Not All Journalists Are Bad ...

That is a great read, almost Private Eyesque!!!:

Time for footballers to take a reality check

By Sue Mott
Last Updated: 12:47am GMT 09/01/2007

Proposal for new reality television programme, nominally entitled Life Swap, in which several under-performing Premiership footballers are surgically separated from their designer-lad lifestyles and trade places with a set of squaddies between wars. From Spent Forces to the Armed Forces, how about that for a catchy subtitle?

We envisage catching up with our heroes as they chauffeur themselves to an army barracks in their now world-renowned Baby Bentleys (although a lot of them actually have Range Rovers), opening their capacious boots and retrieving all the essential items for their sojourn.

Imagine the cut and thrust of repartee as the sergeant-major then confiscates all items of technical wizardry beginning with 'i' (ie pods) and their assorted headphone regalia that are not essential kit for night duty in Afghanistan. We will have to discuss how many Armani lounge suits are allowed for civilian activities. The army don't seem to have a specific regulation on that.

Cut to the army men, inured to prefab accommodation in serious need of a plumber and rat catcher, arriving at plush, palatial homes with plasma screens the size of snooker tables in every room and a garage the size of Sandhurst for the fleet of luxury cars. Stand by for scenes of squaddies ripping off their fatigues and jumping in the Jacuzzi.

Boots. Now there's a potential minefield. Having been supplied with perfect soft-leather made-to-measure boots all their lives, our footballers will now discover that the boots they receive are actually three sizes too small and fall apart. They will have to buy their own. Out of £7.50 spending money.

They may also discover that flashy white boots are no longer such a good idea when there is an enemy out there sizing up someone for shooting.

Meanwhile, our squaddies are still in the Jacuzzi.

Training. The footballers are used to this, of course, but they may sense a slight alteration of emphasis. Instead of a swift 90 minutes of groin stretching, a bit of banter and a peer through Teddy Sheringham's Bentley window to see his latest DVD installation, they will be sent out for two days around the Brecon Beacons with half a hundredweight of knapsack and a Jaffa Cake bar. It will almost certainly rain. We expect hair gel to become a live issue.

Meanwhile, our squaddies are still in the Jacuzzi consuming organic pizza and Cristal Champagne delivered by a butler service on the house phone speed-dial. Other items on speed-dial will include: Bentley showroom, Ferrari showroom, Apple, Oddbins, Victor Chandler, agent, acting coach, girlfriend and Toys 'R' Us.

We discover that footballers can handle a tank. Most of them are driving one anyway, useful in downtown Fallujah but not necessarily manoeuvrable down the Old Kent Road. The chemistry of man and his steering wheel can be explored a bit in interview. Which of them was expecting to meet a charging rhino in Poplar when they acquired their 4 x 4 runaround of choice?

Meanwhile, the squaddies are drying off and wondering what to do next. Fracas in nightclub? Button-fest on the Xbox? A tricky decision hangs in the balance.

The tension at the barracks is now nicely illustrated by the state of our raw recruits at the dawn reveille. Waking up with the lark has not been a way of life. Waking up for a lark at 2.30pm on days off is more like it. Suddenly, the early hours of the morning are a signal for waking up, not surrendering the dance floor. They barely have time to strap on their Rolexes before the sergeant-major wants to know why their thin mattress is less than immaculate. Several are detailed to scrub the latrines, a fate that had been previously ascribed only to their cleaning service.

They don't like being shouted at, footballers. Normally, they call their agent, squeal to the press and threaten a go-slow, if such a thing were possible. In the army, shouting is a routine conveyance of information. By the time you have tactfully phrased, "Mind that sniper", it may be too late.

Meanwhile the squaddies, just relieved not to be embroiled in gun battles with crazed insurgents and drug barons, have fallen asleep between the silken sheets on king-sized beds, disregarding the mirrors on the ceiling.

Note to producer: it may be politic not to actually send the footballers to front-line war. They have already demonstrated a pronounced disinclination for battle against Reading, never mind armed Afghan proponents of the jihad. It might be enough that they have sampled a life under a regime that cannot send them into a fray with the kind words, "Just go out and enjoy it".

Meanwhile the squaddies, having drunk all the Cristal, gone off the pizza and overdosed on gadgetry, are phoning Upton Park to see if they can come in for training. It's all rather boring otherwise.
With a surname like "Mott" we should expect nothing less.... :D


War Hero
Typical split arse journo, knows nothing about your average bill oddie :roll:

in reality all that would happen is this:

the squaddies would force the footballers wives into all manner of illegal sexual activity, with ATM dominating...

and the footballers would just refue to soldier...cnuts


Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
She neglects to mention that the squaddies would be in the jacuzi naked with the footballers other half drinking the bar dry and doing his mum up the wrong un.


War Hero
It just doesn't sound right does it?

Where's the effing and blinding from the squaddies and the trashing of the bar (at the back of the spacious living room)?

What happened with the footballers crying like wittle broken hearted babies because of the random drugs tests?

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