Viewers of Match Of The Day will perhaps be familiar with the sight of the Sikh gentlemen who sit behind the dugouts at Old Trafford. This is the story of how these gentlemen unknowingly played a pivotal role in one of the most extraordinary events in modern football.
Mandeep has always been nuts about Manchester United. As a kid he wore red Man U pajamas and slept on Man U bedclothes, and woke up to posters of his Man U idols on the wall. As the only boy among five siblings in a family grown wealthy on success as refrigerated goods suppliers, his love of football was indulged by his father and uncles. They had season tickets for some of the most exciting seats at the ground: right behind the home dugout, where you can hear all the shouts from the bench, and get to see Fergie in all his crimson-nosed apoplectic glory, threatening the match officials. Occasionally, after emphatic home wins, they'd even get a nod of acknowledgment from the man himself. It was as good as it gets.
The years pass and Mandeep grows from a boy to a man but his passion for the club remains undimmed, and he never misses home fixtures. He's feeling a little low due to the shock of early morning rising for work, plus he's being nagged at home to find himself a wife and think about moving out. A Tuesday evening League Cup tie against Chelsea is just the tonic he needs.
One of the great things about games against big teams such as Chelsea is that he can recognise most of the subs and staff on the bench from his position behind the dugouts. There's Ancelotti with Roberto Di Matteo sat next to him, and next to him is the Chelsea physio, a woman. He'd heard that this was the case. There's a female linesman (lineswoman?) too - women are making great strides in football all of a sudden. What he didn't know was that the Chelsea physio was a fox. There she is in her tracksuit, with her little plastic gloves on, looking serious and absorbed in the game. She looks like a movie star; a raven-haired Mediterranean beauty! He looks in the match programme and finds her name: Eva Carneiro, first team doctor. Eva! Mandeep is smitten. The only time he takes his eyes off the away bench is when they follow Eva onto the pitch to treat John Terry for a groin strain in the second half. He thinks he hears a wolf-whistle from the crowd somewhere but no one around him comments on this demure Hollywood beauty and her sensational appearance on the Old Trafford turf. Perhaps other men don't appreciate her the way Mandeep does. By the final whistle he's worked out the outlines of an excuse to go and talk to her.
He tells his uncles to leave without him, saying something about waiting for autographs. He approaches the tunnel and tells the policeman he's arranged an interview with the Chelsea physio, Ms Carneiro, for an article in the Asian Sports Science Bulletin. The policeman fetches a steward who comes and leads him inside and tells him to wait in the corridor by the dressing rooms. One or two journalists are talking on their phones, and there are raised voices in Spanish or Italian at the other end of the corridor, where a film crew seem to be arguing with one another. He talks to a chatty young woman while he waits, and then as if by magic Eva appears at his shoulder. "Mr Singh?" She asks, her dark eyes smiling. Mandeep sheds an instant half stone in sweat but doesn't manage to respond verbally. Somehow he shakes to indicate his assent. "I'm afraid I wasn't told about this interview, and I have to go right now. I'm so so sorry, poor love. Looks like someone's screwed up, we'll have to arrange another one. Or a phone interview? " Mandeep is too stunned to think quickly and doesn't say anything other than "oh", at which Eva gives his arm a friendly squeeze and winks at him before turning to leave. The memory of that wink, replayed endlessly in slow motion, keeps Mandeep awake for the next two nights, his penis never less than semi-erect. The only thing that matters to him now is finding a legitimate excuse to see Eva again.
One of the great things about games against big teams such as Chelsea is that he can recognise most of the subs and staff on the bench from his position behind the dugouts. There's Ancelotti with Roberto Di Matteo sat next to him, and next to him is the Chelsea physio, a woman. He'd heard that this was the case. There's a female linesman (lineswoman?) too - women are making great strides in football all of a sudden. What he didn't know was that the Chelsea physio was a fox. There she is in her tracksuit, with her little plastic gloves on, looking serious and absorbed in the game. She looks like a movie star; a raven-haired Mediterranean beauty! He looks in the match programme and finds her name: Eva Carneiro, first team doctor. Eva! Mandeep is smitten. The only time he takes his eyes off the away bench is when they follow Eva onto the pitch to treat John Terry for a groin strain in the second half. He thinks he hears a wolf-whistle from the crowd somewhere but no one around him comments on this demure Hollywood beauty and her sensational appearance on the Old Trafford turf. Perhaps other men don't appreciate her the way Mandeep does. By the final whistle he's worked out the outlines of an excuse to go and talk to her.
