It's a funny old game

You're a good footballer. Since you were a nipper, you've been the best player your mates ever knew, and they still talk about how brilliant you were when you were a kid, dodging past everyone, leaving the rest of them falling on their arses. You were probably the best player your school ever saw, and you were without doubt the captain of the side that won the schools cup. All the girls wanted you. When the combined schoolboys' team toured South America, there was no contest: it had to be you leading them, because you were the best player your town ever saw. You were fucking great.

And then you joined the professionals, and it began to dawn on you that those guys on the telly, the guys you called wankers every Saturday, were there for a good reason. They were there because they were BETTER THAN YOU!! A lot better than you. (Including Beckham, the wanker).

But you weren't that bad, and eventually you ended up with Sunderland, and ok you didn't win much – in fact you won almost nothing, but it's a living of sorts and it was ok until this morning when your worst fucking nightmare was made flesh with these words:

"Hello there. My name is Roy, and I'll be your manager for the next couple of years."