Oktober

[Sweder]

I just couldn't be arsed today.
Apathy ruled - I think it must have seeped out of my computer screen last night as I browsed the forum - and I pulled the covers over my head for another hour roasting in my pit. That means one mid-week plod this week - pathetic but hey, no-one's paying me for this, right?

I had an odd shopping experience yesterday that I need to share.
I've been after replacement off-road shoes - my Adidas Climacools are all but shot - and promised myself a visit to the Adidas Flagship store on Oxford Street. Following a horribly early meeting in Piccadilly I shuffled along for the 10am opening. The store was, as one might imagine, blissfully empty. Rack after rack of shiny new kit, from football (a whole wall of Chelski shirts reminded me I'd skipped breakfast) to leisure to running. I'm a crap shopper. I get The Fear. I break out (duh duh duh duh-duh) in a co-o-o-o-old sweat; I panic, end up buying something inappropriate or just plain wrong and scarper swift-like, relieved to escape the claustrophobic clutches of the Big Store.

As I stood, chilled perspiration dripping down the back of my shirt, studying the disappointing cluster of trail shoes before me I became aware of a figure next to me; a fellow shopper, apparently equally uninspired by the collection of expensive footwear laid out, albeit beautifully lit. In that way that only men cramped into adjacent urinals can appreciate, I tried to 'look without looking'. And I did a double-take. Good Lord - yes, it was he, the self-styled Supreme Being; Jose Morinho. All alone - oh, no, hang on – there's the store managers' feet just visible under the Special One's coat-tails.

'Anything you like the look of Sir?' came the muffled enquiry from Jose's rear.
'Harrumph'. I turned back to the boots, picking up a pair of ninety quid off-roaders that looked, well, a bit crap really. The Great One shimmied around behind me, obviously trying to see the shoes directly in front of me.
Give him nothing! cried the demon in my head. I stood my ground, determined to give neither way nor any sign of recognition. I related the tale to a customer and good friend over lunch later in the day. She swooned.
'Is he as Gorge in the flesh as he is on telly?'
I shook my head. This lady's a nailed-on hardcore Gooner. She's got the Highbury Gun tattood on her arm, for goodness sake. Sigh.

These moments can be awkward, more so when you 'meet' someone you actually like.
I recall a moment when I came face to face with, in my book, a real footballing legend and a personal hero. I was working at a large hotel in Manchester, setting up an NHS Roadshow alongside the PFA who had a series of meetings there that week. I stood waiting for the elevator when the doors pinged open to reveal Paul Parker and - gulp - Bryan Robson.
What do you say? Here stands a man I'd idolised as a player. Captain Marvel, the heart of a struggling United side continuing a forlorn pursuit of the League Title, still firmly in the shadow of their Merseyside neighbours. Here was the one man who shone above the Scousers to illuminate English football with heart and guts, total commitment. He led his country from the front, carrying the flag, crying God for England, Harry and an expectant nation as parts of his battle-worn body dropped to the turf. I had to speak to him, to let him know what he meant to me, the joy I got watching him batter the opposition, diving in where all but the brave and the foolhardy feared to head. I looked him in the eye and he paused in the doorway.
'Y-y- your Bryan Robson!' I spluttered.
'Alright Son' he said, the corner of his mouth creased in a wry grin.
He patted my shoulder and pushed past into the lobby.
I just stood there as Parker followed, slightly shaking his head. Bollocks.

But what should you say? What is there to say that can possibly matter to these people? Bugger all I suppose. It seems imperative at the time to deliver an earth-shattering pearl of wisdom or a succinct appraisal, something clever and worthy yet not too embarrassing or creepy. Perhaps Wayne and Garth said it best when they met Alice Cooper;
'We're Not Worthy!'

Some years later I had another 'football celeb' moment.
I was in the men's toilet at Gatwick. The next stall was occupied by the then recently deposed and much maligned Scotland manager Andy Roxborough. He was a sweaty, pinch-faced little man, all raincoat and brylcream, and he was obviously focused on draining the lizard. What the hell.
'Bad luck, Andy.'
'Fuck off.'

C'est la vie.
Morinho left, no money having changed hands - Adidas are, after all, kit suppliers to Chelski - with eight large bags filled with complimentary swag.
Me? I managed to keep my mouth shut and my money relatively safe; some knee-length running shorts and a training vest procured at a very reasonable price.

Here’s to Sunday and another hilly half.