Over the past few years I have been deserving, shallow and craven enough to enjoy the hospitality of a number of Premiership corporate boxes.
In every one of them I have been emotionally crippled by the inferior quality of the victuals and beverages, wheeled in by East European economic migrants in nylon livery.
My appetite was triggered by Roy Keane’s famous studs-up monstering of prawn sandwich-snaffling suits plotting hedge-trimming, leveraged skullduggery and what-not in Byzantine splendour.
Of Dav or Davos
Whilst honest Joe choked on his microwaved chicken-bake and builder’s cuppa below the corporate Magic Mountain, the ‘haves’ were fed honeyed larks’ tongues by surgically enhanced flunkys. No filler and all killer.
However, Keane was no symbolist philosopher and no John the Revelator. First of all the prawn sandwich is a trite and mundane associative image for remote exclusivity.
You want a foot-long Fool’s Gold sandwich served by pneumatic underwear models and dwarves for that. You want an enema of Armand de Briance ‘Ace of Spades’ Champagne and a pig’s head stuffed with truffled tenners.
To quote ‘Sexy Beast’, you want wanking, spanking and camcorders. What you actually get is a bucket of tepid Stella or Heineken, some surly mousetrap sandwiches and a tray of Elizabeth Shaw after-dinner mints. It’s the equivalent of a council-estate christening party buffet or the finger food at Abigail’s Party.
Pettyfogging petit fours
Nope, the prawn sandwich as metaphor for a heavily-papered corporate elite, remote and disinterested in the beautiful game doesn’t eat well with me.
The fact is that in every aspect save the wages, football is amateurish and curiously out of time. I have had better scoff at the Leigh Delemare service station on the M4 in 1979 than I have had in football’s hallowed boxes.
If I win the Euromillions rollover, I would certainly buy a corporate box at Spurs. However I would get my chauffeur to stop off at Tesco’s on Tottenham High Road en route first to get something decent to eat and drink. Roy Keane – eat your heart out. Nuff said.