UF Sketches: Herman the Hermit

A slightly whimsical and completely false accounting of a footballing life from the first person. Today, we hear from ”Herman,” the gentleman recently found camping out behind the Holte End of Villa Park.

Now before you ask, I am not Sam Allardyce. I’m just a simple bloke who loves his Prem ball without the Prem price. Got a chance to watch some decent football while hanging out under the Holte End–loved watching it when Benty scored the winner against those fat cats City and then when Ashley Young ripped up Blackburn a few weeks back.

I repeat: I am NOT Sam Allardyce.

I made my way over to the Second City after getting chased out of Stamford Bridge. I had slipped John Terry a few phone numbers Ashley Cole wouldn’t share with him before and that fine young gentleman showed me a special spot near the Shed where I wouldn’t be noticed. After Chelsea beat Blackburn, though, I had a bit too much spirit in me from the celebrations and started a fire with some empty chip bags that got a little out of control.

By the time I tried to keep my cardboard castle from going up in flames by using my”almighty fire hose” the sprinkler system got set off. And so did I by Roman’s stormtroopers. I was fine with it though–the leftover prawn sandwiches didn’t agree with my constitution anyway and at least I had seen Blackburn get walloped before I was off.

NO I AM NOT SAM ALLARDYCE!

I figured the West Midlands might be a more laid-back place to live after all the hustle and bustle of London. I had thought about trekking it all the way up to Wigan, but I would have been spotted in a second since nobody goes to that ground. And watching them play would have made me more sick to my stomach than eating those dodgy crudites they sell at the Bridge.

I needed meat and potatoes with the football to match, so first I headed over to St Andrews. No go there. That ginger-headed gaffer with the beady eyes spied me trying to get in good with Hleb and shooed me right away.

See, I had promised Alex I was best friends with Wenger and could get him signed back to Arsenal this summer. The doofus was falling for it hook, line, and sinker until McLeish derailed my potential red eye gravy train.

And that’s where I got the inspiration for making it into Villa Park. Old Arsenal players–Robert Pires! He’s old. I’m old. I’m a bit unkempt on top–he’s even worse. I slipped in pretending to be the Frenchie one day and it worked! Some fans even thought I was Pires, so they would buy me round after round at the local pubs. The food at the park was good too–nice solid food that gives you the strength to kick a ball as long as you can down the center of a pitch.

Not. Big. Sam. Stop it.

I had adopted a stray dog hanging around Villa Park, figuring, “Hey, we’re both loners, let’s stick together. Also, he might get me a date with some dog-lovin’ lass.” But when Ged–yes, I named the dog after the manager–started choking on a leg bone one night, he made such a godawful racket the guards came to check.

Since the squad had gone out to a spa for a little “bonding time,” the game was up. The Robert Pires bit didn’t work–since he was supposed to have been at Champneys instead of at the stadium.

And I weigh more than the Frenchie. The fuzz didn’t buy the bee sting allergy jive I used at the pubs.

So, I’m off again! Where have I gone now? You won’t know–unless some other stadium po-po catch me. I’m thinking I might go continental, try some of the European stadiums of Spain now that spring’s around the corner. I fancy Madrid a bit–that Ronaldo lad’s a good one. Could maybe catch some Champions League football there before coming back to lounge about Wembley for the final.

Goodness knows I’m not paying for one of THOSE tickets, especially if Barca and that passing style of football’s in the final. I like my football a bit more simple–like me.

I AM NOT SAM ALLARDYCE.