I do like a good session on Football Manager, however sometimes the pressures of high level management get to me. After a long day at work, I don’t have the energy to massage the egos of two dozen prima donna mouth breathers in their mid-twenties with more money than morals. Fortunately, there’s an interesting little glitch that can be found in one of the Football Managers that allows for instant financial gratification, and it makes for some interesting plot lines….

No one knew where he had come from, where he got his money from or why in the name of Heaven and Earth he decided to rock up in Scotland, but he had. All we knew about him was that he came to Celtic Park driving an articulated lorry full of money, strode purposefully into the board room and within ten minutes he was standing by the pitch, holding a green and white scarf whilst the previous board members ran giddily for the boarder. I was given one instruction; win literally everything.

Ok so where do we start? My first suggestion of develop the training facilities was met with scorn and derision, and an instruction to think bigger or become closer acquainted with the newly installed shark tank in the board room. With my starter for ten out the window, I went with the back-up plan; sign some players. Having proposed to buy some Scottish internationals to support the national team and expand our fan base in Scotland, I was warned that if I didn’t start coming up with some proper ideas I would be shown the door, then beaten over the head with it. ‘What do you want me to do?!’ I answered, exasperated ‘Sign Bayern Munich or something?’ The pregnant pause told me that that was exactly what I was expected to do.

Just in case you are unfamiliar with the Scottish Premiership, it’s about as competitive as a hundred meter sprint between Usain Bolt and a can of spam. Pumping a hundred million or so into the first team made the league even more of a cake walk than normal, but made us just about competitive in Europe. Part way through a twenty three game winning streak in the league, I had seen my Celtic team battered in Real Madrid 4-0, pipped 3-2 by PSG and redeemed in a 3-1 win over Juventus in a frankly staggering Champions League group of death. On the verge of elimination, and with the thought of the (literally) circling sharks in the board room, things were looking bleak. Training was tough; trotting endlessly round a muddy pitch in the Scottish perma-rain, with the long dark shadow of the owner looming menacingly across the mud and gloom.

‘Think outside the box’ I told myself; ‘blue sky thinking, as counter-intuitive as that may be in Scotland, is the way to save yourself’. What good are millions of pounds when you can’t get the players to come to Scotland? Then, a brainwave – Know your target audience, and know what makes them tick.

First, draw up a list of players who fit the bill. Players who have played for clubs in horrible God forsaken places, and have upped sticks and left chasing the almighty dollar. Paul Pogba at Juventus was first on the list, followed quickly by Carlos Tevez and David Silva. They’d all lived in Manchester for goodness sake  so they’d manage in Scotland.

Next, the pitch – ‘Come to Celtic!’ was the convincing plea from behind my winning smile ‘You’re quite literally guaranteed trophies, and the only thing higher than your wages will be the local teenagers!’ Naturally, all three jumped at the chance to join, possibly based on the description of Glasgow as a ‘tax-haven’. ‘It probably means somewhere that people pay some tax’ I told myself, conscience becoming clearer by the minute.

Obviously the new arrivals had an unsettling effect on an already star studded squad. Mario Mandzukic and Toni Kroos were both particularly concerned having been lured by the might of the pound and the deep fried mars bar in the summer, but neither should have been afraid of a little competition; Mandzukic had knocked in twenty seven goals by January, so his place was pretty safe at the top of my 4-3-2-1 Christmas tree formation and Kroos had captained the side since he walked through the gates. Victor Wanyama, who had mysteriously managed to escape the mass clear-out of saleable assets in the summer, should have been concerned at the arrival of Silva but was too busy shouting at his agent to find him a club somewhere a little bit less cold.

It was the acquisition of Pogba that made the real difference. Rather than strengthen my already glittering midfield, the removal of Juventus’ lynchpin caused a collapse in form for the old lady, and they were soundly thrashed at home 4-0. Due to an unexpected and fortuitous turn of events, Madrid and PSG had been unable to capitalise on their wins in Scotland, and our six points from the Turin club had left us only a point behind both; tied on 7 points. A draw in Madrid for us compared to an unexpected but fortuitous loss for PSG in Turin drew us level, and a miracle second half turnaround in Paris gave us a glorious 3-2 win and a spot in the next round.

Drawn against Dortmund, my plans were thrown into disarray three days before the first leg by the first loss in the league of the season; systematically dismantled by an unusually dynamic Dundee United. How would my team react? Would this throw them off their stride at the most crucial point of our season? The answer was an emphatic no; with a Mandzukic hat trick enough to guide us through to the quarter finals, despite a one all draw in the second leg.

Quarter finals time and its Barcelona next. I was confident; confident as a man can be knowing that he is only ever one loss from being extracted from his job and cast out onto the streets of Glasgow alone and penniless. A 2-1 win; a thirty yard screamer from Alan Dzagoev and goal as inexplicable as his inclusion from Charlie Mulgrew at left back in the Neu Camp left me almost planning for my next opponents. Then, three minutes in to the second leg, disaster. Fraiser Forster, in a move as bizarre as it was devastating, came tearing out of his area to intercept Messi, who had just sprung the offside trap in a ridiculously high line. Of course, by ‘intercept’ I mean ‘kick into the stands’. Despite forlornly trying to argue that it wasn’t him, despite having no one within twenty yards, a red card sent him back down the tunnel, as the terrible realisation broke over me; no keeper on the bench.

Following a devastating five goals from Messi in a 5-0 battering, we were booed out of the stadium. Outrageously, the next day brought the news that I had been sacked. Unable to comprehend what had just happened, I found myself unable to find employment in Scotland or England, with only the apparently desperate Livorno prepared to offer me work.

When asked about my plans in my first press conference, my response was simple; ‘Don’t worry lads, I’ve got an idea….’

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