Out on loan

The gaffer calls me in. I don't like the way he's looking at me. Actually, he's not looking at me. He's looking down at his desk. I'm looking at his fucking eyelids. Looking at his sheets of paper, his formations, his lists. His lists, his bloody lists. Just 'cos he couldn't kick a fucking football for toffee. Tell me what to do and you won nothing. This is the Premier League mate. What's it now? Got your latest Opta stats? Who's not running 'til they're sick; who doesn't track back every fucking time we lose the ball and he's shouting his mouth off, neck sticking out five yards over the touchline like a fucking ostrich 'cos he's so desperate to get on the field himself. 'Look at him, kicks every ball', they say on Match of the Day. Yeah, like what stats would he get? Run 'til he's sick in five minutes 'cos he'd have a heart attack. Have to take him off in an ambulance. Put that in your stats: ran like a twat then dropped dead.

What's that? Next week's starting 11? Top transfer targets? It's bad enough they bought Kane. Better not get anyone else in up front. I'll be well down the pecking order. What am I suppose to do to get a start? I'm putting the ball in the net, I'm creating chances. I've got real pace. Defenders don't like me running at them. I'm not scared. And I turned it around at Leicester. Champions of bloody England. And I'm back on the bench next game. Okay, I drew a blank for a couple of games, and yeah, I did nothing against Hull, but that centre half knew what he was doing. I've got the fucking bruises to prove it. I've got his number. Get them back to our gaff and I'll elbow the bastard first chance I get. Fuck it. I'd take a red for that fucker. 

What the fuck? The Championship? Out on loan? Says I need experience. Look me in the eyes and say that. No wonder that Leeds bastard broke your leg in two. Career cut tragically short, my arse. You'd have never made it anyway. Fuck off back to your stats. I'll fucking show you.