Liam Byrne was lost. He swore under his breath and kept walking. He never could find his way around Manchester city centre. And so, yet again, on a night out with friends he had got separated and was now lost. He found himself on a narrow side street.

The neon glow of the wine bar seemed to call out to him. He may not find his friends but at least he could have a quiet drink. He went through the door and down the steep stairs.

The wine bar was really swanky. The last bar he had been in with his friends had electro-pop music blaring and flashing lights. This place had jazz music playing low. There were lamps dotted about the place and the clientele chatted in the high-backed leather chairs. Such a lovely place. He went to the bar.

‘Yes, sir?’ The barmaid smiled.

He asked for a pint of lager.

She poured a pint and placed it on a paper napkin.

When she asked for over ten pounds Liam decided he would just have the one drink in here before heading on somewhere else. Leaning an elbow on the bar, he looked around the lavish place. There were ornate statues, looming grand pillars and a seductive hush that only really expensive establishments have. He saw a familiar figure sitting at a table alone, sipping a glass of red wine. He took a swig of his pint and went over. This was an opportunity he couldn’t resist.

He cleared his throat as he approached. The grey haired man looked up.

‘Excuse me, are you Andy Fergus, the United Manager?’

‘Yes, I am, but I’m not working tonight.’

‘Aye, sorry to disturb you.’

‘No problem at all.’

Liam was surprised at how well-spoken the football manager was. His Irish accent was softer, gentler. Instead of the harsh growl he used in interviews, his soft purring voice reminded Liam of an Irish poet. He was also dressed differently. The thick sports coat with his initials on the chest had been replaced by a shirt and waistcoat. He even wore a silk scarf at his neck.

‘You don’t sound like you do in the press conferences.’ Liam blurted out.

‘My Dun Laoghaire accent not as strong in real life?’

‘Dun Laoghaire? That’s where my parents are from.’

‘Is it? You’re of fine stock, my boy. Any son of the Laoghaire is a friend of mine. Would you care to join me while I wait for my wife?’

‘Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind.’

Fergus waved over the barmaid. He ordered them both a double whiskey, Irish of course, he added with a grin.

‘I can’t believe I’m having a drink with one of the most successful football managers of all time.’

‘There’s a secret behind all that.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If I tell you something, he whispered, you won’t tell anyone else, will you?’

‘No, of course not.’

Fergus waved a hand, leaned forward. Liam did the same, unsure what dark secret the Irishman was about to divulge.

‘The whole thing is fake. It’s all fake.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Football is fake. The whole Premier League, the results, the dramas, the red cards. It’s all fake. It’s rehearsed. Everything is orchestrated.’

‘You have got to be winding me up.’

‘No joke. I’m telling you this but of course I can’t divulge the weekend’s fixtures.’

‘Very good. You nearly had me there.’

‘I’m serious. After the ratings dropped in the 90s, they formed the Premier League. Since then it’s been run more like the American Sports Entertainment brands.’

‘No way.’ He laughed.

‘Have you noticed how most seasons the title is decided on the last day? And all the outrageous characters. Even the managers are eccentric and outspoken. Gone are the dull men in drab suits. It is pure theatre. The managers feud with each other, don’t they? Now does that sound like a sport or sports entertainment?’

‘But if it’s all fixed, isn’t that cheating?’

‘Not at all. It’s a play we’re performing for the delight of the fans.’

‘But what about the sports TV channels? Wouldn’t they discover it?’

‘They are part of it. Did you ever watch wrestling as a kid? You’d have some actor pretending he was a commentator and be back stage interviewing the stars. That’s all they’re doing. Everyone is a part of it. The whole thing is a beautifully performed, elaborately produced show.’

‘But how do they decide who wins the league? Surely the teams will all want to win.’

‘There are no teams as such, just the overall brand. It’s a business. Everyone works for the Premier League. You will have noticed how exciting it is. Everything is so dramatic. Even the transfer deadline day. It is all so exciting. That is all down to the fantastic writing team.’

‘And it’s all fake?’

‘Of course. If you think about it, you’ll see I am right.’

‘But wouldn’t word get out?’

‘My boy, its a billion pound worldwide business. They know how to keep a secret. The Premier League is in the entertainment business.’

Liam had so many questions. His head was spinning. It sounded so plausible. Could it be that football was run like American wrestling, all pre-planned, to entertain the crowd?

As Liam went to ask another question, a woman crossed the room and came over. She was in her late forties and had the perfect good looks of a 1950s film star. Fergus got to his feet. Liam did the same. Fergus kissed his wife on the cheek.

‘I’ll leave you guys to it. Thanks for the whiskey, and the chat.’

Liam gave Fergus a conspiratorial wink and got to his feet. His wife took the seat facing the football manager and rolled her eyes.

‘You weren’t telling him that rubbish about football being fake were you?’

Fergus couldn’t speak for laughing.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom