Inspiration at the bottom of a glass

AT LAST someone is listening. At last thems what is at the very top of the game has realised that what DT has been saying for all his career is right.

If you want to win at football, then you need a night on the lager. That’s what the England lads done before the match with Slovenia. And look what happens: yeah, they win.

Mind, personally, DT has always thought that just lager ain’t enough to foster that winning spirit. A few vodka Red Bulls, a couple of tequila slammers, a bottle at least of Cristal on top of your lagers, then you’re talking. Taking in obviously a trip to the local Spearmint Rhino, then all back to mine for the after party. That DT’s preferred way of preparing for a big match. But every professional has his own routine. And I’m glad the Blind Italian has finally realised that there is merit in the Dazza way.

But before everyone goes on about how great it was that he let the lads relax and be themselves, let me reveal exactly how it came about. As you know, DT is not one to blow his own trumpet, but when the history of this competition comes to be writ, I reckon his part in it will be right up there.

What happened was this: I was just coming back from doing a spot of consultancy with the French team (that went well, I’m sure you’ll agree) when I happened to be passing the hotel where the England lads was staying in Port Elizabeth.

I knew it was there because one of the lads helpfully texted me earlier to let me know. “Hi Babes, no security on back door, if you get my drift,” was his text. Not entirely sure it was meant for me or one of the ladies from Dazzler Escorts Inc, but never mind, to DT’s phone it fell.

So naturally, not being one to miss an opportunity to get in there and tell the Blind Italian that opportunities were running out and that if he really wanted to move on in this competition he needed a bit of the Tackle sparkle about the team, I takes up the suggestion and slips in unnoticed round the back.

Easy peasy, as it happens. I’d tried to get in the front earlier in the day, but security was being right picky. You haven’t got this pass, you haven’t got that authority, they kept telling us. There was one bloke on the front who was right officious. I don’t mind telling you he gave me the right hump, with his nice official suit and his lah-di-dah FA badge on the breast pocket. So I decides, sod this, and give it the old do you know who I am number, only with a twist.

“Do you know who I am?” I says.

“No,” comes back the bloke in the suit. “But I suspect you are about to tell me.”

“Well,” I says to the geezer, sensing that the nuclear option was the only option. “My name’s David Beckham.”

“Unlikely,” says the bloke. “Since I’m David Beckham.”

And it was. Didn’t recognise him at first with shades on and a wire dangling from his ear. But that’s his job. That’s what he’s doing out here. Ever since he was the one who stopped that fan getting into the dressing room after the Algeria game, the FA have asked him to do a turn on security. Gives him summat to do, apparently.

ANYHOWS, he’s met his match in DT. So I slips in round the back (not something I’ve done since Ashley Cole flung that divorce party) and next thing you know I’m at reception trying to get the Blind Italian on the blower. There’s no answer from his room, so I make my way to the bar and order in something to pass the time before he finally decides to pick up. Few bottles of lager, nothing extravagant, just summat to make me look a bit busy. As I’m midway through the first, I’m spotted by a couple of the lads who are passing through on their way to loading up on macrobiotic yoghurt in the dining room.

“Hey, Dazz, giss a sip of that, mate,” says one. “Not had any of that in a month.”

So I does. Next thing you know, I’m at the bar, ordering bevvies for half the bleedin squad who daren’t buy one themselves in case Sir finds out. At least that’s what they’re saying, tight sods.

Well, there we are enjoying a few bevs and setting the world to rights. You could tell the lads was relaxing, because they even took on board my suggestion that someone has to do Heskey in training. No offence to the lad, but the only way the Blind Italian might pick someone who moves up front is if the big man’s crocked. Anyway, who should come over while we’re having a laugh and bonding, but Mr Security himself. Yeah, yer Dave Beckham in person.

“What are you lot doing?” he goes. “Is that what I think it is?”

And Stevie G pipes up “please don’t tell Sir. Anyhow it was him.” And they all join in, pointing at me and giving it “he’s the one who bought us them.” Next thing I know, Beckham’s got the rest of his goons to chuck me out and I’m reading in the bleedin papers that it was the Blind Italian’s idea for the lads to have a few all along. One thing you can be sure: if they’d lost, it would have all be lumbered on DT.