Bribery & Corruption
I am truly sorry. I really am. I promise that when the police or FIFA come to interview me, I will keep the good name of the GPSFA out of the headlines. I know I have done wrong and I just hope that you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. But the shameful truth can’t be hidden for much longer. The Voice has tried to bribe an opponent. I realise that I won’t now be able to be the manager of England. Hartlepool United will be thinking twice about employing me and I don’t even know if I have a future with the Pike and Musket any longer.
But before the Daily Mail exposes me to the world, I shall appeal to the good people of Gloucester and hope that your fair-minded analysis will help me in the difficult days ahead.
Like any youngster, I started with huge hopes. I would imagine scoring an injury time winner to send Hartlepool rocketing to twelfth place in Division 4, or saving a last minute penalty that relegated Darlington. Often I would dream of seventy seven home fans chanting my name as I dominated the midfield against the formidable Rochdale. And of course, there was the Cup Dream – that perhaps one day we might make it all the way through to the Third Round proper and a huge match against those Cup Giants, York City.
But life is cruel and I realised, just after my forty second birthday, that I probably wouldn’t ever pull on the blue and white shirt of Hartlepool United. I took stock of my life and the beautiful game. There were the highlights, of course. Scoring twice for Fens Primary ‘B’ team to win the Cup in 1976, the time I headed the ball direct from a sliced Alan Goad free kick against Brentford in 1985 (I was in the crowd) and my debut for the Pike and Musket in 1996. (‘You’re down as Adey Paradine today, Andy. Just don’t score or get booked and listen to Warren,’ was the helpful advice from Ken Blackburn.
And so this was my fragile mental state as I ran on to play in one of the most bitter derbies in world sport: Primary vs Secondary at Modern English School, Cairo. It was 2010. I knew that time was running out and it was my last game before we all left Cairo and came back to Hartlepool. I was desperate to score to mark the occasion, but, possessing neither pace nor skill, it was proving difficult. However, life in Cairo is sometimes not quite as straightforward as life in Gloucester. I pushed forward and found Dean Al Hoss, a Villa fan from Derby whose family were Lebanese.
‘Deano, mate, it’s my last game – just pretend to fly in for the tackle, I’ll push it past you and I’m sure to score. How about it?’
Dean had not forgiven my earlier cruel comments about his own lack of pace and vision and he told me to get lost – but I sensed his weakness.
‘Look, mate, I’ve got two cans of Guinness, two tins of Heinz Baked Beans and a packet of bacon. It’s all yours if you let me through.’
‘I heard you had four cans of Guinness …’ There is a reason that the Lebanese have a reputation as good business people.
‘Okay, three cans of Guinness if I get past you and four if I score. Dea..’ There wasn’t time to shake on the deal. A mistimed clearance saw the ball fly into the air. Dean and the legendary Erica Parrish went up for the challenge, Parrish somehow sticking her elbow into Al Hoss who collapsed like a sack of King Edwards, the ball bouncing off his head. Instinctively I smashed the ball goalwards and was astonished to see it fly into the net, buckling the stanchion and almost bursting the net. My team mates surrounded me. We hugged. Life was never so good. A broken Al Hoss trudged past, nursing his ribs. Primary now 3-1 up.
‘I’ll be round tonight for the tins,’ Al Hoss shouted. I pretended to ignore him. He moved closer. ‘It’d be a shame to let your kids know how you tried to buy a goal… ‘ I glanced across at the loyal following from Year 6 Orange, my son Michael and his mate Khaled who had finally recovered from all the excitement and were back playing on their PSP2s.
And so joy turned to misery. Had Al Hoss really taken a dive? Did it count because we’d never shaken hands and, more importantly, how would I manage to sneak out Mrs. Voice’s last two tins of Heinz Beans without her finding out?
Reluctantly I paid up. Al Hoss grudgingly accepted four pork chops from Cyprus instead of the baked beans. It was a fine goal, after all, and I didn’t want ugly publicity detracting from my majestic triumph. The true facts of the Volley of God goal haven’t been really revealed until now. But I just wanted to wipe the slate clean – in case the ‘phone call from Victoria Park finally arrives.
