can’t blame the players for that – they’re just kids, most of them; Traynor’s only twenty-three and he doesn’t know any better. No, I blame the fucking reporters for asking the same old tired and predictable questions that produce these clichéd answers.
Things got a little more interesting when Bill Fleming, an old warhorse of a reporter from STV in Glasgow, suggested that it was extremely insulting to Scots viewers to have what Kenny Traynor was saying ‘translated into English’, as if they were ignorant of the language. Zarco paused for a short moment and then asked me to translate what Fleming had said, which got a big laugh. I think he understood perfectly well, but Zarco’s comic timing was always excellent. He waited for me to repeat Fleming’s complaint and then smiled.
‘I don’t mean to be insulting,’ said Zarco. ‘But I have been told that it’s not just the Portuguese who have a problem understanding Scottish people. It’s English people, too. So where is the insult in having a translation? That is something I don’t understand. Scott Manson is from Scotland and I understand everything that he says. You, Mr Fleming, you are from Scotland but I don’t understand anything of what you say. You say you speak English, and I will take your word for it, but this is not how it sounds to me. Maybe the problem is not with me but with you, my friend. Maybe you should learn to speak better English, like Scott here. Perhaps this is something Kenny will also achieve while he is playing at London City. I don’t know. I hope so, for his sake. To make yourself understood in a foreign country is not so difficult, I think. Everyone here seems to understand me all right. But I’m no Professor Henry Higgins and I don’t care about the rain in Spain. For sure I can help to make Kenny a better goalkeeper, but I’m the wrong person to offer him speech elocution on how he can make himself understood. Maybe if he opens his mouth a little when he speaks it will be better, I don’t know. You should try that yourself, Bill.’
To his credit Kenny Traynor kept on smiling good-naturedly while his new boss was speaking. Lots of people were laughing but they did not include Bill Fleming.
Later that day I found myself translating again, this time from German. Our new star striker, Christoph Bündchen, came to see me in my office at Hangman’s Wood. He spoke good English but told me that he preferred to speak in German, in case anyone overheard our conversation.
‘Is something the matter, Christoph?’
‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to have your advice about something.’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘First of all I want you to know how much I love this club, and how much I like living in London.’
My stomach lurched a little; Christoph Bündchen was quite likely a star striker in the making, and one we had bought cheaply, but where was this going? What was he going to tell me? That he was a compulsive gambler like ‘Fergie Fledgling’ Keith Gillespie? A secret boozer like Tony Adams? A compulsive gambler and a secret boozer like Paul Merson? Or had he already been tapped up by Chelsea – who had form for this, of course – or one of the other big clubs? Not that I had much time for the FA’s farcical rule against tapping up: good players were always going to be tapped up. Tapping up – approaching a player contracted to another club without its permission – has always been part of the game. I smiled thinly and tried to contain my jangling nerves.
‘That sounds ominous. Please don’t tell me you want a transfer to another club. You’ve only just got here and made your mark. We need you, son.’
‘This is very difficult for me, Scott.’
‘Look, if it’s about pay then I’ve already spoken to Zarco. He’s confident that we can get you another ten grand a week.’
‘Thank you, but it’s not about money. Or a transfer. It’s about something else. I don’t really feel I can be
Things got a little more interesting when Bill Fleming, an old warhorse of a reporter from STV in Glasgow, suggested that it was extremely insulting to Scots viewers to have what Kenny Traynor was saying ‘translated into English’, as if they were ignorant of the language. Zarco paused for a short moment and then asked me to translate what Fleming had said, which got a big laugh. I think he understood perfectly well, but Zarco’s comic timing was always excellent. He waited for me to repeat Fleming’s complaint and then smiled.
‘I don’t mean to be insulting,’ said Zarco. ‘But I have been told that it’s not just the Portuguese who have a problem understanding Scottish people. It’s English people, too. So where is the insult in having a translation? That is something I don’t understand. Scott Manson is from Scotland and I understand everything that he says. You, Mr Fleming, you are from Scotland but I don’t understand anything of what you say. You say you speak English, and I will take your word for it, but this is not how it sounds to me. Maybe the problem is not with me but with you, my friend. Maybe you should learn to speak better English, like Scott here. Perhaps this is something Kenny will also achieve while he is playing at London City. I don’t know. I hope so, for his sake. To make yourself understood in a foreign country is not so difficult, I think. Everyone here seems to understand me all right. But I’m no Professor Henry Higgins and I don’t care about the rain in Spain. For sure I can help to make Kenny a better goalkeeper, but I’m the wrong person to offer him speech elocution on how he can make himself understood. Maybe if he opens his mouth a little when he speaks it will be better, I don’t know. You should try that yourself, Bill.’
To his credit Kenny Traynor kept on smiling good-naturedly while his new boss was speaking. Lots of people were laughing but they did not include Bill Fleming.
Later that day I found myself translating again, this time from German. Our new star striker, Christoph Bündchen, came to see me in my office at Hangman’s Wood. He spoke good English but told me that he preferred to speak in German, in case anyone overheard our conversation.
‘Is something the matter, Christoph?’
‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to have your advice about something.’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘First of all I want you to know how much I love this club, and how much I like living in London.’
My stomach lurched a little; Christoph Bündchen was quite likely a star striker in the making, and one we had bought cheaply, but where was this going? What was he going to tell me? That he was a compulsive gambler like ‘Fergie Fledgling’ Keith Gillespie? A secret boozer like Tony Adams? A compulsive gambler and a secret boozer like Paul Merson? Or had he already been tapped up by Chelsea – who had form for this, of course – or one of the other big clubs? Not that I had much time for the FA’s farcical rule against tapping up: good players were always going to be tapped up. Tapping up – approaching a player contracted to another club without its permission – has always been part of the game. I smiled thinly and tried to contain my jangling nerves.
‘That sounds ominous. Please don’t tell me you want a transfer to another club. You’ve only just got here and made your mark. We need you, son.’
‘This is very difficult for me, Scott.’
‘Look, if it’s about pay then I’ve already spoken to Zarco. He’s confident that we can get you another ten grand a week.’
‘Thank you, but it’s not about money. Or a transfer. It’s about something else. I don’t really feel I can be
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