[N.B. I wrote this last week for The Liverpool Way fanzine that came out at the weekend, and thought I'd publish it here - it was meant to be a bit of light-hearted fun, and I thought it might perhaps cheer people up. Apologies to anyone who doesn't find it funny given the events of the weekend, although there's nothing bad taste here regarding GH. Also, apologies to anyone who doesn't find it funny simply because they don't find it funny...].
The Perfect Player Has Arrived
I hereby (like a spy wearing a big ‘Look At Me, I’m A Spy’ hat) blow my own cover: I have been working at a secret location, under instruction from Gerard Houllier, in what Liverpool have dubbed ‘The Lab’. It’s top secret, but I’m assured only a handful of trustworthy Reds will be reading this confidential report; it’s not like it’s going to appear in any fanzine or on the internet, or any other widely-read medium, so that’s okay.
With a Rick Parry-permitted budget running into millions (aided this season by the increased revenue from three recent successful cup runs), I have been handed a task that is unique (we believe) amongst the world’s leading football clubs. I am the Head Scientist in a state-of-the-art programme based in Litherland. Our aim? - the cloning of the perfect footballer, using the DNA of both current and retired Liverpool greats. The future at Anfield, if we have our way, will be very, very different.
Having excelled at University and gained widespread publicity by cloning a sheep that could do 73 keepie-uppies (ah, poor Dolliviera, a great clone but unfortunately she got eaten by mistake; still what a fine Sunday roast she made!), I was perhaps perfect for the task, and found myself quickly ‘head-hunted’ by LFC.
Back to the task in hand: cloning the perfect player. Intelligence is a pre-requisite in a footballer, according to Houllier, so I sought out permission to use Albert Einstein’s DNA in a batch of experiments. Turns out the first player we created had absolutely no interest in playing football, as he felt it beneath him. The second liked statistics, but not the game itself, and ended up working for Opta. Teddy Sheringham was held up by Houllier during my research as an ‘intelligent’ footballer, but Teddy’s on record as saying that he’s proud that he’s never read a book in his life; Graeme Le Saux has read plenty of books, but then again, he’s completely shite (and gets beaten up by his own teammates). I phoned Houllier to say intelligence might have to wait, as it’s far too confusing. Football intelligence is a strange concept, different from your average intelligence. Look at Paul Gascoigne, I said - able to pick a canny pass, but unable to pass a can o’ beer. ‘Okay’, Houllier said. ‘Just get me pure undiluted talent’. He added that I had access to the DNA of every living Liverpool player. This was to be a massive, massive project.
‘Oh, one word of warning,’ Houllier added, in that familiar French accent. ‘Steer clear of the jar marked ‘Paul Stewart’, we meant to bin that one. Good luck, my friend,’ he continued. ‘Go make me the perfect plier’.
So ‘talent’ was the aim. We started by looking at the art of the striker.
Our attempts to create the world’s best-ever goalscorer, however, soon had us baffled; a dab of Fowler, a pinch of Owen, a smidgen of Dalglish, a soupcon of Rush - all the correct ingredients, I think you’ll agree. But the little bugger we created couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, even after we sent him to the Melwood training fields where Houllier famously sent Emile Heskey for a week in October 2000; Heskey was soon hitting the cow’s arses, the barn doors and, crucially, banging in the goals in the Premiership, but not our guy. Oh no. Our striker (named ‘Ruwenowlerglish’) was hopeless, and even when someone held the banjo for him and backed the cow up into prime arse-striking position, he’d still manage to swing so pathetically that the banjo flew from his hands, to the sight of ducking scientists, and ducking wildlife. Even the cow stood shaking its head.
It was a full week before we got to the bottom of the mystery, when finally one of my colleagues admitted surreptitiously adding a large measure from the vial marked ‘Do Not Touch At Any Cost - Andy Cole DNA Contained Within’. (We had procured that vial to try and identify and eliminate the gene that causes temporary blindness in front of goal, and it could have been used to far better effect than in ruining our perfect striker. Typical Cole, messing things up).
Still, it’s not all bad news on that front - we’ve just agreed to sell Mickobbenny Ruwenowlerglish (keep an eye out for the name) to Everton for £7million, just as we did our previous monumental cock-ups: Paul Gerrard and David Unsworth.
Some experiments are best left unmentioned (I’ll still mention them, however): the accidental Berger-Babb hybrid was a long-haired adonis with two left feet (both Babb’s, unfortunately) and no discernable footballing skills (again, all Babb); the Lawrenson-Hyypia alliance went all wrong when the head - a 100% likeness of Lawro’s - was far too big for the body, and it kept talking shite and falling over. When we tried to isolate Jan Molby’s passing gene and amalgamate it with John Barnes dribbling skills and Neil Ruddock’s heading, our fears were raised when the cells expanded exponentially within the test tube, and within two hours filled the entire room; four hours later and half of Merseyside was in darkness (luckily we managed to get a story in the press about a solar eclipse to avoid detection). The ever-expanding matter then floated off into the ether, leaving the Earth’s atmosphere later that night. (You may have seen reports of a previously undiscovered seventeenth moon orbiting Jupiter. Look more closely at the pictures...).
Then there were the accidents in The Lab. We lost all of Dave James’ DNA after someone dropped the vial, and likewise Sander Westerveld’s jar squirmed from a work experience lad’s grasp, right at the very last minute of a busy week as we were getting ready to clock off, job done. That poor sucker was sacked by Houllier there and then. Interestingly, another problem is that no one can locate the jars marked ‘Heggem’, ‘Diomede’ or ‘Redknapp’. One minute they turn up, then go missing for another year. Not sure what’s going on there...
Some of the experiments left both mental and physical scars on the scientists involved. The hybrid of Steve Staunton, Stephen Wright, Bjorn Tore Kvarme and Robbie Fowler turned out to be a pretty handy player with a ‘sweet’ left foot, but it was so incredibly fucking ugly it had to be shot; two of my assistants lost their sight after that job. That’s the high price we have paid for your - yes your - pleasure. The Souness-Ince combination was another mistake - it grew highly volatile and heated up in the test tube to boiling point, before exploding all over The Lab.
Still, I’m proud to say that it’s not all been failure. We have, it seems, gone a long way to reaching our goal. Our Berger-Owen hybrid turned out to be 99% Owen, and 1% Berger (the left foot, as luck would have it); an identical match for Mickey in terms of physical appearance, we were fortunate to be able to swap him for the real thing towards the end of last season without anyone noticing - except for all the left-footed goals he kept scoring, of course, which we thought might draw too much attention and cause some kind of investigation. (We had also hoped the clone would have eliminated the hamstring defect, but we’re still working on that one, I’m afraid).
But Mickey is only our second most inspired piece of work - that was just tinkering. Perhaps our most ambitious plan so far is where our success has been greatest. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the fruits of labour so far. You just don’t realise it. If the Owen clone was good, this one is, if I don’t mind saying such things of myself, a work of unparalleled genius. Yes, our initial success (using only retired players in this case... but no, not Case) has made it into the current first team: our very own cloned Uber-player. It took time, but we came good - equal measures of Souness, McDermott, Dalglish, Barnes and Hansen.
But now, having created Steven Gerrard, we just need to perfect those niggling muscle weaknesses and we’ll have this game licked. All I need then do is get the YTS boy to press ‘repeat’ on the cloning machine and we’ll be sorted for world-class talent from here to eternity. Now there’s a thought!
© Paul Tomkins, 2001
