Wednesday 10 September
I’m usually a big fan of the international breaks. At the big clubs all of the players are always away with their countries so I am free to do what I want. This week, I was going to use the time to set up a shrine in my office at which I could worship the genius that is Van Gaal. On Thursday I brought in all of my trophies, a full length mirror, some fairy lights and my private DVD collection of every interview and TV appearance I’ve ever given.
Once set up I had set aside three days to strip off, sit back, put my balls on a foot-stool (I shaved them especially) and watch the lot. It didn’t go to plan. I’d just put the first DVD on, eased back into my chair and laid my hands gently on my groin when there was a knock at the door. I assumed it must be Albert. We go back many years. He understands. I said, “Come in,” and looked away. Silence. I looked back. It wasn’t Albert. It was BOBBY CHARLTON! SIR BOBBY CHARLTON! Who on earth let him out of the TV room? He didn’t say a word, closed the door and shuffled off.
I saw Albert later that day and he said that Bobby had been telling the canteen staff what he’d seen. Apparently they called the club doctor who took him back to his grandad annex (or the Sir Bobby Charlton Wing as Ed calls it) at Carrington and sedated him. Over lunch, Giggs expressed concern at the extent of one of his hero’s mental decline. Albert and I laughed. Giggs looked perplexed. Albert called him a sheep-shagging, six-fingered cretin in Dutch. We laughed again. Giggs laughed too. He always does. He has no idea. Hi-jinks!
After lunch I went back to my office, stripped off again and turned out the lights when there was a knock on the door. This time it was Albert. “Louis, Anderson has turned up for training. He’s waiting on the main pitch.” Schijt. Schijt, schijt, schijt. And there I found him, sat on the floor in the centre circle next to a burst size five football. I’d forgotten that the fat f*ck still existed. Van Gaal likes a challenge though, so every day we’ve been doing one-to-one tactical sessions and have been watching videos of my Dutch team at the World Cup. I said to him to observe, think about his own role in that midfield and ask himself in any given scenario, “What would De Guzman do?” I think we can still make a player of him.
Robin hasn’t taken Falcao’s arrival well at all. He won’t answer my calls but keeps sending me texts saying that I’ve betrayed him. On Friday he called me a “cheating, chinless, iron-faced b*stard” and then on Saturday sent a selfie in which he was holding hands with Dirk Kuyt. But Louis does not experience jealousy. How can I when I am the greatest catch of them all?! I feel only pity.
Our relationship worked so well when we only saw each other every few months. Absence makes the d*ck grow longer, as we say in Holland. Then there was the World Cup, which was exciting, sneaking to each other’s rooms at night, knowing looks in the morning over breakfast, Robin caressing my balls with his feet as they rested on their custom made shelf under the dining table. The rush from the fear of getting caught was exhilarating. But now I’m starting to see why I tell others that workplace affairs are not a good idea. It has always been an equal partnership before, but I don’t think he likes the submissive role.
He told me he was over the captaincy thing, but now he’s raking it all up once again. Our attraction is so strong, but Louis has no time for stroppy games. How I laughed on Tuesday when Robin gave an interview saying how excited he was by the new signings and that he couldn’t wait to play with them. If he carries on like this he’ll be lucky to get a game for the Under-21s! It may be time to end it. I think that Mata and De Gea must stop too. Juan has seemed distant and distracted lately. I may find David’s phone while he is training next week and send a message to Juan ‘meant’ for Ander, asking if they should meet at the same hotel as last time. Merked!
I see that England played well for once and that Welbeck scored two goals. Frans and I exchanged texts about how Arsenal fans would now think that they’d signed a great goal scorer. We laughed. Then my phone pinged and I picked up expecting to see another text from him. I nearly died. It was a picture from Wenger. He was standing there in the nude, in a state of arousal with a look of satisfaction on his face. It looked like a Pepperami that had been rotting in the sun for a week. A bit like Wenger actually. Quite apt really, as Welbeck is the rotting Pepperami to Falcao’s mighty oak. Anyway, I just replied with a link to a video of Di Maria’s performance against Germany, but he hasn’t replied. If he gets too lippy I’ll send his photo to LiveLeaks.
Truss phoned me in tears on Saturday. “How can they rate Hazard above Robin and Falcao on FIFA 15, Louis? It’s going to be unplayable, again!” I have no idea what she’s on about but Albert said that she and her friends are outraged about it on something called Twitter. Apparently it’s p*ssing him right off. I might make a makeshift tent in my office and stay in there for a few days until she’s over it, whatever it is.
QPR at home this weekend. After giving it much thought I’ve decided that we shall play 4-3-3 and win this game comfortably. Ed has started talks with Roma about Strootman and I think I can get away with 2/3 wins in a row before Playdough face starts to question whether or not we need him.