Another Summer with Victor - The Square Ball 3/8/22

THE DIARY OF A DOF

Written by: David Guile

Okay, it was probably my fault.

I’d just got a new phone — I go through a lot of them, you know what the transfer window can be like — and I was in the office trying to set it up via one of those god awful Samsung apps. I had the local news on the TV — something about a hundred idiots walking from Wales to Leeds, lord knows why — and I’d just put my SIM card down on the desk when Angus waltzed in.

“Aaronson’s on his way,” he said, grinning like a fool. “It’s all done. Well, almost. We just need your signature on this, Victor.”

He plonked a small mountain of paper on the desk. I sighed and burrowed through my drawers, trying to find a pen that worked.

“Right,” I said, after a small eternity had passed. “All done. Now, please bugger off. I’ve got stuff to be doing.”

Angus removed the paper mountain and I scanned my desk for the SIM card. It wasn’t there.

“Angus, where’s my bloody SIM?”

A long search achieved nothing but the spilling of a cup of cold coffee. By the end I was close to tears.

“Angus, you stupid oaf! It was right there before you dumped that shit down! Do you realise what was on it? That’s our whole transfer plan — players, agents, contact numbers, budgets — and it’s all gone! What are we going to do now?”

Angus looked a bit sick. “Good thing we’ve done Aaronson already. I’ve got Salzburg’s number at least. That’s a start.”

I gave him a look. “Great. So that’s our backup plan? Only sign players from Red Bull Salzburg. How do you think the fans are going to take that, with Kalvin and Raphinha going? We’ll be crucified on Beeston Hill.”

“Well, it might not be the worst place to begin. They’ve got this scary meathead of a right-back. Brentford want him, so he’s probably too good for them. And there’s that Camara bloke, too.”

“It’ll have to do for now. I’ll fly out to Salzburg and take a look. Don’t tell Andrea about any of this. He’ll have our heads.”

2nd June

It wasn’t difficult to find Rasmus Kristensen. He was in the canteen at Salzburg’s training facility, gnawing on something that looked like a polar bear’s femur. Everyone seemed keen not to sit too close.

I approached, cautiously, and introduced myself. There was a tense moment when I picked up the wrong coffee cup and he briefly looked like he might hurl me through a closed window, but I think I may have closed signing number two. Thomas Frank’s face should be an absolute picture, the greasy twat.

Back in England now. Offered to personally drive Laurens De Bock to the airport in an angry moment, and he seems to have taken it literally, so I’ll be back on the road tomorrow. Decent start to the summer, though. Everything’s coming up Victor!

3rd June

Picked Laurens up early. Neither of us was in the mood to talk, so we spent an hour moodily cruising down the M62.

My phone rang. It was Angus.

“Good news, Victor! I’ve found your SIM and I’ve found you another player! Are you familiar with Marc Roca at Bayern?”

I was. “Roca? Are you serious?”

“I am. Victor, we need you back here. Need you to look over some paperwork urgently. Other clubs are moving.”

I turned to Laurens. “Out of the car. I need to get back to Leeds.”

“Are you joking?”

I reached over him and opened the passenger door. “Does it look like it?”

“Could you at least stop the car first?”

“I will, but after seven games in five years it’s more than you deserve.”

I left him, miserable, on the hard shoulder, weighed down by his suitcase and haunting memories of Derby County, and high-tailed it back to Leeds. That’s business.

22nd June

Deco is taking the piss! Barcelona want Raph, and Raph wants Barca, so, as far as Raph’s idiot of an agent is concerned, he’s Barca’s player already. The fact that Barcelona currently don’t have a pot to piss in seems to be lost on him.

I told him, firmly, that we don’t accept payments in the form of IOUs, magic beans, Socios fan tokens, or whatever the hell ‘Barca Pull’ is and hung up on the little scrote. Raph didn’t take the news very well. He’s currently sulking on training pitch three, booting free-kicks at the heads of the training dummies.

Arsenal made an offer of £30m today. Once I’d stopped laughing, I asked if they’d consider sending us Ben White and Eddie Nketiah as part of the package. I don’t think they’ll call again.

