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A day in Rafa-land

Dear diary,

It has been a long day. Phew! If someone can take what I take and still smile it is me. People call me the ‘The Interim One’ they are wrong. I am not an interim manager, I am an interim FIRST TEAM manager. This means that I am not even allowed in the reserves training sessions. In case I want to I have to first place an overseas call to Mr. Roman in Russia. After he says yes, Ron Gourlay(chief executive, i.e sycophant) calls me from Malaysia to give me the all clear.

I don’t get why Chelsites(a word of my invention) love John Terry, put a white wig on him and he could look like the poor man’s prince Charles. I think he wants my job, he tried to teach me tactics. Oh the guts! Does he not know that it was me who was to make Torres play like a footballer? Nonsense. Well atleast he did not give me a semi choke slam of the Balotelli- Mancini ilk.

You know I am really tired of being booed, I mean don’t the crowd have better things to do? Look at Fernando play and they will find the boos coming from the bottom of their heart. Who backheels a ball while one on one with the other guy 25 yards back. Oh sorry, I answered myself. Torres does. The crowd thinks I enjoy feeling helpless. I don’t. The only reason I am here is that no-one was crazy enough to hire me. I hate them all plastic flags and plastic whatevers they have. I hope they have one of those man-for-man deals, get that old man Mourinho for these egoistic people and let me go and manage my beloved Real…(oh sorry I drooled on you).

I am lonely. My best friend Fergie does not talk to me, old Arsene thinks I am senile even Manchester United players smile at me. My players look for excuses to bunk my press conferences. The press complain of tactics class, well I give them for free, isn’t that good enough, tell me what is wrong with loving those plastics cups and forks they keep on the tables. Someone has to use them right?

Liverpool is playing ok under the pirated copy of Guardiola who learnt from Mourinho. Why did I never get Suarez, damn, the English get all the luck. But they lie in 7th, I still fantasise, of those nights.. at Anfield when I was treated like a man of respect. From Godfather, I have become like the fat bearded guy from Hangover’s 1 and 2. Vegas anybody? Let me call John and Alex for the road trip. Goodnight.

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