Re: I fucking hate this bastard newspaper
Only MPs have had a worse week than the myth makers at Manchester City.
It began with the unprecedented arrest of Sheikh Issa bin Zayed al Nahyan, half brother of City owner Sheikh Mansour.
It ended with Manchester United as Premier League champions, and PR lackeys in damage-limitation mode.
At least Sheik Issa is unlikely to be involved in the football arm of the family business any time soon.
A video, broadcast on US TV, allegedly shows him torturing a business partner with whips, an electric cattle prod and planks studded with nails.
He pours lighter fluid on his victim’s testicles and sets them alight before driving over him in an SUV.
Hardly the sort of public image that the traditionally untouchable Abu Dhabi ruling family were buying into when they saw City as a gateway to global acceptance.
They have invested an initial £350million in marketing themselves through football. Loose change for this oil state, but it has purchased little more than ridicule and rejection.
According to the RAC, 5.17 miles separate the City of Manchester Stadium from Old Trafford. In football terms, the clubs are light years apart. While United aim to remain European champions, City have a unique enthusiasm for qualifying for the ludicrously inflated Europa League.
They’re so desperate for the credibility of continental competition, they’d settle for a place in the Eurovision Song Contest.
Mark Hughes, their manager, must deal with assorted agents, Arab courtiers and an executive chairman who is a godsend to stand-up comedy.
Hughes lets himself down by demanding more credit on behalf of a team that gets homesick half an hour from the Coronation Street set.
City’s marquee player, Robinho, has the bitter and bewildered air of a man who wakes up to find bulldozers redesigning the swimming pool of his seven-star holiday hotel.
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Micah Richards, prize product of their academy, has regressed from England’s most promising defender to a waif and stray on Max Clifford’s doorstep.
He wears Vivienne Westwood earrings, speaks to the world through his website, and gets down with da kidz as a DJ.
What’s not to like, Fabio?
Hughes is tempted to sell, but his daily trawl through the transfer market has all the joy of a trip to the abattoir.
Agents use his name to justify their existence. World-class players unimpressed by silly money protect their reputations and politely decline his entreaties.
Still, help is at hand. Kia Joorabchian, who delivered Robinho and fed the fantasy of signing Kaka, is available to broker deals.
Our gag reflexes have been tested these past few days by soft-focus images of this refugee from Iran’s Islamic Revolution.
Truly, we have a warm and wonderful human being in our midst. Football is enriched by his presence.
Back in the real world, a glance at the CV of football’s favourite dung beetle is instructive.
He dropped out of university, tried his hand at selling cars, and dealt in the pit at the International Petroleum Exchange.
He made his fortune through US hedge funds, dabbled in a North London health centre, and a Middle Eastern “distress fundâ€.
He deals in commodities. Some happen to be footballers. He can deliver Carlos Tevez, and a host of mercenaries with dubious service histories.
But do City need a United cast-off, or a more intimate association with Joorabchian?
Not until the desert ices over.
