Thursday 10 July 2014

Welcome to strictly come managing

Fabio Capello (C) speaks to the media with the aid of his translator (R) and FA Chief Executive Brian Barwick
A merry dance: Brian Barwick with FA chief Fabio Capello (c) 

In an attempt to transform its stuffed shirt and blazer image, the Football Association dispensed with the outdated job interview process in choosing the latest England manager this time round. Having been invited to sit in on the sophisticated selection process, I can offer this exclusive insight into Fabio Capello's appointment.

Brucie: Nice to see see you nice.

(Cue familiar Strictly Come Managing theme tune).

Brucie: (after milking the applause for an eternity): What a lovely audience. And what a show we have for you tonight...our grand finale. After starting out with hundreds of applicants, we are down to the very last four. Three will be going home with nothing but for our lucky winner, life will never be the same again. (Aside) And you can say that again.

But before we meet them, I must introduce our four stooges, sorry, I mean our esteemed judges. From the far right - about as far right as you can go, in fact - President George Bush...from Los Angeles out of Essex, the First Lady of style, Victoria Beckham - that's right, dear, give us a twirl. What a lovely dress; it's just a pity there isn't more of it. And you don't get anything for a pair, not in this game. Next, the man of a thousand voices, Mr Rory Bremner...and last and certainly not least in terms of salary, Jonathan Ross.

But now it's time to meet the stars of our show, our contestants (aside) whoever they are. Please welcome...the Frenchman! (whisper) You're my favourite...

Frenchman: Good moaning.

Rory: Good heavens! He's pretending to be Officer Crabtree pretending to be a gendarme in Allo! Allo! I thought I did the impressions around here?

Brucie: The Swede (whisper) You're my favourite...

Swede: Oh, vow! Whoo ees zee taw-ttie veeth zee cleefege?

Jonathan: Do my eyes deceive me awe haven't we head that voice somewhay befowah?

Bruce: The Portuguese. (Whisper) You're my favourite...

Portuguese (singing): I get no kick from champagne,

Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all,

So tell me why should it be true,

That I get a kick out of me!

Brucie: He's worn out three mirrors in the dressing room during rehearsals. And finally, completing our quality quartet, The Italian.. (Whisper) You're my favourite....

Victoria: Oooooh, please make it that nice Monsoor Armani.

Italian: No, 'tis I. Fabio il Fabiolous.

Brucie: Don't forget, play your cards right and it could be your lucky night. And now over to our judges...

George: Ah'm mighty proud to be a merkan...

Jonathan: He's mighty pwoud to be a what?

Rory: A merkan. As in merkan football or as merkan as apple pie...

George: As ah was sayin' befo'e bean so roodly interrupted, ah'm mighty proud to be a merkan, so why do ya'll wanna be English? Frenchman: Because I have pissed the pest unleaven years werking in Lindun with Ersenal so I am a real poorly kong. And if I win the Werld Cap for Her Mujasty, I will be given a nightshade, oui?

Rory: Non, but I have question for The Swede. You had this job before and resigned, saying - and here I quote: Eh vood raazeer cwech Kezeekstun, Effghuneestun or Tezeekstun than heff too vurk veet a bunch oof fuutbellers whoo cun nut skewer frum the penalty spoat ifer egeen. So what's changed?

Swede: Yoo shooed nut beleefe iferyzeeng yoo are reeden in zee noospeppers. Eh now reyalize zat zair eez ounly wen mon whooo con lead Ingaylund to Vurreld Coop glory an' zat mon eez mee Eh ipullogise fur vawking oot und leefing zat moppet Steef Mehklurren in cherge. Burk! Burk! Burk!

Victoria: Monsoor Fabio. In your expert opinion, if you had to choose between Patek Philippe or Audemars Piguet which would you go for?

Italian: Ne sono spiacente ma ho mai sentito parlare di nessuno dei due. Sono in sciopero, centrocampisti o difensori?

Victoria: Ooooh, whadiddeesigh?

