There, I said it. The man is clearly a visionary.
He identified and fulfilled a need that none of us previously knew we had: the need to have spurious rumours fed to us in a Catalan accent.
It seems perfectly feasible that, just because he’s from Barcelona, Spain’s top clubs and agents are perennially falling over each other to keep him intimately informed about the delicate workings of their multi-million-pound transactions, be they in motion, in the pipeline or even, on occasion, non-existent. (Balague seems to get fed an awful lot of the latter.)
Sky Sports have all but crowned him as Great Britain’s Principal Authority on La Liga. Just because he’s Catalan, seemingly. It’s brilliant, and a lot of people actually buy the tripe that he spouts forth in exchange for precious, precious money. Like some kind of cross between an oracle and a whore.
A whore-acle, if you will.
I wanted some of that for myself. So I packed a few essential items into a hanky on the end of a stick and I set off for Spain. It’s quite a nice walk, although I was both wet and unable to breathe for much of the journey.
Eventually I came to a large, wooden sign which read simply: “Espana”. My Spanish isn’t particularly strong so I was unable to translate this, but I knew that I had arrived as I was immediately handed a small dish of diced potato in a spicy sauce. That’s how they do it in Spain, you see; you eat and sleep in small installations throughout the day.
A young boy approached me. His hair was cropped, but for a fluffy, bleached fringe, and his clothes were terrible. “Eres Ingles?” he enquired tentatively. After a quick consultation with my pocket phrase book, I told him that I was indeed English.
To this day, I still am.
“Tell me,” the young boy mustered in broken English, “is it true that Michael Owen is joining Espanyol at the end of the season?”
This caught me off guard; I had not expected to be called into action so quickly. All I had to do was think of Balague and, almost involuntarily, I started talking:
“I have spoken to a lot of people behind the scenes about this. At this moment in time, Owen is very happy at Manchester United, but he still feels that he has a point to prove in La Liga. I understand that there has been contact between the clubs regarding a move at the end of the season but Alex Ferguson has demanded that the negotiations take place next summer in case the player becomes distracted.”
There was a silence. The 1980’s-looking Tin Tin boy was just gawping at me. Did he buy it? My stomach tightened.
“Wow,” said the boy. “You are so full of……enlightening titbits pertaining to the English Premier League, which are clearly sourced from people who are in the know and therefore highly important.” (He said all of this in Spanish, of course.)
“Young boy,” I said, seizing the opportunity, “which way is your nation’s sporting media?”
“Vaya recto,” he told me, “después tome el segundo a la izquierda. Deportes del Cielo es al lado del ayuntamiento.”
“Nice one, mate. Cheers.”
I arrived at Deportes del Cielo in buoyant mood, feeling ready for whatever they had to throw at me. All I had to do was get through to the bigwigs. But how?
This was quite clearly a major operation. The mostly marble-hewn reception area contained an ornamental fountain which reached up several stories, and the walls were replete with screens showing what appeared to be the Spanish equivalent of Sky Sports News: Las Noticias de Deportes del Cielo.
“Valladolid debe anotar más metas para evitar una batalla del relegation esta estación,” declared one dapperly-coiffured anchorman. “Ésa es la opinión de su jugador anterior, Miguel Sánchez…”
“Excuse me sir, may I help you?” interjected the luscious receptionist, again in Spanish. She then handed me a small plate of calamari.
“Yes, hello,” I replied, summoning my native wit. “I would like to speak with whomever is in charge, please.”
The receptionist obliged me with a stony expression. “They are very busy here,” she said dismissively (and in Spanish). “If you would like to send an email then I would be happy to pass it on for you.”
Rats. That’s as good as an ‘eff off’. I had to try again. “I have come from England,” I proclaimed, with added purpose, “and I must speak with your leaders. I have information which they might find…insightful.”
“I’m sorry,” retorted the receptionist. “They are in a meeting.”
“All of them?”
“Si.”
“I’ll wait, then,” I said, eliciting an irritated frown. She looked cute when she was angry. I took a seat on one of the dark, leather couches and commenced my psychological war of attrition. On the next couch along sat a burly, red-haired man in full kilt and sporran. He seemed to take interest in my sudden presence and leaned over to meet his new neighbour.
“Och,” he said. “My name’s Fergus. Who are you?”
By now, I had acquired the speaking manner of a weary traveller on an epic voyage of truth and justice. “I am the one they call Abrams,” I announced sternly, “and I have come from England in search of employment as a Premier League expert for a high-profile Spanish television channel.”
“Och aye,” acknowledged Fergus. “I was just on holiday here. Mentioned to some kid on a beach that Villareal were interested in buying Kyle Lafferty from Rangers and he told me to go here. Turns out Spanish television don’t have a specialist SPL correspondent. I just made up the Lafferty thing. Don’t know why.”
