What goes on in the Dressing Room stays in the Dressing Room
Since the Petrol heads took over the column inches surrounding the bizarre juxtaposition off little ol’ run down QPR and the glitterati of the Formula one circuit has threatened rainforests.
Perhaps the most illuminating and most disturbing was the recent Observer Sport Review article where a Rangers supporting journalist was given open access to the world of Briatore’s QPR. Not a combination design to perhaps fully critique this new dawn, but it had its insights none the less.
One was struck by the way Briatore had bought into the whole shoebox Loftus Road thing. He appeared, and I accept that his sense of personal PR may be more acute than messes Thompson, Wright, Davis, Power and Paladini, to intrinsically understand what made us QPR.
In stark contrast was the reaction of ‘the son in law’, his barely disguised contempt at the facilities showed that this director was not likely to put up with it for very long. Any man who’s father in law had lavished £30 million pounds on his wedding and bought him a fifth of a football club is thinking Ashburton Grove not Shepherds Bush.
I suspect that those of you living out towards the M4 will soon find your journey to the R’s improving.
That wasn’t the disturbing part mind, the Home dressing room at Loftus Road proved to be an enlightening section of the piece.
I’d seen it before, a cold, cramped, damp space, usually with Olly gathering his charges and dispensing a mixture of West Country homily and foul expletive. Lots of shouting and bouncing followed, usually, by a drab nil-nil.
Not anymore, now the scene is one of bacchanalian splendour, toga clad figures, wreathed in mud and sweat idle in conversation, muscled frames posed statuesque in languor. Dressing Room or Turkish bath? A modern day Roman Emperor swans around the room, dispensing fine words, an occasional pat or ‘European’ caress. A carefree indulgence that only the truly rich can get away with.
His troops, to a man in awe of this god like figure, display gratitude and insouciance in equal measure. Delicately balancing pasta in one hand and their manhood in the other. What greater display of their prowess, their importance to the team…I eat and I am potent!
Now, call me old fashioned, but I didn’t need to know any of that. Not only am I struggling to cope with the idea of having your tea in the bath (I had a mate who tried to save time by having his Spaghetti Hoops on toast in the bath before he went out, it all went wrong…nightmare), but the unsightly observance of Akos, absent mindedly toying with ‘little Akos’ was at best unnecessary.
We even got photographic evidence…some of those towels seem to be staying up too easily, I know it was a good win, but even I don’t get that carried away.
I know football is constantly changing, media access is all encompassing, but I reckon some things are best left behind closed doors.
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