Friday, July 10, 2009
ROY KEANE ON THE SHOW NEXT WEEK!
NEXT WEEK I'M TALKING TO THE LEGEND THAT IS ROY MAURICE KEANE...I'LL BE ASKING HIM ABOUT LIFE GROWING UP IN CORK AND WHAT SORT OF THINGS HE USED TO GET UP TO...WAS HE EVER MAD ENOUGH TO JUMP OFF THE SHAKY BRIDGE? AND WHERE WAS THE CHOSEN BEACH ON A SUNNY SUMMERS DAY...YOUGHAL OR GARETTSTOWN...FIND OUT ALL THIS AND MORE ON THE SHOW NEXT WEEK...
"I'LL SEE YOU OUT THERE..."
ALL CREDIT TOOOOOOOOO FOOTBALL365.COM FOR THIS STORY...
Roy Maurice Keane: My True Story*
Stand up. Mirror. Staring. Can I do it? A moment…NO. I’m ready. Get the dog lead. Get the wallet. Focus.
“Will you be going to the shops or not then Roy?”
It’s the wife. Hands me the shopping list. On a post-it. Yellow. Like a card. Not red. Going for the ball.
“I’m not going to those f****** amateurs in Tesco again,” I tell her. “Do you think Felipe Scolari’s doing his shopping pushing a trolley with a busted wheel?”
I’m angry now, running it back in my mind…last time, the trolley, the big stack of baked beans half price, the wobbly wheel, children crying, losing control. Beans.
I’m sitting on the floor in the hall. The wife’s standing there. “Just get a pint of milk from the corner then, love, ” she says.
I get up. She comes at me. I kiss her, hard. On the cheek. The cheek was there (I think). “Take that,” I think to myself.
“Take what?” she asks. I go out of the house.
Corner shop. Corner. Defend it. Zonal. I TOLD YOU TO PICK HIM UP – THAT WAS YOUR MAN.
Milk. Milk. Focus on the milk.
“Morning Roy.” It’s Mr Patel.
“You’re a f****** crap newsagent and you’re a f****** crap person,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
I turn and look for the milk. Stuff, money, bag. Walking again. Blind man. Dog. Stick. Can’t he see? Why can’t he see? Can’t he see that was offside? What is he doing?
I’m in the kitchen. Wife’s unpacking the shopping. She’s not happy. Teacups?
No. Shaking head.
“What’s all this stuff, Roy?”
I don’t understand. Stare.
“Roy. I’ve asked you out for a pint of milk. You’ve come back with four packets of rubber gloves, a Sodastream – I didn’t know they still made them – six biros, not one but two copies of New Scientist, a case of Doctor Pepper and 400 Silk Cut. You don’t even smoke, Roy.”
“No,” I say.
“And how much have you spent? Turn out your pockets,” she says.
Coins, notes, clank, receipt.
“Roy, you’ve spent 85 quid on rubbish. Absolute rubbish. What were you thinking? And where the hell’s the milk?”
Focus. Got to focus. Keep looking straight ahead. Focus.
* Not with the bollix Dunphy