‘So what are you saying? That we should just give up?’
‘Not at all. But the way I see it you have two choices if you’re going to survive as a club. Either you do what some Swedish clubs do — clubs like Gothenburg — with most of the players taking part-time jobs as painters and decorators. Or there’s what a French philosopher speaking about something else calls “the detestable solution”. A solution which makes total business sense but which will have the supporters crying out for your head, Midge, and everyone else on your board.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A merger. With Hearts. To form a new Edinburgh club. Edinburgh Wanderers. Midlothian United.’
‘You must be joking. Besides, that’s been considered before. And rejected.’
‘I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not the right solution. Edinburgh isn’t Manchester, Midge. It can barely support one good team, let alone two. You use the assets of one club to pay off the debts and build a future for them both. It’s simple economics. The only problem is that tribes don’t like economics. And Hibs and Hearts are two of the oldest tribes in Scotland. Look, it worked for Inverness Cally Thistle. In less than twenty years they’ve merged two failing clubs and gone from the Scottish Third Division to being second in the SPL. The case for a merger is irrefutable. You know it. I know it. Even they know it — the supporters — in their heads. The only trouble is that they don’t think with their heads, but with their hearts. If you’ll pardon the expression.’
‘These people aren’t like other people,’ said Midge. ‘They know how to hate and more importantly they know how to hurt. I’d probably have to seek police protection. Leave the city. We all would.’
‘Then to quote Private Fraser, you’re doomed. Doomed, I tell ye. It’s the same for most of the clubs in the north of England. It’s history and tradition that are holding them back, too. There’s this singularity called the Barclays Premier League that deforms everything that comes close to it and which is sucking everything in English football into its mass. The big clubs get more successful and the poor ones disappear. Who wants to go and pay twenty quid to watch Northampton Town get stuffed when you can support Arsenal in the comfort of your own home? That’s the physics of football, Midge. You can’t argue with the laws of the universe.’
‘It’s only a game,’ said Midge. ‘That’s what these bloody people forget sometimes. It’s only a game.’
‘But it’s the only bloody game as far as they’re concerned.’
I went back to the hotel to watch MOTD but it hardly seemed worth it since the matches were all Scottish ones. Not that there would have been any English Premier League matches anyway because of international duties, which meant I was at least spared watching Arsenal throw away a three goal lead, as they’d recently done against Anderlecht in the Champions League. That had grieved me a lot less than it might have done. The fact is that since I started to watch football with the eyes of an ordinary fan I’ve come to appreciate something genuinely beautiful about the beautiful game. It’s this: learning how to lose is an important part of being a fan. Losing teaches you — in the words of Mick Jagger — that you can’t always get what you want. This is an important part of being a human being — perhaps the most important part of all. Learning to cope with disappointment is what we call character. Rudyard Kipling had it almost right, I think. In life it helps to treat triumph and disaster with equal sangfroid. The ancient Greeks knew the importance that the gods placed on our ability to suck it up. They even had a word for it when we didn’t: hubris. Learning how to suck it up is what makes you a mensch. It’s only fascists who will tell you anything else. I prefer to think that this is the true meaning of Bill Shankly’s oft-quoted remark about life and death. I think that what he really meant was this: that it’s character and sand that are more important than mere victory and defeat. Of course you couldn’t ever say as much while you’re the manager of a club. There’s only so much philosophy that anyone can take in the dressing room. That kind of shit might work on centre court at Wimbledon but it won’t wash at Anfield or Old Trafford. It’s hard enough to get eleven men to play as one without telling them that sometimes it’s all right to lose.
2
Tempest O’Brien was one of only three female football agents in the game. The other was Rachel Anderson who’d famously — and successfully — sued the Professional Footballer’s Association when she’d been forbidden entry to the PFA dinner in 1997, despite being a FIFA-registered football agent. It was Rachel who’d broken down barriers in the game for people like Tempest who I’d appointed as my agent just before I went to work with Zarco at London City. Before becoming a football agent, Tempest had worked for Brunswick PR and the International Management Group. She was clever, very good-looking and made everyone she met feel as though they were as smart as she was. Football might be less racist than it used to be but as the likes of Andy Gray and Richard Keys demonstrated in 2011, it’s still a bastion of sexism. I should know; sometimes I’m a bit of a sexist myself, but as a black man in football management I felt it was my duty to help break down some barriers by giving Tempest the chance to represent me. I’ve regretted it only once. We were at the Ballon d’Or awards party in Zurich a couple of years ago, both staying at the Baur au Lac, and we almost went to bed together. She wanted to, and I wanted to, but somehow good sense prevailed and we managed to finish the evening alone and in our own rooms. She looks a bit like Cameron Diaz so you’ll have a pretty good idea of why — at the time, anyway — I regretted not going to bed with her as any man might have done. Tempest’s second idea was a job at OGC Nice.
‘Actually,’ she admitted, ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure that there is a job and maybe they’re not sure themselves. They’re French and they play their cards pretty close to their chests. Besides, my French isn’t that good so I can’t read between the lines of what’s been said. Your French is much better than mine so I expect you’ll suss out what the true state of play is there. But it is Nice and they’re a league one side so it won’t do you any harm to meet them and for them to register that you’re tailor-made for a job there. If not now then perhaps in the future. I can’t imagine a more beautiful place to work. They’re suggesting they meet you in Paris because they’re playing PSG this Saturday. It ought to be a good game. Anyway, take Louise. Stay somewhere nice. Have lots of sex in an expensive hotel. ’
It was all good advice and my girlfriend, Louise Considine, didn’t need much persuading. A detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police, she had plenty of leave due to her and so it was that we caught the Eurostar to Paris early one Saturday morning in November.
‘You don’t have to come to the game, you know,’ I told her. ‘If I were you I’d go shopping at Galeries Lafayette, or go and see the new Picasso Museum.’
‘Well at least you didn’t tell me to go and buy myself some expensive lingerie,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Or to go and get my hair done. I suppose I should feel glad about that.’
‘Did I say something wrong?’