Must call the sheikh about Aston Villa.
In the morning I called a team meeting. “Oi, Agnetha, Owen’s a World Cup Wind-Up, isn’t he?” said that Neville character, as he inflicted a Chinese burn on Owen, crying.
Then, Owen snapped. With a Banshee (a Canadian Banshee, ha, ha) wail, he kicked that Neville character hard. Harder and more accurately than he kicks the ball, noted my friend Tord Grip afterwards.
“Ow. That’s my calf. It’s torn,” squealed that Neville character. Owen was tarred and feathered by John Terry in jokey retaliation.
Tuesday, Brigitte Bardot-Bardot: Nancy is here. Oh no. She has found both the hotel and her Italian accent. “Bambino, I’ve been looking all over for you. You said Carshalton not Karlsruhe. I’m sure you did. Poor Nancy. But lucky Svennis now.”
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I realise what I must do. I give everyone the day off.
Wednesday, Nuremberg: I am very tired. It is time to talk about Wayne. You should see him in training: his tackling of Owen was certainly the tackling of a match-fit player. When his plaster-cast is removed, he will be ferocious. I make a call. “Hello, Angus Wallace, Britain’s leading foot doctor. It is I, Svennis. Is Wayne fit?” “Don’t even think about it, Tom.”
I call my fitness coach, Ivan Carminati. “In six months, maybe, Tim.”
I call my doctor, Leif Sward. “In the name of Abba, no, Erik.”
I call Brian Barwick of the FA. “For God’s sake, Tarquin, think of the insurance.”
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I call Sir Alex Ferguson. “**** *** you Swedish ****. If he plays, I’ll ******* **** you with a spanner and then I’ll sue **** *** off of you. Djemba-Djemba.”
All very straightforward.
Fifa have allocated us a lovely hotel in the centre of Nuremberg, close to some karaoke bars and a trumpet factory. It is certainly in a most vibrant part of town.
Thursday, Nuremberg again: Another match. This time we face two teams. Trinidad. And Tobago. Together, they are 47th in the world, so we must be careful, but we have two strokes of good fortune: firstly, their captain, Brain Lara, is injured. Secondly, that Neville character has not recovered from Owen’s attack. I forgot a spare right-back, so with Owen still covered in tar, Jamie Carragher of Everton plays. Wayne removes his plaster cast in the dressing room.
I order the team to use the long ball when possible, so we can perhaps sneak away with a point. My orders are shown to be excellent when John Terry clears off the line. Phew. Both Trinidad and, especially, Tobago are booed off at half-time, which show how well we have contained them.
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Half-time: “Say something, then, Annifrid,” says that Neville character. “You haven’t got a clue, have you?” Sadly it is his calf, not his mouth that is in traction.
Second half: Still we keep Port Vale and Wrexham men at bay. Wayne comes on, Sir Alex Ferguson sends me a congratulatory text message: “Govan Mafia. CU soon”. Wayne does not touch the ball. Good news: Peter Crouch scores, then Steven Gerrard scores, which silences those who thought he should play in his best position. We have won. I am a tactical genius.
“That was rubbish,” says a man from one of your lying tabloids.” “But,” I reply, “there was no Owen.” Their silence shows me they accept my point. Their laughter shows me we are still friends.
Friday, Baden-Baden again: I seek newspapers for reports of our unexpected but glorious triumph. “Er, they don’t have newspapers in this part of Karlsruhe. It’s a German by-law,” says an FA press officer. I could have sworn we saw newspapers on Wednesday.
Saturday, Owen-Owen (if only): I buy a Swedish flag to fly from my FA-sponsored Volvo. The press ask if I have a conflict of interest in next week’s game. “No, no, no conflict,” I reply. “We might win the World Cup if we can avoid defeat against the United Kingdom.”