9.30 am Arrive at UP. No sign of Dave and Dave but the fragrant Karen Brady is there to welcome me. Did I say welcome? She gives me the ten-minute ‘Times are hard; we’ve got to make more cuts’ spiel, says ‘The first team will be along shortly’, hands me a folder marked ‘Manager’s Brief’ and wafts off with a trail of P45s fluttering in her wake. Nice **** though.

10.00am No sign of tv or press pack. Pity. Had rehearsed the old dream come true, massive club, sleeping giant, pushing on from here bollocks too. Complete waste of fliping time that was.

10.30 am No sign of first team, so I study brief. All perfectly clear: train, coach and organise players so that they win all their games this season and the next five seasons. No pressure then. And no say on transfers. Not a fliping word about salary either.

11.00 am First team finally arrive. Did I say first team? They all seem rather unfamiliar and ,er, very young. I give it large on the Harry Bassett bit, stressing that if they want to be winners they need to be punctual. And call me ‘The Guvnor’. Seems to impress them, particularly that young Freddie Sears, who insists on calling me ‘Sir’. As in: “Please sir, I want to play sir. Pick me, sir.” Annoying little *****.

11.10am Just to show them I mean business and intend to live up to my Iron Man reputation, I make them do a hundred laps round the pitch. Did I say, pitch? There’s a huge car boot sale going on, another one of the fragrant Ms Brady’s income-generating initiatives apparently. Anyway, off they jog, young Freddie leading the way, his arms in a wings shape, making aeroplane noises.

12.10pm First team back from their run, young Freddie still in the front, this time running in circles, making car and screeching tyre noises, pretending to steer with one hand and change gear with the other. Heard that Neil Warnock hated him when he was on loan to Palace. Can’t think why.

12.15pm Can’t swear to it but the first team squad looks a lot smaller than an hour ago. Decide to have a roll call.
Not a word.
“Sold, sir. Sears again. God, he gets on my ****. Perhaps Millwall will have him?
Boa Morte?
“Sold, sir”
“Sold sir”
“Sold, sir”
“Sold, Sir”
“Sick, sir” fliping tell me about it.
“Sold, sir”
“Sold, sir”
Green? No, don’t tell me, let me take a wild guess…
Don’t suppose there’s a Parker, Stanilsas, Tomkins or Upson either, is there?

“No sir but we’re here.”
It’s Kovac, Mido and Spector. Let joy be unconfined. McCarthy’s at lunch apparantly. All you can eat buffet. Been there for three days now.

12.30pm Getting that sinking feeling. Turns out that the rest of the first team squad consists of Academy graduates. Did I say graduates? They’re all about 14. And did I say Academy? Turns out the fragrant Ms Brady has closed down youth development and sold them all off to a club that will give them first team experience. It’s in Iraq.

12.31pm Wish I hadn’t said all those horrible things about Glen Roeder

12.32 pm Brady again. fliping great ****, it’s got to be said. But this time she’s got another kid with her. Looks like one of those little bastards from Junior Apprentice. In fact, it is one of those lit…”I’m terribly sorry, Mr Thierry,” she gushes, fragrantly. “But I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mix-up. Young Tarquin here is actually our new manager. We saw you in the role of assi

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Article title: A Life In The Day Of… A Premiership Manager

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