shannon2007

Une Interlude

Do you remember ze good years in Canaan?
Thee summers were endlesslee gold
The fields were a patchwork of clo-vear
The winters were never too cold
We'd stroll down ze boulevards together
And averything round us was fine

Now zee fields are dead and bare
No joie de vivre anywhere
Et maintenant we drink a bitter wine

Zose Canaan days we used to know
Vere have Zey gone, Vere diiiiid Zey go?
Eh bien, raise your berets
To those Canaan days

Do you remember zose vonderful parties?
The splendour of Canaan's cuisine
Our extravagant, elegant soirees
The gayest the Bible has seen

It's funny but since we lost Joseph
We've gone to the other extreme
No-one comes to dinner now
We only eat them anyhow
I even find I'm missing Joseph's dreams

Zose Canaan days we used to know
Vere have Zey gone, Vere diiiiid Zey go?
Eh bien, raise your berets
To those Canaan days

It's funny but since we lost Joseph
We've gone to the other extreme
Perhaps we all misjudged the lad
Perhaps he wasn't quite that bad
And how we miss his entertaining dreams

Zose Canaan days we used to know
Vere have Zey gone, Vere diiiiid Zey go?
Eh bien, raise your berets
To those Canaan days


Toooo zose Canaaaaaaa-aaan days

Eh bien, raise your berets
Toooooo -ooo zose Canaan days

retired_hern1001

AS Cannes

The night was dark and cold, like a walk-in fridge. My life was in the drain, ready to be flushed. I would’ve ended it myself, but the thirst for another drink kept me from it. It’s hard to believe that only a year ago, I felt like the king of the world. A decent footballer, I was plying my trade in an unusual place for an Dutchman, France. I wasn’t a world beater, but I did have a claim to fame, nutmegging Zinedine Zidane before slamming a shot into the top corner, the ball streaking across the night like a bolt of lightning. Then again, it had only been a friendly and the seventeen people and three goats that saw it were hardly impressed as we had already conceded more goals than David Beckham had one-night stands. But those days are gone. Since I broke my ankle in three places on a dreary Tuesday evening, my life has been on a one way lane to destruction. I had suppressed the memory, but the pain remained, like a gaping hole in my heart. I drained the bottle of whiskey, unable to tell how many bottles I had seen the end of this week. As I stumbled up from the couch, the world went black around me. It was all right. I had a date in hell…

When I opened my eyes, my first thought was that someone made a mistake. The glaring whiteness of my surroundings made me think I had mistakenly been transported to heaven. But reality hit me across the face, my head feeling like a communist uprising was going on inside it. I was still alive. The pain told me as much. Slowly I gathered my bearings. From the chemical smell, I deduced that I was in a hospital, something that was reinforced by the appearance of several white coated people who milled around like vultures around a carcass. I drifted back out of consciousness as they ventured closer…

The voice and face were strangely familiar, yet I couldn’t place them right away. Then I recognized the language that was spoken and even my rotting brain couldn’t mistake that. Dutch. There was only one Dutchman I knew here in Cannes. Addick Koot. Like myself a former player of the local AS. Not to mention the fact that he was my only friend around these parts. He wanted to help. Get me off the booze, bring me back amongst the living. I pretended not to case, but truth to be told, I wanted to get out of here. People go to hospitals for two reasons, to die or to get better. I wasn’t keen on dying just yet, so went for the second option…

Koot helped me, managed to get me a job, coaching a youth team at AS Cannes. And he somehow managed to keep me off the booze. My reign was a successful one, leading the U-17’s to the national cup final, where they narrowly lost out to those of Olympique Lyon. But it wasn’t a particularly gratifying thing to do. Sure, it was nice, but it still felt like that 20-yard screamer. It wasn’t rewarded with silverware. Still, it was enough to get me noticed with the Cannes board. Because when their sitting manager decided to resign for no other reason that he was bored of the club, chairman Jean-Claude Lahiner approached me to replace him. It was to say the least, a bit of a shock.

shannon2007

Vannes - The Meeting

'bonjour monsieur, comment allez-vous aujourd'hui ? '

'Yes please. But leave out the salt thanks.'

