Talk to my agent

The boss comes over to the desk yesterday. Finds me hiding among the McDonalds cartons.

“Something I want you to look at,” he says. “It’s this new early-morning thing.”

“Hold it and go no further,” I say, raising my palm in the universally accepted sign for speak-to-the-hand. The boss stops.

“For the last few days this column has been engaging in full-immersion journalism,” I tell him. “Absolute commitment. Instead of bashing out a few hundred words on some passing fancy, I have decided to live this week after the fashion of a Premiership player.

“This experiment has not been without its problems. The neighbours have not warmed to my proposal to adopt a mock-Tudor front elevation to the house, or to my suggestions about building a garage to house my collection of Ford Mustangs, 4 x 4s and Porsche Thrusts.”

“But you drive a Peugeot 106,” says the boss. “It’s nine years old.”

“True,” I reply. “My current actual a-to-b device would only look like a Baby Bentley if I employed the special effects wizards of Industrial Light and Magic. Squeezing my entourage — my posse, if you like — into the car is a bit of a challenge, but on the upside, parking outside clubs like Chinawhite is a bit of a doddle, even without power steering.”

“Or without, in fact, living in the same city as that same club,” says the boss.

“Despite these challenges there have been many positives (from the experience) (going forward),” I reply.

“For instance, when someone brushed against my back as I queued for a coffee yesterday, the whole queue turned to look when I crumpled to the ground screaming in agony as I clutched a part of my body far removed from my back. As soon as the girl behind the counter asked if I wanted to be served next, I sprang to my feet and asked for a herbal tea. And brandished an imaginary red card to the quaking pensioner behind me.”

“A pity this dedication wouldn’t extend to your punctuality,” murmured the boss, frowning significantly towards the wall clock.

“See, this is the respect issue,” I answered. “On the way home yesterday, a query on my mobile got an Ashley Cole-style retort in response — ‘He’s taking the p—!’ Unfortunately I got a chilly answer — the voice on the other end told me that in fact €261 is the standard refuse collection charge within the city.”

“How’s your Premiership lifestyle going for you on the home front?” says the boss.

“Tricky enough,” I admit. “When I got in the front door yesterday I castigated my WAG for not appearing on the front cover of the latest edition of Grazia, weighed down by shopping bags from Cricket. And called her babes.”

“Ouch. How’d she take that?”

“Without a word. She just handed me the plug for the hoover. However, that merely allowed me to enjoy the best part of living the life of a Premiership player. Having an agent.

“Anything I’ve been asked to do for the last couple of days, I have simply pursed my lips and furrowed my brow and say, ‘Don’t know mate, I’ll have to run it by my representation.’”

“Really?” said the boss, affecting concern. “You have an agent now?”

“Let me tell you, it’s FAN TASTIC. My wife didn’t take kindly to it at first, having to go through a third party when it’s my turn to put out the rubbish or get the milk first thing in the morning, but that’s the whole point. I have my image rights to consider, and my agent’s very protective of that. I can’t afford to be linked to projects and undertakings that might scare away any future endorsement deals, obviously.”

“Obviously,” says the boss. “Who is that agent, by the way?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“We were thinking of coffee,” he says. “Maybe a couple of scones to start us off this morning. We were going to get you some, but if we have to go through your agent...”

“An Americano and a mini-chocolate muffin if you’re going,” I say.

“You know me. I’m a team player.”

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