07:00: Wake up with a jolt. Bed is pitching from side to side. Men in Chelsea boiler suits are carrying me and Mrs. Ancelotti down the stairs into a removal van. Apparently we’re moving house?
07.30: Just realised it’s Newcastle away today. I hope we can bounce back from our recent run of poor form.
08.00: Wife starts crying. I don’t blame her, it’s dark in the back of this lorry.
09.00: Arrive at new house. Team of men in Chelsea boiler suits move the bed into the bedroom. It’s a nice room. Where are we?
09.15: Frogmarched to shower by Large Russians. Dried.
09.25: Full body wax. Ouch.
09.50: Told to kiss wife and pat child’s head. It’s not our child. Apparently he will be living with us now. Does he come with the house? “Da” barks hulking Russian.
09.51: Rallied to blacked-out limo. Handed coffee and a pastry. I hate raspberry. Largest Russian with curly wire going into ear insists I eat it all. I ask to have the window opened for ventilation. Reluctantly, he allows and, whilst distracting him with a yelp of “LOOK! RAY WILKINS!”, I slip the pastry out the window. Allow self small smile. It’s the little victories in this job.
10.00: Arrive Battersea heliport for transport to Newcastle.
11.30: Phone goes. It’s Roman. He has filed for divorce from my wife on my behalf. She’s no good for me.
11.45: Arrive St. James’s Park. At least this club will never be mismanaged by a deranged, power-hungry megalo—oh.
Ray and I pulled out and handed our old clothes, the ones we turned up to our interviews in. Given small change. Car drives off.
12.00: Arrive dressing room. Greeted by three Large Russians in tracksuits and Avram Grant. Handed a coffee. Informed this is my new backroom staff. What happened to my old coaching team? “What old coaching team?” asks Largest Russian. I look pleadingly at Avram. He stares at his shoes.
12.45: Await Roman’s team selection.
13.15: Phone goes. It’s Roman. He’s sorry for cutting it fine but he can’t talk long because he’s on his yacht near the Seychelles, and is being shot at by Somali pirates. He reads out the team sheet over the phone. Snap. Crackle. A Woman screams. Line goes dead.
13.25: Due to the chaos of the phonecall, there are only ten names on the team sheet. Drogba in goal. Seems mad to me but he’s the boss.
14.15: Newcastle 7 – 0 Chelsea. Half time.
14.16: Roman calls. Most of it is in Russian. Don’t really understand what’s going on but he’s not happy. I keep hearing “Cech”, so I suppose he’s not happy with him being on the left wing. At his insistence, he is put on loudspeaker to give the team talk.
14.28: Large Russians march me, not to the bench, as expected, but directly out of the ground into a waiting car where I am forced to sign several documents. Ordered to strip. Bound and gagged. Boot opens. Vaguely surprised to see the whites of Ray Wilkins’ eyes peeking out over a strip of gaffer tape. So that’s where he went! Bundled in.
15.00: Boot opens. Ray and I pulled out and handed our old clothes, the ones we turned up to our interviews in. Given small change. Car drives off.
15.01 We resolve to find the nearest pub. I wonder how Chelsea got on?
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