'Bienvenue vers Vannes. Les directeurs et moi-même espèrent que vous serez très heureux Ã* notre club ! '

'No thanks, vinegar gives me heartburn, but I would like a lot of tomato ketchup please'

'Nous n'avons pas beaucoup d'argent, mais nous sommes sûrs que vous ferez bien car vous avez une réputation pour le succès ! '

'A pickled egg? Well I shouldn't really. How long will the chips be?'

'Venez je vous présenterai aux joueurs.'

Something told me this was not a chip shop.

'Ah this is not a chip shop?'

'Je pense que vous serez le plus étonnant.'

'There's no need to be rude. I only wanted a bag of chips. Stupid frog.'

I was beginning to think this trip to France was going to be a disaster. I had only come for the Rugby World Cup, fell asleep on a train and was now stuck in this horrible little town where no-one spoke English. And they didn't even have a chip shop.

'C'est notre secteur de formation. Il est besoin amélioré naturellement.'

'No thanks I don't really want to use your basin. But can you tell me where a nice hotel is?'

'Une fois que nous obtenons au Primera Liga, nous construirons un stade grand pour prendre le monde ! '

'Ah the Rugby World Cup? Does the hotel have a TV?'

'Voici votre pièce. Nous vous trouverons mieux des logements pendant la semaine. '

'Semen in the fois gras? Well thanks for letting me know. Do you need any payment in advance?'

'Au revoir Monsieur sept, je viendrai près le matin pour vous donner plus d'instructions. '

'Donner's has won an FMS award? How did you find that out. Has Terk been letting slip secrets?'

But the bloke had gone. Oh well, a good nights sleep and then I would get on a train to Paris tomorrow. Nothing much lost really.

retired_amyslack

Martigues

Jean-Paul Claude Pierre Vichyssoise was not encumbered with what could be called a work ethic and the Martigues manager was more than happy to delegate to his Assistant Manager, Henri-Claude Ferblantier. Jean Paul Claude Pierre (who was thankfully commonly referred to as JP) loved the idyllic location of this Provençale town. Located between Marseille and Istres, the charm of its canals, islands and bridges has led to Martigues becoming known as the “Venise Provençale� and JP took plenty of opportunities to enjoy his surroundings. Famous for its flowers and gardens, Martigues is situated on the side of a lake, the "étang de Berre", and linked to the sea by the Caroute channel. He took the time to wander along the quays, particularly in the "quartier des pêcheurs" around the canal Saint-Sébastien with its colourful old fishermen’s houses lining the banks of the canal. He rarely forsook the chance of une tasse de café at Le Cigalon or un verre d'absinthe at the Bar de la Sirène.

Indeed that is where we find our hero right now, ensconced at his favourite table, his beret at a jaunty angle on his head, a glass of red wine in hand, a smouldering Galuiose clinging to the corner of his mouth, the smoke drifting upwards through his pencil thin moustache. With pre-season preparations well underway he had left his faithful assistant Henri-Claude in charge of team affairs – the MINGERS Cup or whatever it was called was of no interest to JP and he was happy to leave his assistant in charge of team affairs for now.

retired_hern1001

If it was a shock to me, you can imagine how the Cannes support reacted. Many of them vented their frustration at the appointment of an unknown Dutchman with no previous managerial experience. The fact that I had once proudly represented their colours had obviously been lost on them. Then again, as a player, I had been no more than a speck of grey in a sea of mediocrity, so I hardly would’ve given them cause to remember me. Not that it bothered me. I had a job to do.

