I was 15 or 16. Look I can’t remember with much degree of certainty what I had for breakfast yesterday let alone what I was doing ten stone ago.
And I’m firmly of the belief that if you expose yourself to absorbing too much information then you’ll inevitably end up forgetting something genuinely important. Like your home telephone number, or the specific where your put the body the first person you killed.
Sundays was cycling over to the Borussia Mönchengladbach training pitch and watching the lads from what would now be known as the development squad play someone or another.
Sat on said pushbike, I’d be leant against the chain fence watching, until half time. Then the two stoney faced pensioners collecting the general admissions in little metal tins would wave me in and let me have the second half closer to action and for free. The pitch had those big white rails round it you normally see around a race course in England. They were about 10ft away from the pitch lines.
Die Fohlen weren’t my first team, I’d been to see Spurs play (albeit away from home) a good few times before then. They were local and despite the electronically revolving and floodlight union flag attached to my bike I was welcomed into their chapel.
Die Borussen are supposedly interested in ‘snapping up’ Vincent Janssen.
Poking about a few Gladbach places online – perversely enough they don’t appear too hostile to the offer -although one or two fans are rolling their eyes at that fact at the boy having passed through Spurs’ hands and so the price would be inflated.
I’d like Vinny gone this window because I want a gun against Levy’s head to buy someone who’s immediately competent in the Premier League. Another reminder to the cheapskate sap that he can’t buy. And that we’ve trophies to win here. Thanks very much.
To those of you wishing to see Poch coach Janssen, could you possibly pop back in another life, you cheapskate motherhuggas.
