'You have a talented player in the youth team who feels ready to play with the first team. Your youth coach thinks highly of the player', Bairns manager Tony Brazil reads, sneers then tantrums, "that youth coach better be bringing in another Lionel Locke or he'll never darken Estadio Lucifer again".
An eighteen-year-old, three-skilled player is pushed through the door. Brazil takes one look and appraises what he sees, "if you were two years younger and three stone lighter, I'd fancy you."
Ever the charmer, Brazil kicks Kenny Wason out the door.
The same scenario plays out five days later, this time the callow youth is a nineteen-year-old, three-skilled player. Brazil puzzles, "Is that your name son? Fergus Wason?"
The youth stammers an affirmative.
"Strange as the last useless youth was also a Wason. Pack your bags son, there's no room for you here."
Later that evening Brazil tracks down the youth coach in a local hostelry and has words, "what's going on at the youth academy? You only started recently but with the results so far I may have to let you go; what's your name again?"
"Wason sir," slurs the coach, "Mr. Wason, and those last two 'products' of the academy were in fact my sons. Sending them in under false pretences was all I could think of doing. There's nothing left of your academy since you stopped investing any money, I run it from my garden shed.
"No training goes on, or anything like that. It is a complete fantasy because there's no youths to train. Or anywhere to train them. After my two boys, to tell you the truth I'll just be bringing kids in off the street once in a while so it looks like I'm doing something," Wason weeps
Brazil softens and buys Mr. Wason a pint of wine, plus two for himself, "that's grand man, grand. There's a place for you in football still; with your fantastical, out-of-touch view of the world, your over-bearing self-importance and a natural cunning I suggest you try being a referee."
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