The office was dark and musty, like a basement. Well, it was the basement, so no surprise there. The white walls were stained a pale yellow with cigarette smoke and lined with several filing cabinets which looked like they’d been here since Charles de Gaulle first became president. Dead centre of the space was an even older desk which looked ready to crumple into a pile of whiskey stained wood. I sat behind the desk and opened the manila folder that was on it. The first sheet was a personal note from the chairman, wishing me the best while telling me I’d have the full backing of the board. Which was nice of them. And probably meant that the moment I’d mess up, I’d be out of here quicker than Paris Hilton out of prison.

The rest of the paper in the manila folder indicated the squad, backroom staff and other trivialities that I couldn’t be bothered with. I’d get to know them at some point anyway. I slid open one of the drawers of the desk, it’s rails shrieking like a pig that’s about to be slaughtered. At least the contents of the drawer were worth it. It seemed my predecessor had shared my vices. In the drawer there was bottle of whiskey and several packets of Malboro. The genius of the hole. No matter how hard you try climbing out, one slip can send you right back down. I slammed the drawer shut. Too much of my time had already been spent sliding down.

retired_bbcarr

Pau FC

“Anthony’s worried that you don’t have the respect of the other managers.�

“Just tell him HD’s a twat. Don’t pay any attention.� On my first day in the job, I’d been greeted by a newspaper article quoting the Paris Est manager as saying that I simply wasn’t up to the job. Two can play at that game, sonny, and I let it be known that HD and I would likely never get on. He’s from the west. They grow them strange out there.

“No.� “**** off.� and “You’re *****.� seemed to be the only answers I was getting from players, and when HD poached my main target, Brazilian striker Julio (he went for the cash, nothing else) I was well up **** creek. Finally three players deigned to join me, 18 year old goalkeeper Alban Catrin, 31 year old centre back Thierry Joly both picked up on free transfers whilst left winger Jay Stein joined for £2,000 from Arbroath.

All were picked for the first leg of our friendly in Cannes, even though Jay was just 53% fit. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t start the game until you leave.� For no apparent reason, a burly security guard ejected WLKRAS and myself from the stadium before kick-off. We staggered into the night, brown paper bags disguising our bottles, and headed for the nearest bar.

The following day I found out the score. 1-1. An own goal from Stephané Zubar put Cannes in the lead, but winger Kévin Barralon came on to save the day, striking in the 54th minute to see us to the draw.

Mickäel Serreau, a 31 year old right winger, was stoled from under the noses of Vannes, but given how utterly useless they were proving to be, I was a bit unsure about signing a player they were interested in. The return leg at the Stade du Hameau would decide who moved on to play Nîmes in the final.

“Sorry, guys, still not allowed in.� What the ****? “One match ban for the drunkeness in Cannes.� ********. Maybe taking a bottle to the game wasn’t the best idea. Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted to watch the game, the way it panned out. After new striker Mauro Vagli put us ahead early on, goals from Venn Touré and Kevaughn Connell put Cannes into the final. We’d play Vannes. They’re rubbish.

And so they were. A team that might play better if they were all dead, Vannes were no problem as we went two up before half time (Tidiane Dia and Kévin Barralon) and we were cruising. Cruising that was, until a dastardly five man forward line appeared for the second half and blew us away. Jacuzzi netted twice to bring the scores level, El Jayi put them ahead. Maruo Vagli ensured a penalty shoot out, but after one was sent wide, one hit the post and the next was saved, we had lost three-nil. Dalbeattie Star next. They’re really rubbish.

And this time they actually were. Again we led by two at the break (and yes, I did **** myself). Dia and Aristouy had given us the lead – Aristouy had also had another chalked off, but he managed his double late in the second period, drilling an injury time free kick into the roof of the net. One draw, two defeats, one win. Looks nailed on for a relegation battle.

shannon2007

Mai Oui, Ou Est Le Foot?

When you hear the noise of the Tartan Army boys We'll be coming down the road!

See you Jimmy?

Ah wus here in France. Ah wus here in Vannes.

Whaures Vannes? Ah huvvny goat a clue mate!

