SATIRE: Australia’s greatest ever football manager, Ange Postecoglou, has joined the world’s greatest football team – well, according to the one-eyed fans of Glasgow Celtic FC anyways – and befitting such an occasion the great man has also decided to begin penning a regular column for True Crime News Weekly to detail all his exploits in all their glory.
Mate, if someone else tells me I was second choice for this job, I swear I’m going to start throwing punches. Second choice, fifth choice, what difference does it make, I’m here, aren’t I? And I’m going nowhere.
I’m the manager of Celtic FC. Me. Angelos Postecoglou. My name that’s on the door. Gia parti mou. It’s my fucking party.
My team? The backroom staff? John Kennedy, who was the interim coach at the end of last season, when the team struggled to score goals and got pumped by Rangers and Gavin Strachan, son of Gordon, who’s only here because he’s the son of Gordon.
Fuck me swinging. Son of Gordon? It’s the fucking son of Zeus I need.
Like Apollo or maybe Ares, the God of war; he’d sort things out. Fair dinkum, I’d take one of the daughters, they’d be more good to me than either of the two useless malakas I have.
Helen of Troy would liven things up a bit, she didn’t mind a bit of carnage. Or a drink. Which means she’d fit right in here. Grog and carnage is the daily diet in Glasgow, did you see what the Rangers fan did when they won the league? They wrecked the place. What the fuck they’d have done if they’d lost, Zeus himself alone knows.
Every football coach gets to bring in their own backroom staff, that’s how it works. Except me, it seems. I’ve got to work with the losers who’ve been around forever and are still hanging about, stinking up the place like over ripe feta.
Then there’s the players. Half of them want to leave, the other half I wish they would leave, except no one wants them, not on the wages they’re on here at any rate, overweight, overpriced or over the hill.
Like the three fucking tenors and that’s about all they’re worth.
Forget the son of Zeus, I need the main man himself – the King of the Gods – someone who doesn’t mind shaking things up a bit for the common good, the common good in this case being of course, the ultimate success of Celtic FC.
People keep asking me how I know so much about Celtic. When they’re not asking me about my religion.
I’m fucking Greek mate, Orthodox, raised on legends. There’s nothing I don’t know about rituals, mythology and cult practices, so this job with its history, habits, hoops and huddles will be a piece of piss.
The Bhoys. My bhoys.
What happens if we don’t win anything?
I’m fucked, that’s what.
What happens if we don’t beat Rangers?
What happens if we do win something, but Rangers win more?
Well, then, I’m completely fucked.
Yep, it’s a huge job and harder with two tried and tested malakas as my assistants. Who wanted my job, who’ll be looking over my shoulder, sticking their oar in every chance they get, trying to trip, trick me, undermine me, override me; my own personal, in-house Trojan horse.
Well, fuck them too. I’m the boss. I’m Ange Postecoglou. It’s my party.
Talking of parties, it was one of their birthdays the other day – John Kennedy; I laid on a cake. Sang the song too.
You know the one, we Aussies sing it at every birthday, right after we do Happy Birthday.
“Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all?”
I looked Kennedy straight in the eye.
“He’s no fucking use to anyone, he’s no fucking use at all.”
Gia parti mou, malakas.
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