“It’s so easy, isn’t it?” I said, reverting to type. “You just pick a player and a team at random, then invent a nice little story to support it. For example, I could say that Osasuna are going to sack their manager and replace him with Kevin Kilbane, who’s been swatting up on his coaching badges while sitting on the bench for Hull…”
While I was speaking, a sharp-suited man holding a briefcase had walked out of the lifts and across our path. He stopped dead in his tracks and, ears pricked, he turned to face me.
“Do that again,” he said (in Spanish).
“Do what?”
“That thing you just did. Do it again.”
I thought for a few moments. What would Balague do? I cleared my mind of all thoughts, took a deep breath, and the words poured out with production line precision:
“Keith Fahey’s blistering season has alerted the attention of Atletico Madrid, who will offer Birmingham a £20m package in the next transfer window. Fahey himself is very keen to encourage this interest, which has left his manager Alex McLeish fuming.”
The suited man stared back at me with a look of wide-eyed incredulity. Had I gone too far?
“That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed (still in Spanish, of course). “You have a gift, sir. How would you like to be our chief Premier League correspondent?”
Enthused, I took him up on his offer without a moment’s hesitation. Fergus moved in like a pigeon towards a bread-wielding elderly lady sitting on a park bench.
“Och,” said Fergus, “do you need an SPL expert? David Villa’s on his way to Dunfermline, you know.”
The suited man simply ignored him, and motioned for me to follow him back towards the lifts. After throwing an apologetic look over my shoulder towards Fergus, I turned to face the suited man and nodded assertively to absolutely everything he said to me. But I wasn’t really listening. He opened his briefcase, took out a small plate of tortilla and handed it to me.
We got off at the top floor and set off down a long corridor. Various typing, whirring and commentating sounds emerged from behind a series of closed doors. Lights flickered in the gaps, as a cacophony of muffled telephones rang out. I had the uneasy feeling that I was about to be thrown straight in at the deep end.
Eventually we arrived at a door which bore a sign reading ‘Premier League Roundup’ (this time in English). The suited man bundled me into the room, barked out a couple of indecipherable instructions in Spanish and quick-marched off to whatever important matter he had to attend to next.
A man was sitting behind a desk in front of a vomitous, football-themed studio backdrop. He stared wordlessly at me for a while. It was the plump-haired, tie-sporting anchorman who was on the screen in the reception area.
“So,” he began (in Spanish), with the reluctant air of a man on a speed date with Ann Widdecombe. “Will Owen Coyle be looking to strengthen his backline in the summer?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I happen to know that Owen Coyle is very unhappy with his defence, and he is all set to turn his attentions to Getafe centre-back…”
I froze.
Lying is one thing. I can do lying. Lying with a camera in your face, however, is an altogether different proposition.
“Sorry,” I resumed. “I was going to say that Owen Coyle will be launching a bid for Getafe stopper…”
I could feel my natural reserves of integrity kicking in, as if my body was secreting them in order to fend off some invasive and very nasty virus. All of a sudden, the camera no longer appeared as a camera, but as an accusatory, pointing finger. “J’accuse!” it seemed to say. “J’accuse!”
“Er…let’s move onto Everton,” tried the anchorman. “Will they be able to keep hold of Fellaini, do you think?”
Silence permeated the room. The anchorman exchanged pleading looks with the cameramen, before fondling under the desk and producing a small plate of grilled shrimp. “Gambas a la plancha?” he offered. I accepted the gift and solemnly devoured it, knowing that my chance had been well and truly blown.
“I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for,” said the anchorman, turning to face the camera. “Join us next week on Premier League Roundup!”
The credits rolled, at which everyone in the room exhaled deeply and opened the top buttons on their shirts. A blazing row erupted between the anchorman and a gaggle of men watching from the side. The anchorman threw his chair against the wall and stormed out of the room. A member of the gaggle approached me.
“We’ve booked you a taxi and a return flight,” he said. “If you leave now then you should make good time. Please don’t ever come back.”
Safely back in Blighty, I received a call from a friend who was keen to hear about how it all went. Relieved of the scrutiny of the camera, I thought of Balague and slipped into autopilot.
“It couldn’t have gone better,” I said. “The locals worshipped me as some sort of demigod. I was batting off marriage proposals like errant insects. And, what’s more, I said so much insightful stuff on the program that, with some clever editing, they reckon they’ve got enough good footage to last them the season. So I don’t have to go back.”
Guillem Balague, I’ve got to hand it to you. I don’t know how you can do it. You are just so full of......
……knowledge.
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