by Murray Wed Mar 26, 2008 4:59 pm
The Secret Diary of Don Fabio Capello
Friday
I am in my office when mad-eyed Pearce bounces in. He is wearing iPod. He stands in front of my desk for some time, saying nothing. I tell him there is no point sulking about it, I need baby-faced Walcott for senior squad. Who else is going to get me goals? Young Owen? Come on. But he says nothing and just stands there. OK, I say to him. I'll do a deal: he can have baby-faced Walcott, and I don't even want that big, lazy one from Spurs in exchange. Happy now
Still nothing. He stands there for so long I can see his brain moving. Eventually he says: "Er, er, buona mattina, Don Fabio."
He is speaking very slowly now.
"Le piace la musica della roccia del punk?"
I say I am sorry, I have no idea what he is talking about.
"Er, er, pogo? Er punka punky? The Alarm and that?"
I tell him there is not time for this. I have to ring Sir Ferguson to ask him to change plan so Rooney is not going to be injured on Sunday. Little Barwick has told me all about Sir Ferguson's injury timetable: United have Champions League games coming up, England have friendly, so Rooney is scheduled to get a knock on Sunday. And Ferdinand, too. Though Brown should be fine. But I need Rooney. And I need Ferdinand otherwise I'll have to make Terry captain.
As I get up to show him the door, mad-eyed Pearce (pictured) tries again. "Er, MC5? Iggy and the Stooges?" I tell him to come back when he can speak English. He looks a little unhappy. And is now taking off his iPod and handing me the headphones, from which some awful noise comes.
"Er, er, er El Ramones?" he says as he bounces out.
Saturday
Meeting with FA chairman Lord Teasmade about respect. Sir Brooking is there and little Barwick. Lord Teasmade tells me respect is now most important thing in football ever. He says that he wants me to drop gobby Cole after performance against Spurs.
"We have to send a signal out, Don Fabio. Can't expect kids to respect officials if England's left-back is seen to be rewarded for behaviour like that. Fellow simply has to be dropped."
I tell him there is big drawback to plan.
"Yes, see your point, Don Fabio," he says. "Obviously we don't want the chap doing a Carragher and sulking off. Tell you what, have a word with him, explain it's tactical, then we'll brief the press off the record it's because he's been mouthing off at referees. When he throws a wobbler, we'll deny everything. That way respect is maintained."
Still won't work, I say. "Why's that?" says little Barwick. "If I might say so, I feel me Lordship is bang on the button with this one, as per usual with his eminence."
No, you don't understand, I say. I have no problem with respect, I just have problem with England team. And here there is two-word problem: Wayne Bridge.
For a moment there is silence. "Ah yes," says Lord Teasmade. "I follow. As you were, Don Fabio. Carry on."
Outside Team Fabio office, mad-eyed Pearce is waiting. "Bon giorno, Don Fabio," he says, looking rather pleased with himself. "Hai sentito l'ultimo album da Sham 69?"
Sunday
On way to Stamford Bridge I ask little Barwick what is the matter with Pearce? What is this strange noise he is making every time I pass him in corridor? Earlier in week he corner me in the toilets and start growling about a Buzzcocks tribute band playing in pub in Nuneaton and do I want tickets, because he has contact in Portsmouth who can do me pair together.
"He's learning Italian, Don Fabio," says little Barwick. "He's got a Linguaphone CD in his car, 101 useful phrases. He's hoping to communicate better with Team Fabio. If you wouldn't mind humouring him."
I follow that, I say. The Italian I understand. But what's with this obsession with Seventies punk bands?
"Oh God," says little Barwick. "Not you as well. Don't worry. I'll have a word."
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