And if you do bump into Drulo on your summer holidays, be sure to tell him.
The Voice, Heliopolis, Cairo 4th October 2016
But before the Daily Mail exposes me to the world, I shall appeal to the good people of Gloucester and hope that your fair-minded analysis will help me in the difficult days ahead.
Like any youngster, I started with huge hopes. I would imagine scoring an injury time winner to send Hartlepool rocketing to twelfth place in Division 4, or saving a last minute penalty that relegated Darlington. Often I would dream of seventy seven home fans chanting my name as I dominated the midfield against the formidable Rochdale. And of course, there was the Cup Dream – that perhaps one day we might make it all the way through to the Third Round proper and a huge match against those Cup Giants, York City.
But life is cruel and I realised, just after my forty second birthday, that I probably wouldn’t ever pull on the blue and white shirt of Hartlepool United. I took stock of my life and the beautiful game. There were the highlights, of course. Scoring twice for Fens Primary ‘B’ team to win the Cup in 1976, the time I headed the ball direct from a sliced Alan Goad free kick against Brentford in 1985 (I was in the crowd) and my debut for the Pike and Musket in 1996. (‘You’re down as Adey Paradine today, Andy. Just don’t score or get booked and listen to Warren,’ was the helpful advice from Ken Blackburn.
And so this was my fragile mental state as I ran on to play in one of the most bitter derbies in world sport: Primary vs Secondary at Modern English School, Cairo. It was 2010. I knew that time was running out and it was my last game before we all left Cairo and came back to Hartlepool. I was desperate to score to mark the occasion, but, possessing neither pace nor skill, it was proving difficult. However, life in Cairo is sometimes not quite as straightforward as life in Gloucester. I pushed forward and found Dean Al Hoss, a Villa fan from Derby whose family were Lebanese.
‘Deano, mate, it’s my last game – just pretend to fly in for the tackle, I’ll push it past you and I’m sure to score. How about it?’
Dean had not forgiven my earlier cruel comments about his own lack of pace and vision and he told me to get lost – but I sensed his weakness.
‘Look, mate, I’ve got two cans of Guinness, two tins of Heinz Baked Beans and a packet of bacon. It’s all yours if you let me through.’
‘I heard you had four cans of Guinness …’ There is a reason that the Lebanese have a reputation as good business people.
‘Okay, three cans of Guinness if I get past you and four if I score. Dea..’ There wasn’t time to shake on the deal. A mistimed clearance saw the ball fly into the air. Dean and the legendary Erica Parrish went up for the challenge, Parrish somehow sticking her elbow into Al Hoss who collapsed like a sack of King Edwards, the ball bouncing off his head. Instinctively I smashed the ball goalwards and was astonished to see it fly into the net, buckling the stanchion and almost bursting the net. My team mates surrounded me. We hugged. Life was never so good. A broken Al Hoss trudged past, nursing his ribs. Primary now 3-1 up.
‘I’ll be round tonight for the tins,’ Al Hoss shouted. I pretended to ignore him. He moved closer. ‘It’d be a shame to let your kids know how you tried to buy a goal… ‘ I glanced across at the loyal following from Year 6 Orange, my son Michael and his mate Khaled who had finally recovered from all the excitement and were back playing on their PSP2s.
And so joy turned to misery. Had Al Hoss really taken a dive? Did it count because we’d never shaken hands and, more importantly, how would I manage to sneak out Mrs. Voice’s last two tins of Heinz Beans without her finding out?
Reluctantly I paid up. Al Hoss grudgingly accepted four pork chops from Cyprus instead of the baked beans. It was a fine goal, after all, and I didn’t want ugly publicity detracting from my majestic triumph. The true facts of the Volley of God goal haven’t been really revealed until now. But I just wanted to wipe the slate clean – in case the ‘phone call from Victoria Park finally arrives.
And if you do bump into Drulo on your summer holidays, be sure to tell him.
The Voice, Heliopolis, Cairo 4th October 2016