It's a funny thing football. One minute you're minding your own business, the next you're the manager of a crappy wee football team that no-ones ever heard of, in a country where they're better used to playing with there handbags. I mean, how often does this happen?

It's no real.

So there I was, manager of a fitba team. At least that was the idea. Away to Clermont in some kind a Masonic Cup, it wis like watchin' Ayr United. And not just because we play in the same colours. This was dire, this wisnae fitba', it was pure and utter turds.

So a three nil humpin'.

'Look lads' Ah tried tae be polite 'We need more than this.'

So the next day to be honest, they gave me more. A 3-1 loss to Paris FC. Some wee daft Haitian bloke scored for them to show just how bad our defence wis.

Defence? That's a laugh.

Pau. Whit? Yer a dug?

Naw.

Pau are a football team. They wur humpin' us two nil and ah just thought, bugger this. If the defence wurny working then the defence could get tae fuk. Bye bye defence.

Second half, a good auld fashioned 2-3-5, Pau had no clue what hit them, and as we dragged it back to lead 3-2 and the Pau manager was in tears. They got a fluke back - well with two men at the back you will lose goals - but in a penalty shoot out the Pau players lost their heids. We kept ours, and won 3-0. Fan dabby dozy come back!

Johnstone Burgh came to town, a nice wee treat for them and we gubbed them 3-0. So in the end, a decent wee bit of work and who knows, we might just not get relegated this season!

Au revoir!

retired_hern1001

The work on the first day mainly comprised of analysis of the squad and players. One thing we seemed to be lacking was depth in the scouting department, so I quickly moved to bring in two new blokes there. Both were French and appeared to be fairly competent. Good thing I brought them in too as my original scout was poached away by Sochaux. There were also reinforcements made to the playing squad. The most notable inbound was former Russian international Alexandr Mostovoy, capped some 60-odd times and though he is 37, he will still be able to make a difference.

Others joining were Dutch winger Mariano Promes, French midfielder Provenzano (from Grenoble for £1,000) and French striker Darchy from fellow FMS’er Panpardus for the sum of £7,000. Not all of them had joined in time for our opening friendly with Terk’s Pau. The first of a two legged encounter. Then again, I wouldn’t have known if they had anyway as I started slipping down the hole again. I’d met up with my counterpart before the game for a quick drink, but it got kinda out of hand and we ended up chugging bottles of the good stuff. Good thing the local press didn’t get hold of that, though both our boards were less than pleased and forbid us from meeting up for the second leg, never mind attending the game. At least the results went our way, with a 1-1 draw in the first game (helped by a Pau own goal) while we came from 1-0 down to win the second leg 2-1. I later learned that Mostovoy put in a man of the match performance, while Touré and Connell got the goals.

Reality can hit you hard in the face, like walking into a biting cold from a heated building. I needed to stop slipping back down the hole. While I struggled to do so, I managed to stay away from the bottle before my deciding encounter with Amaroq’s Olympique Nimes. So for a change I actually managed to see the game. The first half was dull with only minor chances at either end, nothing spectacular. It was the second half that things started to happen. Darchy found Braizat who slotted it into the lower right corner from inside the penalty area. Traore had a go from distance moments later, but put it over. Nimes also had commendable efforts in the second period, mainly through Colloredo, but were unable to find the target. A 1-0 win the final score for Cannes.

The final pre-season affair involved Dutch side Achilles Veen. They looked like deer caught in the headlights as we swamped them 7-1. Verdier got two as did Braizat while Mostovoy, Touré and Kadir chipped in with one each. The lure of the bottle of whiskey in my was great, even for just a celebratory drink, but for once I managed to resist the lure. I guess even the weak have their good days.

retired_w0lfpack1

Nice write-up, had me laughing out loud PM. And congrats to WLKRAS on the pre-season cup win!

shannon2007

Thanks Roqy. Oh and yeah well done WLKRAS first ever winner of the MMONGS Cup