We’ve got a new target: Charles De Ketelaere at Bruges. Jesse wanted a Bamford-type player and this one’s pretty much a Flemish version of Pat, only posher; he even sticks his pinkie out while drinking Lucozade. Some ominous mumblings swirling around that he’d prefer to go to Milan, but I reckon we’ve got this. Just need Barca to pony up for Raph, and we’re laughing.

1st July

Phone rang midway through breakfast. Answered it without checking the caller ID first.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Victor. This is Red Bull.”

“Oh, hi! Yes, I’d like to discuss your valuation of Mo Camara. We feel…”

“No, Victor. The other Red Bull. Leipzig.”

Shit. I’d spent the last two years ducking these guys. I put on a falsetto voice. “Victor’s not here right now, but if you call back this evening…”

“Victor, are you pretending to be a woman to avoid talking to me?”

I sighed. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Please don’t do that again. It’s unbecoming. Look, the Augustin episode was unpleasant for all of us, but the courts will decide on that. We have a proposal. I wanted to talk to you about Tyler Adams. He wants to leave, and we understand you have a vacancy. €25m and we will let him go.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Okay. How does a loan with an obligation to buy sound to you?”

Turns out Germans don’t have a sense of humour. Who knew?

July 4th

Kalvin’s gone. Manchester City, £45m. City let us take one of their kids as part of the package. After a rigorous selection process (eeny-meeny-miny-mo) we ended up with a lad called Darko. No idea if he’s any good, but who cares? We’re rich!

Adams is done, near enough, and we’ve got a Colombian fella called Sinisterra to replace Raph. Deco’s been a bit quiet. Maybe he’s finally got the message, or maybe he’s busy with all those rather niche dating websites I signed his email address up for.

Raphinha’s still unhappy. Offered him some of my pickled onion Monster Munch in the canteen and he looked at me as if I’d just shat in the packet. I’ll be glad to be rid of the moody git, truth be told. There’s a perfectly good offer from Chelsea on the table, and if he doesn’t take it soon I think there’s going to be trouble.

10th July

Yep, I was right. Things came to a head with Raphinha today. I called him up to my office.

“You can go to Chelsea, or you can stay here. I don’t want to hear any more about Barca. They’re skint.”

“No, Barcelona is my dream. I’m going to Barcelona.”

“Well, you’re not going anywhere, then. We’ve got De Ketelaere lined up and we can’t afford to wait for Barca to win the Euromillions. They’re wasting your time and ours.”

“No. I’m going to Barcelona.”

“Look, the money’s as good as spent. If I have to bundle you into a club car and drive you all the way to London, I’ll do it, Raph. Don’t think I won’t.”

An unpleasant scene began, and escalated. Angus walked in as I was attempting to frogmarch a furiously protesting Raphinha towards the garage.

“Victor, for God’s sake, let go of him! He’s expensive! I just spoke to Deco. Barcelona have agreed to pay up!”

“Ah,” I said, feeling a bit silly. I let go of Raph’s neck and let him slide to the floor. “They found a magic money tree, then?”

July 22nd.

Firpo’s injured. Disaster. I can forget about putting my feet up. We need a new left-back, and that means I have to make a call I’ve been dreading. I steeled myself and dialled the number.

“Bing bong! You’re through to Gjanni’s phone! Leave a message after the scream! AAAAA…”

I hung up. That way lies madness.

July 29th

“Hairy fraud!” shouted a fan as I pulled into the Elland Road car park. I gave him the finger and headed in.

I dialled De Ketelaere’s agent. No answer. This wasn’t good news. I had some other targets saved on my phone, but none of them felt right. And I still hadn’t sorted the left-back issue. Gjanni was constantly calling as well, either to discuss a transfer, or the plot of his favourite Scooby-Doo episode. I’m not sure which.

The coffee machine decided to spit curdled cream over my jacket, which didn’t help my mood. It darkened further when I saw the look on Angus’s face.

“Bad news, Victor,” he said. “De Ketelaere’s going to Milan. We’ve wasted our time.”

It was too much. I wrenched my phone from my pocket and hurled it across the office. It shattered very satisfactorily against the wall.

“Right,” I said, composing myself. “No problem.”

I picked up the broken remnants of my phone and made a mental note to order a new one. “We’ll go to plan B. I’ve got a list of targets…”

I checked the phone. And as I found the shattered SIM port, a little part of me died.

“Angus, where’s my bloody SIM card!”