The Secret Diary of Gerald Saha.

Dear Diary.

Day before yesterday, as I was opening a can of soup for one with a broken can opener, my bigshot brother was scoring for Manchester United against Chelsea. It was a good finish, I'll grant him that, but in my prime I was hitting those every other day. Sure, my prime lasted little more than the blink of an eye - not many remember it - and now I'm 29 with no real future, but I like to remember the good times when I get a break from the racket the couple upstairs make every night. Sometimes it rains, and that drowns out their activities, but the walls are thin and I don't have much money.

I tried to phone Louis to congratulate him on his goal, but I got his press agent who tried to fob me off with some story about him and Wayne Rooney going for a drink with Jose Mourinho because Shevchenko 'wasn't working out', but I didn't buy it. Louis never wants to talk with me. Perhaps it's my weak voice. People comment that I sound a bit like Michael Jackson, but I don't think it's that bad. Masculine footballers though, they might not want to be reminded of failing siblings like me. It breaks my heart when I think of how well things have gone for him, and how poorly they have gone for me. I even cracked a smile when Louis missed that penalty against Celtic in the European Cup last week. A taste of failure, I thought. But despite my own inadequacies, I can't hold that thought for long. He is my brother, and even though he won't talk to me, and doesn't know how I live, I would love to talk to him and admire the way he must live. Big houses, many cars, fancy celebrity bashes. Ah, what a life Louis must lead.

Really, I musn't grumble. Louis will be facing Everton tomorrow. We'll see how he does. I've got to seal the skirting boards to stop the damp coming in before I go to bed.

Yours, Gerald Saha.

 

Does Gerald's team reside in the cellar of their league?

 

Gerald is currently unattached.

 

I hear that a German club is going to come after him.

 

Dear Diary.

So little has happened. Louis didn't get to play against Everton midweek. I was pleased by that. I tried to get tickets for the match, but was turned away at the gates for being too poor. I don't think they believed me when I said I was Louis' brother. I guess success and failure are unlikely bedfellows. I said to the man on the turnstile that didn't he think I looked a lot like Louis Saha, but the man simply dismissed that as a coincidence. I would've produced I.D, but I don't have a driving licence and my passport got chewed by a badger.

Oh, when we were young, Louis and I were two hot prospects. We used to pull a prank during our time at Newcastle. One day Louis would be playing, and then the next day he would call me to say he was suffering from a severe hangover and I would pose as him. I was happy to help, but understand now that it was the first step in a cycle of maniplation that saw him go from strength to strength, and saw me delighted as can be to just receive a Christmas card by proxy from him. 'Dear Gerald', the card would read, 'Happy Christmas, your brother's agent's assistant's neighbour's friend'. He's busy, I can understand.

Today I am going to try and visit him at his home. Wish me luck.

Yours, Gerald Saha.

 

Good luck.