The Socialist Adventures of Giggsy

TSAoG, as seen in BonusCupped fanzine issue 2

Episode One: PFI cleared off the line

“Mr Giggs, sir? Please you tie my laces of boots?”

With a disgruntled sigh Giggsy rolled up January’s copy of The Guardian disguised as Nuts and shoved it into his personalised MUFC bag.

“Ok Ronny, but this has to be the last time, you have to learn to do it yourself. If the press find out you can’t even tie your own laces the gaffer’ll get a bender in the balls.”

“Yes Sir Mr Giggs” He may have been worth 80 million quid but even the cockiest of the young internationals gave Giggsy the respect he deserved. Annoyed his reading of the latest Seumas Milne editorial had been interrupted Giggsy knelt down and tied the Portuguese’s Adidas Predator boots. He stood up and took in the familiar scene unfolding around him. His fellow team mates, in various states of dress, exhibited in their faces the usual array of pre-match mind frames; nerves, excitement  - and for the more experienced player such as himself - nonchalance. For the likes of him and ‘keeper Eddy this was all in a Saturday afternoon’s work, only the colour of the changing rooms differed according to whether they were home or away. 

“Right then ma’ wee laddies!” The gaffer had burst in with the gusto one would expect from a middle aged Scot. “It should na be too tough today, Wigan are a nervous lot, both wingers out with injuries and their gaffer with a fookin’ anvil hanging over his head cos they’s doin’ so shit like. Just get oot and play like we normally do.”

With his usual resentful stare at the Nike emblem in the top left, a symbol of Capitalist exploitation if ever there was one, Giggsy pulled on his red United shirt and lined up with the rest of the team.

All too easy. 3-0. Goals courtesy of Roon, Scholesy and Tevs. In recent years Giggsy’s relative old age gave him the excuse he needed to take things a little easier. While in his youth he had based his game round his dribbling and pace team mates, pundits and more importantly the manager, seemed to think it understandable that he no longer exert himself too much. He now took on a simpler midfield lynch-pin role; defenders would pick him out and he’d deliver a perfectly weighted through ball or lofted pass to the forwards. With his exquisite left footed touch he also made himself available for corners and free kicks. This suited Giggsy fine; his less active role gave him the time he needed to ponder the issues of his beloved Socialist politics. He was especially grateful for this week’s easy opposition as he had a lot of thoughts in his head that needed processing. Unsurprisingly it revolved around another New Labour betrayal.

Two days earlier and Giggsy is doing another school visit, a chore for the majority of spoilt premiership players but a joy for Giggsy, who relished the chance to mould young minds. He delivered his usual schpeel to the kids, making sure to please the slimy club reps and local corporate press photographers in attendance. He also dropped a few Socialist hints to the kids, such as encouraging them to use public land for kick-abouts. He finished up his speech to much cheering and whistling.

Whilst he pulled on his black dumpstered jacket Giggsy chatted to the bearded, bespectacled teacher who’d guided him around the school before the talk.

“It’s not so good Mr Giggs, the walls are crumbling and the ventilation system’s always playing up. It’s a PFI school you see, they’re all rotting wrecks.”

“PFIs?” asked Giggsy dumbly. Of course he knew all about Private Finance Initiatives, the New Labour scheme whereby public buildings were partly financed and built by private companies, but he had to play the fool so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Basically rich people offer to build our schools then cut corners so they can make profit off of the government contract” said Mr Mackay despondently “the sort of corporate influence I thought we’d escaped from after 1997, but it’s Blair Mr Giggs, he’s a massive sell out you see.” 

Giggsy wanted to discuss the issue further, comparing other New Labour privatisation deals and how so many countries who had stuck with nationalisation of their infrastructure had benefited, such as Germany and their excellent train service. Alas, he could only give an oafish shrug. Mr Mackay carried on unthinkingly “it’s what they’ve done all over the world of course, let businesses do what they want and pretend it’s for the benefit of everyone. Damn neoliberalists. Oh I am sorry, here’s me rambling on about stupid politic when you must have other appointments to get to. Cheerio.”

Giggsy sat for a while in his Merc (he preferred to ride his bike but the public expected players to drive these lamentable vanity wagons) annoyed that capitalism had affected so negatively the hard working children of Britain, forced to work in cardboard walled dumps. He cursed Tony Blair and his deceitful goons as he flung in anger across the car a copy of The Manchester Afternoon News. As it struck the windshield he noticed a story on the fifth page. A celebration! To commemorate the impending construction of a PFI hospital! The CEO of GrotCorps, the company who’d won the contract, would give an insincere speech about how his corporation was contributing positively to shaping an effective health service. Giggsy knew it was up to him to stop the construction.

During the game and after a couple of post match interviews Giggsy had devised a plan to scupper the exploitative private enterprise. On the coach back to Manchester he pretended to listen to some music on his iPod so as not to be disturbed while in his head he wrote a speech of his own. Arriving back at Old Trafford he humoured the shallow witterings of his fellow players in the car park for a while, before making his excuses, jumping in his Merc and heading home. As he pulled out of the car park he pumped some deceiving Akon out of the car stereo, before switching it for his Bragg vs. Dylan mix CD as soon as he’d past the first bend. 

