Every morning I walk to the toilet, look in the mirror and tell myself I’m the baddest muthafucker alive. But I always flush before I leave, so I can’t be that bad.
– George Clinton
I open my eyes to the sound of footsteps in the courtyard, crunching on the pebbles beneath the bedroom window and then fading into the distance. A gentle summer’s breeze parts the curtain. It is Sunday, 4 June and the morning is calm and sunny and warm. Virginia is sleeping beside me on the pillow. Yesterday we were wed.
We’ve come through a lot these last few years and there were times when I wasn’t sure we’d make it. How could it be otherwise when the foundation of our relationship was two years of lies? Yesterday we started with a new sheet of paper and this morning, despite a somewhat muzzy head, I feel bien dans ma peau and know we will succeed.
The wedding was nothing lavish, just a small gathering of family and friends. That Michael didn’t come was the only blemish, but there was cake and Teddy Sheringham and we partied all night. Andy Townsend also made the trip but presented me with a three grand appearance fee. To no great surprise he spent most of the evening, huddled in a corner swapping gossip with Teddy until I insisted they put the ball away. We love the game but don’t ask us to admit it.
Tomorrow, we leave on honeymoon to Tahiti until 29 June when I’ve to report to my new club Red Star for work. I’ve put on at least a stone in the last few weeks and will have to get my running shoes on or work hard sexually: I know which one I’ll prefer. It’s important I return to France in the right frame of mind and conduct myself as professionally at Red Star as I did at Nancy and Marseilles. I don’t want it to end badly. I don’t want to let anyone down. But most of all, I don’t want to let myself down because, at the end of the day, that’s really all that counts. We win, we lose, the manager bangs the table. But we answer to ourselves.