of the comments were actually quite funny.
Confucius say, better the Russian devil you know than the Chinese devil you don’t. #Cityincrisis
What do you call a retarded Chinese football manager? Sum Ting Wong. Or Scott Man Son?
My dad lives very well, it has to be said. His ski chalet is looked after by the local Hotel Kilimandjaro; they supply a chef and other hotel services which means you don’t have to do anything when you’re there. But my dad could see I was becoming restless and one morning, as we walked along to the ski lift, he told me he’d had a call from a friend of his who was on the board at Barcelona FC.
‘Tell me, son, when you were working for Pep Guardiola, did you ever meet a vice-president called Jacint Grangel?’
‘I expect so. But I don’t honestly remember him right now. At Barcelona they’ve got more vice-presidents than Ann Summers.’
‘It seems that he’s got a job for you. It’s not a management or coaching job. It’s something else. Something temporary. But something potentially lucrative. And which he said requires your special skills. His words, not mine.’
‘Like what?’
‘He wouldn’t say on the telephone. But I’ve a shrewd idea of what’s going on. Look, I’ve known Jacint Grangel for thirty years and I can honestly say he’s not a man who would waste your time. Besides, you can speak good Spanish – even a bit of Catalan – so I reckon you can look after yourself down there.’
‘I don’t know, Dad.’
‘You’re wasting your time here, you know that, don’t you? And you can’t hide forever. You fucked up. So what? Football is all about fuck-ups. It’s what makes the game interesting. You fall off the horse, you get back on.’
‘Supposing it’s not a horse you get back on, but a donkey?’
‘Only one way to find out. Get your arse to Barcelona. They’ll pay your expenses. And you’ll get to see the best team in the world play football. I’d come with you myself but you’ll do better on your own. You can make up your mind without your old man there to sway you one way or the other. Don’t want you blaming me for what you end up doing.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come on. Why not? You always liked it in Barcelona. The women are nice. The food is good. And for some reason they seem to like you. They’re what you have to bear in mind. Not the bastards who hate you. There are people who want you to fail. You have to say “fuck them” and then shit on their heads. You have to rise above yourself, Scott. That’s how success is measured.’
7
The Princesa Sofia Gran Hotel is located in the west of Barcelona and is but a stone’s throw from the famous Camp Nou. It’s not the best hotel in the city – the Princesa has all the charm of a multi-storey car park and I much prefer the art-deco charms of the Casa Fuster nearer the city centre – but it is where FC Barcelona conducts a lot of its commercial business. If you hang around the hotel’s vast, rather Saudi-looking lobby long enough you’re almost certain to see someone famous from the world of Spanish football. From my chilly suite on the eighteenth floor I had a splendid view of Camp Nou which, from this altitude, looked smaller and less impressive than I remembered. It’s only when you’re inside the stadium that you can appreciate how it can accommodate almost a hundred thousand spectators. In 1993 the pitch was lowered by eight feet which helps explain this footballing trompe-l’oeil ; and even now there are plans to remodel the stadium and increase capacity by 2021 to 105,000 at a cost of six hundred million euros. Nothing seems to be beyond the ambitions of this club or the Qataris who help to bankroll it. And why not? If you’re ever in Barcelona you should check out the FCB museum; it’s only when you see the trophy cabinet that you can begin to understand where the club’s ambitions are founded.
There’s more than one football club in Barcelona – RCD Espanyol has a large and
Confucius say, better the Russian devil you know than the Chinese devil you don’t. #Cityincrisis
What do you call a retarded Chinese football manager? Sum Ting Wong. Or Scott Man Son?
My dad lives very well, it has to be said. His ski chalet is looked after by the local Hotel Kilimandjaro; they supply a chef and other hotel services which means you don’t have to do anything when you’re there. But my dad could see I was becoming restless and one morning, as we walked along to the ski lift, he told me he’d had a call from a friend of his who was on the board at Barcelona FC.
‘Tell me, son, when you were working for Pep Guardiola, did you ever meet a vice-president called Jacint Grangel?’
‘I expect so. But I don’t honestly remember him right now. At Barcelona they’ve got more vice-presidents than Ann Summers.’
‘It seems that he’s got a job for you. It’s not a management or coaching job. It’s something else. Something temporary. But something potentially lucrative. And which he said requires your special skills. His words, not mine.’
‘Like what?’
‘He wouldn’t say on the telephone. But I’ve a shrewd idea of what’s going on. Look, I’ve known Jacint Grangel for thirty years and I can honestly say he’s not a man who would waste your time. Besides, you can speak good Spanish – even a bit of Catalan – so I reckon you can look after yourself down there.’
‘I don’t know, Dad.’
‘You’re wasting your time here, you know that, don’t you? And you can’t hide forever. You fucked up. So what? Football is all about fuck-ups. It’s what makes the game interesting. You fall off the horse, you get back on.’
‘Supposing it’s not a horse you get back on, but a donkey?’
‘Only one way to find out. Get your arse to Barcelona. They’ll pay your expenses. And you’ll get to see the best team in the world play football. I’d come with you myself but you’ll do better on your own. You can make up your mind without your old man there to sway you one way or the other. Don’t want you blaming me for what you end up doing.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Come on. Why not? You always liked it in Barcelona. The women are nice. The food is good. And for some reason they seem to like you. They’re what you have to bear in mind. Not the bastards who hate you. There are people who want you to fail. You have to say “fuck them” and then shit on their heads. You have to rise above yourself, Scott. That’s how success is measured.’
7
The Princesa Sofia Gran Hotel is located in the west of Barcelona and is but a stone’s throw from the famous Camp Nou. It’s not the best hotel in the city – the Princesa has all the charm of a multi-storey car park and I much prefer the art-deco charms of the Casa Fuster nearer the city centre – but it is where FC Barcelona conducts a lot of its commercial business. If you hang around the hotel’s vast, rather Saudi-looking lobby long enough you’re almost certain to see someone famous from the world of Spanish football. From my chilly suite on the eighteenth floor I had a splendid view of Camp Nou which, from this altitude, looked smaller and less impressive than I remembered. It’s only when you’re inside the stadium that you can appreciate how it can accommodate almost a hundred thousand spectators. In 1993 the pitch was lowered by eight feet which helps explain this footballing trompe-l’oeil ; and even now there are plans to remodel the stadium and increase capacity by 2021 to 105,000 at a cost of six hundred million euros. Nothing seems to be beyond the ambitions of this club or the Qataris who help to bankroll it. And why not? If you’re ever in Barcelona you should check out the FCB museum; it’s only when you see the trophy cabinet that you can begin to understand where the club’s ambitions are founded.
There’s more than one football club in Barcelona – RCD Espanyol has a large and
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