Once home he got straight to work transferring what he’d mentally noted onto his laptop. It would have to be a good speech if the plan he’d devised succeeded to the point where it would be necessary, equal in quality to that of a corporate PR professional. Giggsy cursed the false ambitions of today’s gifted students, who offer their skills to unscrupulous companies instead of unselfishly devoted their talents to promoting the cause of their fellow man.

After a few false starts which he screwed up and tossed into the recycling bin he finally had a speech he felt was of good enough quality. He searched the internet for authentic GrotCorp documents, finally finding the relevant PDFs thanks to someone else’s freedom of information request. After a good hour fiddling around with graphics on InDesign his own speech looked just like any other document the GrotCorp communication team might have produced. He carefully filed it away.

Still one problem remained, easily remedied though thanks to the natural sycophantic nature of the average corporate high flier. It was Saturday night and there was only one place a scoundrel like McRuddy, the CEO, would be found. Donning his best black dress shirt Giggsy headed out the door to Club Sleazers.

“Giggsy ma’ boy! How nice to see you! Withers! Get the man a Bacardi and Coke!” Damn! He’d been boycotting Coca Cola due to their despicable anti trade union activities in Columbia, and as for Barcadi and their gestures towards Cuba - Oh well, at least he wasn’t paying.

“Ma’ boy! We simply must do something together, GrotCorp could use a face like yours for some of our promotional stuff.” Slurped McRuddy.

“Well is there anything you’ve got coming up?”

“You know I think there is Giggsy, how about a public appearance on Wednesday? Some shit about hospitals.” How could he talk so frivolously about such a vital public service?

“Ok I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic. Withers, take a note.”

It was as easy as that. 

Wednesday came around and Giggsy was feeling confident. Funnily enough the event was in an Old Trafford conference room so he felt pretty much at home. He was feeling particularly pleased when the first phase of the plan went so well.

He deliberately saddled up to McRuddy while there was a sizeable gaggle of press photographers nearby. Predictably they all started asking him and McRuddy to pose for a photo.

“How about he shows me some of the speech he’s doing?” offered Giggsy.

“Great idea!” said the correspondent from Last Hours, gleefully.

While he and McRuddy performed for the cameras, Giggsy took a note of what part of McRuddy’s file the speech was filed under. The next phase of the plan relied on McRuddy’s arrogance, which did not fail Giggsy. His PR team had obviously taught him the importance of hand gestures whilst being interviewed and McRuddy had discarded the file on a chair behind him. Giggsy used all his skill and trickery he’d perfected for the football field to remove the real speech and slip in his own.

It seemed like hours but finally the time came for the speech. The crowd gathered round the microphone covered plinth, champagne flutes in hand, waiting for McRuddy to speak. Many were greedy share holders and looked particularly smug.

Just two minutes to go, thought Giggsy, whose palms were beginning to sweat worse than in the build up to the 1996 FA cup final against Liverpool. Suddenly he remembered something he’d forgotten! The PR guys for GrotCorp were here! Giggsy knew that when McRuddy began reading his speech he wouldn’t know what to do except carry on regardless and ruin his company’s changes of making a fortune; stopping and looking bewildered would not be acceptable in front of the attending press. The PR guys though were professionals; they may have a plan for such an event.

Sneaking off, Giggsy rushed down to the changing room, barged into the store cupboard and selected two footballs. He used a pump to make them as solid as possible then hurried back up and took up a position roughly 24 yards from where the pair of PR men were standing. He would, he guessed, have about 20 seconds, the time the crowd would clap for to welcome McRuddy’s arrival on stage.

“Please welcome company CEO Mr Bill McRuddy!” This was it; the crowd began clapping and Giggs majestically swung his left foot. The ball flew straight and hard into the temple of the first PR guy. One down, one more to go. In a perfect repeat of the first Giggsy slammed, free kick style, the second ball. If his target was a goal it would have broken the net, instead it knocked out cold the second PR goon. Job done.

“As you know” began McRuddy “The PFI system has been the government’s preferred method of contractual public service construction process since 1997, and GrotCorps has benefited handsomely from this scheme.” The share holders grinned at each other and clapped. For just a second a confused look crossed McRuddy’s face, but he carried on regardless, putting his faith in his now incapacitated PR men.

“So, and in a change to the proceedings you might have expected, GrotCorps is hereby announcing a change in it’s corporate strategy, boycotting the Private Finance Initiative scheme as part of a new direction in Corporate Responsibility. Tonight GrotCorps takes the corporate moral high ground and puts the welfare of Britain’s infrastructure before profits!”

A small spattering of applause. Now McRuddy really did look confused, but as Giggsy predicted he couldn’t risk losing face and carried on, looking throughout the rest of the speech as if he might cry.

The speech came to an end, or so Giggsy thought; “and to concerned shareholders I say do not worry, this act of public concern will vastly improve our public relations stature and, I’m confident, result in increased trust in AssCorps from the people of Britain.”

Touché, thought Giggsy, as he snuck out of the conference centre surprised but satisfied. McRuddy had thought on his feet and probably saved his career. No matter. In the search for Socialist justice in Britain and the world this project was small fry, Giggsy would have bigger Capitalist fish to fry in future adventures.