Discredited by his peers as a pseudo-scientist, Zola signs on at Stamford Bridge where he hopes to apply his theories of Naturalism. Here, we are pleased to publish an extract from his diary ...

I saw him at a club in old Italy

They said he'd come all the way from gay Paris - he'd scored them go-las

G-O-L-A Golas.



So I walked up to him and I asked him to play.

I asked his name and in a dark brown voice he said, 'Zola'

Z-O-L-A Zola, zo zo zo Zola.

I was gazing at the preparations for the great daily orgy of Stamford Bridge when I espied a throng of players bustling suspiciously near the corner-flag. The new flood-lights threw a yellow light upon this blue-clad crowd. I drew near.

The Fat and the Thin, Le Saux and Monsieur LeBouef were beginning to get very impatient. They had been waiting in the reserves for more than a fortnight, and feared that somebody might be robbing their places during their long absence. So Graham Rix began to give them some further interesting information to keep them from going off. Jon Harley could not have taken to first team football, said he; he was certain to return to the reserves, and it would be very interesting to see him tested. Then he went on to describe the offside trap that had been laid for him, while Le Saux and Monsieur LeBouef continued scrutinising each other from top to bottom, keeping watch upon every opening, and at each moment expecting to see the hats of the scouts appear up the tunnel.

'Don't give him any saveloy,' Gullit exclaimed; 'I don't like it.'

Le Saux had taken up his (not-so) slender frame, and was cutting some thin slices off the outside of his boot. He next passed on to the smoked ham (DiMatteo) and the common ham (Mark Hughes), cutting delicate slices to each, and bending forward slightly as he did so, with his eyes ever fixed on the ball. His plump rosy hands, flitting about Dennis Wise with light and gentle touches, seemed to have derived suppleness from contact with all the fat.

'You would like some, lardy Vialli, wouldn't you?' he asked, bringing the yellow ball towards him.

Monsieur LeBouef seemed to be thinking the matter over at considerable length; however, he at last said that he would have some. Le Saux had now begun to cut into the centre of the park, from which he sliced the ball the tip of his broad-toed boots. And he deposited each successive slice in the middle of the penalty area.

'Aren't you going to give me one on me 'ead son, with pistachio nuts?' asked Monsieur LeBouef in his querulous voice.

Le Saux was obliged to add some to the bore's denuded head. But the coach was getting exacting, and asked for two slices to Sutton. He was very fond of it. Le Saux, who was already irritated, played impatiently, and told him that Chris Sutton was truffled, and that he could only include it in a 'set-piece'. The ball went to Deschamps instead.

The beautiful Norman broke into a slight trot. Didier Deschamps raised his eyes and saw Mark Bosnich standing before him, with his back against the white goal post which blighted the other teams in their division. Didi had mounted an attack into the box to keep his feet out of the outfield, and Bosnich appeared very tall as he glanced at the diminutive midfielder. He looked also handsomer than usual, with his hair arranged in little curls, his sly face slightly bent, his lips compressed, and his hands showing somewhat too rosily against his big white training-bib.

As Bosnich still continued to look slyly at Deschamps, without making any reply, the latter continued: 'Do you hear? You must remove that boot.'

He had not yet noticed the presence of old Ken Bates, who sat all of a heap on a chair in a corner. He now got up, however, and, with his fists resting on his clipboard, insolently exclaimed: 'Dear me! And why is he to throw his boot away? You won't pay him for it, I'll bet!'

Bosnich immediately understood the position. The players at the outfield positions began to titter, and he felt that he was surrounded by covert rebellion, which a word might cause to blaze forth. He therefore restrained himself, and in person drew the trainer's pail from under the bench and dropped the boot into it. Old Ken Bates had already stuck his hands on his hips, while the beautiful Norman, who had not spoken a word, burst into a malicious laugh as Bosnich strode sternly away amidst a chorus of jeers, which he pretended not to hear.

So it was then that I decided that time was ripe for me to partake of the ball. Prepared for a close encounter, I approached the elderly ruffian who with socks rolled down had staked-out the jaws of the goal.

He looked familiar ... 'Dreyfus?' I called out.

'Hughes', he replied.

'Jacques 'ughes?' I asked innocently enough (I thought). But after that, it all kicked off.

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07.08.03 Front Page

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