You see, after a mere nine months on the job, Roman Abramovitch, oil tycoon, football genius, and owner of Chelsea Football Club, has fired the young Andres Villas-Boas after a humiliating 1-0 loss to West Bromwich Albion left Chelsea 5th in the table and 3 points behind an ascendant Arsenal squad. If Chelsea cannot improve they will find themselves playing in the Europa league. The Europa league, dammit!
This is well trodden ground for my favorite football club, as their next manager will be their ninth in eight years. In a world where most managers at least manage to hang on for 2 or 3 years, Chelsea are a joke.
Now, there is lots of speculation right now as to who that next manager will be. Will Jose Mourinho return like a little Portuguese Napoleon? Will Benetez take the helm?
Well, Mr. A, you need look no further. Who has two thumbs and is ready to be the next manager of Chelsea?
This guy.
That's me. Pointing to myself with my thumbs.
Notice the poorly knotted tie, the poorly shaven face, the bad hair, the 5 or 10 pounds left to lose, the puffiness under the eyes. All of these are symptoms of a man who has no time for himself, but rather puts all of his energy and time into studying the great game of football. My sleeves are rolled up as well. I'm ready to work. Hard.
You may also notice the Chelsea scarf that I wear around my neck like a pastor wearing a stole. Much like that preacher, I stake my life on a proposition that cannot be proven and may, in this day an age, even seem unreasonable.
That proposition is that Chelsea FC is the greatest football club in the world.
I think you will find my qualifications to be up to snuff. I am, after all, the man who took little Torquay United from League Two into the Premier League in a mere 4 years in FIFA 2006 franchise mode. We never did win the top league, but we were really close that 5th season until I was sidelined for three weeks with Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and, you know, the form just never came back the way we needed it to in spite of countless hours of physical therapy.
I have all the other attributes that are going to make me a great Chelsea manager, as I understand a large part of the job is pacing the sidelines with collected intensity for most of the match but occasionally erupting into a series of dramatic gesticulations as required. I have been working a great deal on this. I apologize that I am not in a suit jacket, but I wore it to my cousin Samoslav's Serbian restaurant and I got Leskovačka Pljeskavica all over it. It's at the cleaners, but they were not open today as it is Monday, and it is their day off. They work very hard. Surely, you will understand, Roman Abramovitch.
Anyway, here I am after David Ruiz was caught out of position, nearly costing us a goal:
I find this works well also when Didier Drogba is sulking after having not been awarded a penalty and I want him to get up and start playing again.
Below is me surveying the tactical situation on the pitch and applying my powerful football brain to the problem at hand.
When you see this, I am thinking deep, deep football thoughts. Things like: What substitutions can I make that could help us win the battle in midfield? Should I move to a 4-5-1 or stick with a more traditional 4-4-2? Wayne Rooney is just everywhere and he playing really, really well. How do we stop him from doing that? What am I having for dinner tonight? Did I leave my oven on? Did I leave my coffee on the roof of my car again? That'd be the second time this week. Good god, this job is stressful. Is my secretary football manager hot? Isn't competence really more important, though? If Rommel had actually been in Normandy on D-Day, could he have rushed armor to the beach in time to throw the allies back in the sea at Omaha, thereby giving the Nazi's the chance to defeat the invasion forces in detail on the other beaches? Would they have negotiated a settlement? What would that have meant for Europe? Isn't it interesting that both Hitler and Churchill enjoyed painting? It's strange that they would have that in common. Have I been suffering from a lack of energy, a general grumpiness, weight gain, and a lack of sex-drive in the bedroom (as opposed to in the kitchen, where of course everything is fine)? Could I have low-T? Should I be talking to my doctor?
Below is one of me after John Terry has been yellow carded. Initially I am furious, but after giving it a second thought I think to myself "yeah, he probably deserved it". Here I am, weighing both sides of the argument.
Finally, here I am as Torres has brilliantly split the opposition's defense, and Lampard has threaded him through with a beautifully weighted pass.
Torres has only has the keeper to beat, who comes off his line with the timidity of a frightened ferret, the last desperate measure of a man who is about to be found wanting! All Torres has to do is slot it home with a simple tap in and we will get that crucial second goal and secure all three points, giving us a much needed boost of confidence as we go on to face Napoli in the second leg of the Champions League. I mean, look at him, look at that man, that beautiful beautiful man who cost us 6 million pounds but he's about to make it all worth it, he just can't miss from there, he just
Oh Great Googily Fucking Moogily! He missed it. Gosh...
Roman, all this could be yours. You can leave your offer as a comment on the blog. I accept in advance.
Yours,
Nick Marickovich.
Yours,
Nick Marickovich.
No comments:
Post a Comment