Rory: Ne sono spiacente....

Victoria: Nah, whadiddeesigh in English?

Rory: Basically, he's never heard of either and wants to know if they are strikers, midfielders or defenders.

Victoria: He's having a giraffe, ain't he? They're watches and with my David's birthday comin' up, I can't make up my mind between the Patek Philippe 10 Day Tourbillon at $280,000 or the Audemars Piguet Millenary Limited Edition MC 12 which is a real snip at $243,500.

Italian: Come potrei sapere circa tali cose? Non guadagno nulla come il vostro David. Questo lavoro paga soltanto sei millioni.

Victoria: Whaddide...

Rory: Sigh? Unlike your David he can't afford such things. Even if he gets this job it only pays six million...

Jonathan:...Six million? Six bleedin' million? I wouldn't climb out of bed to close the window for that...

George: Ah'd like to address this to the Portuguese Man of War. As mah pop's good friend Dan Quayle used to say, the future will be better tomorrow. When your sockah's World Series is played next time round, what makes you think that you can succeed where the Bush family failed by toppling Eerack?

Portuguese: Because I am the Chosen One!

(Sings): I'm the top!

I'm Mahatma Gandhi.

I'm the top!

I'm Napoleon Brandy...

Brucie: Didn't he do well? I reckon that'll be worth quite a few points from the judges. And what do points mean....?

Audience: Prizes...! Rory (as Sir Sean Connery): Chelshea...Mancheshter Shitty....Arshenal... Juventush...that'sh all very well and good but thish ish the biggesht job in world football....well, in, Britain...well, the biggest job in Britain outshide Shcotland. Sho, gentlemen, why should we give the tashk to you and not Pushy Galore, shay?

Frenchman: Lick at my Ersenal. Pocked full of ying Onglish fatballers roaring to play for their notion.

Jonathan: Oh, weally? How many English pwayers exactly?

Frenchman: Lot me thank...(mutters to himself) Emmanuel Adebayor? Nuh. Vasiriki Abou Diaby. Nuh. Havard Nordtveit? Nuh. (triumphantly) Theo Walcott!

Jonathan: To name but one...

Swede: Beleefe me buys und tuttie lady. Yoo arr nut vonting a Frenchmoon in cherge. Con yoo imegeen Fronce ifer ippunting an Inglishmoon? I icknouledge zat my lest periud oof tenyour wos nut won of zee must glurious chepters in zee heestoory oof Ingleesh fuutball boot eh voold remeend yoo thet eh vos a helly sooksussfool cwech veeth Ruma, Sempdurrea, Binfeeca and Leezyo befurr cummeng too Inglund.

Portuguese (sings): I feel pretty,

Oh, so, pretty,

I feel pretty and witty and bright,

And I pity,

Any man who isn't me tonight...

Brucie: That reminds me. What's the definition of an egotist? Someone who's more interested in himself than me. And, finally, our Italian contestant. Why should the judges vote for you?

Italian: If I can introduce my interpreter - Bruno Tonioli...

Bruno: Apart from having to use a translator - I think my record speaks for itself. Previous England managers have been too weak. I have a reputation for being a sergeant-major. I will be the Craig Revel Horwood of English football not cuddly uncle Len Goodman. I will run the team, not the players. Wherever I have coached, I have always been in charge...

Brucie: Hey, find your own flippin' catchphrase. I'm in charge and I am going to pose the final question: the English have always loved a really funny comic - that's probably the reason why I'm so popular. Believe me, whoever gets this job is going to need a sense of humour, so before I ask the judges to cast their votes, leave 'em laughing....

Swede: According to Freud. What comes between fear and sex? The number funf.

Frenchman: People often come up to me and say 'Arsene, do people really come up to you..?'

Portuguese: What do you call a fish with no eyes? A fsh...

Italian (via Bruno): Two cannibals are eating a clown when one says to the other: Does this taste funny to you...?

Rory (as Sir Alan Sugar): Fabio - you're hired!

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