The Real Deal - with Sam Allardyce

"It wouldn't be a problem for me to manage [Real Madrid] because I would win the double or the league every time." Sam Allardyce, Friday September 17th 2010


Big Sam patrols the touchline. Training. Monday morning. Always a time to really press your size 12s on the back of these show-ponies’ necks and remind them who’s boss.

As ever his Blackburn squad are fancying themselves a bit. The big Kiwi centre-back Ryan Nelsen is trying step-overs, the bloody philistine.

'Ryan!!!’ bellowed Sam. ‘Just fooking whack it, will ya!’

Other than that, training went well. Morten Gamst was in particularly good form. One of his dives could’ve fooled a computer-generated recreation so life-like was it. And Dioufy was crashing into inflatable goalkeepers with relentless accuracy.

Suddenly Tina Turner’s ‘Simply The Best’ crashes across the training ground. It was Big Sam’s mobile ringtone. He answers it.

‘Yeah?’

A suspiciously continental voice says: ‘Hello is that Edelweiss?’

‘Allardyce!’

‘Is me, Senor Perez.’

‘Ey oop, Florentino, lad. Don’t call us at work! You’re worse than me son Craig, the football agent with the allegedly tarnished reputation.’

‘We need you Edelweiss! This new gaffer he’s...’

Big Sam nodded. ‘I know, I know. Not gorra clue has he? Two Champs League trophies and he thinks he’s God.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’d like to have seen Jose Fookin Mourinho get Notts County to Division 3 champions in 1997. What were he up to then, eh? Translating for Bobby Robson – how hard could that be?’

‘Well, you know I heard Sir Bobby speak Hinglish and even a Hinglishman didn’t know what he was saying – so I say bloody well hard job.’

Big Sam grew impatient. ‘Whaddya want, Florry? I’ve got a Carling Cup game to prepare for, son. Against the Villa – another club that are desperate for us.’

‘Jose is finished. We need you. We need you NOW.’

Another call was coming in. Big Sam put Florry on hold.

‘Yeah’.

‘Good-a morning-a, Signor Haddapie’

Sam sighed. ‘Ohh bugger me, it’s only that Massimo Moratti!’

"He will raise us up as he raised up ermm, that other team he managed... erm... Newcastle?"

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‘Hello. Special One’ sneered Sam.

Mourinho bowed low. ‘An honour, Senor Edelweiss. After 2 wins and a draw, the most I could’ve expected was to stay in some form of employment at Real.’

‘And you will mek an ace translator’ said Sam, folding four sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint across his palm and jamming them into his big, big mouth.

Sam didn’t want to waste any time. He wanted to make an impact with these so-called Galtacticos. Let ‘em know what’s expected of ‘em.

First stop, the keeper. Iker Casillas, winner of 4 La ligas, 3 Copa del Reys, 2 Champs Leagues, 1 European Championships and 1 World Cup.

‘Oi, Iker... you know nowt. All right? Them medals don’t count for shit!’ Big Sam sticks his fingers in his mouth and blows a shrill whistle. The back door of an estate car opens and bounding across the grass comes Dioufy. Iker stares in horror as the unleashed dog-man thwacks into his chest and knocks him horizontal.

Casillas screams in Spanish as Dioufy slavers dribble down onto his face. Mourinho translates: ‘Get him off! Get that mad fooker off me! Argghhh!’

‘This is going to be easier than I thought’ chuckles Sam to himself.

"A keeper? Taken out? Yes, boss. 'Course, boss."

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Kaka is next on the burly Lancastrian’s list.

‘Now then Kaka – in fact fook it, let’s drop the formality, can I call you cack?’

Kaka stares in disbelief.

‘I hear you’re a big fan of Jesus. So am I! We both know the importance of crosses. I probably prefer longer ones to the Son of God, mind. Jesus was a carpenter wasn’t he? So listen, God-botherer, here’s a hammer and some nails. Go and make a comfy bench for yourself cos you ain’t getting a game while I’m here.’

‘Por que?’

Sam fumes. ‘Cos you’re a wafty lightweight Brazilian jessie, that’s why!’

Simply The Best blares out again. Sam picks up. ‘Craig, son. Don’t call me at work!’

'Get Mancini on the phone - tell him fifty quid a week and I'm his'

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It’s going well for Sam. Everyone seems to understand what’s required of himself. Sam is very pleased with Higuain – a proper right big number 9. Plus he’s tucked into the new training programme with gusto –he’s managed to elbow nine out of ten coconuts off their stands one after the other.

‘Perfect. Might not need big Kev Davies after all.’

Sam’s been keen to get the centre-halves onside with the proper ways of defending but he needn’t have worried. Arch tugger and tapper Ricardo Carvalho is on hand to lend his advice. He’ll be the perfect partner for Chrissy Samba come the transfer window.

And the Wrigleys Chewing Gum lorry had turned up right on time with its bulk delivery.

There’s just one problem. The twat in the number seven shirt. Cristiano Ronaldo. Thinks he’s Mr. Madrid. Well norranymore.

‘Oi CR7!’

The gelled tumbler lours at Sam from beneath his Studiolined kiss-curl.
‘You can forget about playing that fancy dan brand of footy they let you get away with at Man U!’

‘You forget’ smirks the superstar. ‘Mourinho has been here for a few weeks. We have long forgotten how to be intuitive.’

‘Yeah, well, you can forget Pretty-Boy Jose. I’m the new face of Real Madrid and it’s not pretty. Now join the other lads. In the helicopter.’

There were all in there, including Spanish lads like Xabi Alonso and Sergio Ramos who’d picked up bad habits at international level. The helicopter hovered fifty feet above the sweet green grass of Sam’s new home, the Estadio Santiago Bernabeu.

‘Gentlemen. El Classico approaches fast. And why are we here fifty feet above the turf? Cos this, gentlemen is where we will win the game. Up here, just beneath the clouds. There’s much to learn. Now let’s get back to the video room and watch Holland kick the shit out of Spain in the World Cup Final…’

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Simply the Best blared out again. Sam fumbled for his phone. ‘If that’s the FA after me again I’ll… ’

‘Sam?’

‘Yeah…?’

‘Wake up, Sam, you self-deluding prat - you’re supposed to be on the bus with Blackburn under 19s in ten minutes.’

'Sergio! Any more o' that and i'm off to Inter!'