He tells his uncles to leave without him, saying something about waiting for autographs. He approaches the tunnel and tells the policeman he's arranged an interview with the Chelsea physio, Ms Carneiro, for an article in the Asian Sports Science Bulletin. The policeman fetches a steward who comes and leads him inside and tells him to wait in the corridor by the dressing rooms. One or two journalists are talking on their phones, and there are raised voices in Spanish or Italian at the other end of the corridor, where a film crew seem to be arguing with one another. He talks to a chatty young woman while he waits, and then as if by magic Eva appears at his shoulder. "Mr Singh?" She asks, her dark eyes smiling. Mandeep sheds an instant half stone in sweat but doesn't manage to respond verbally. Somehow he shakes to indicate his assent. "I'm afraid I wasn't told about this interview, and I have to go right now. I'm so so sorry, poor love. Looks like someone's screwed up, we'll have to arrange another one. Or a phone interview? " Mandeep is too stunned to think quickly and doesn't say anything other than "oh", at which Eva gives his arm a friendly squeeze and winks at him before turning to leave. The memory of that wink, replayed endlessly in slow motion, keeps Mandeep awake for the next two nights, his penis never less than semi-erect. The only thing that matters to him now is finding a legitimate excuse to see Eva again.
Sian Massey is England's first ever top-flight female linesperson. It's been a tough rise to the top for her, since she's not really a tough sort of girl. If anything she's shy, but her sheer dedication to football has led her this far. This time last year she was still refereeing women's football to empty grounds, and now here she is officiating at Man Utd v Chelsea, with the eyes of the world upon her. As usual, Sian's attention to the game has been perfect. Each one of her offside and corner decisions has passed without protest from either set of players. Fergie hasn't even risen from his seat once. She gets a chance to rest her eyes for a few minutes in the second half while Chelsea skipper John Terry receives treatment on his groin from the female Chelsea physio. Things are looking up for women in football. Sian takes a moment to look at the crowd behind her while play is held up. She sees the Sikhs in their turbans sitting behind the home team dugout. She's noticed them on TV before, but she hadn't noticed the young, good-looking one. What a dish. If only she could meet someone nice like that. Sian has rotten luck when it comes to men. Perhaps men don't want a girlfriend who knows more about football than they do.
After the match Sian showers and changes. When she's finished she walks down the corridor past the players' dressing rooms with her bag and her hair still damp, when she sees the handsome Sikh from behind the dugouts. She catches his eye, and they smile a greeting at each other. She asks him whether he's a journalist. She doesn't normally strike up conversations with strange men this easily, but he seems so sweet and approachable. Just as he's telling her about the interview he has planned, the female Chelsea physio interrupts. Apparently he's there to interview her but there's a problem and the physio has to cancel. The handsome man is very nervous around the physio; it's immediately clear to Sian that he's in awe of her, the way he stares. Sian's heart sinks, a feeling she knows only too well. Feeling like a gooseberry, Sian slinks away quietly, leaving the others to it. Before she reaches the match officials' office, the female physio scoots past her, obviously in a hurry. Sian sees her catch up with a blond man in a smart suit holding a fur coat. They exchange words in what to Sian sounds like Russian, and the man helps the physio into the coat, giving her a pinch on the bum as he does so. Is he her boyfriend? That would be highly irregular - the away team staff don't normally have visitors milling about. Sian smells a rat.
A couple of months later Sian officiates a match at Chelsea's ground, Stamford Bridge. She hasn't forgotten about the Chelsea physio - whose name she now knows to be Eva - and takes the opportunity to snoop a little while she's at the Bridge. She's been doing her homework on Eva Carneiro: she's heard rumours about how Frank Lampard and John Terry wait on her every beck and call. Supposedly, Eva has them wrapped around her little finger, and with the sway JT and Lamps have in the Chelsea dressing room, that puts her in a powerful position at the club. She's also heard how Eva was spotted on Roman Abramovich's famously opulent private yacht at Cannes prior to her appointment as first team doctor. So much for women making great strides in football - Sian can imagine just how Eva impressed her employers, with her dusky good looks and all. She was probably sleeping with the owner and his senior players, the hussy.
Sian isn't really cut out to be a detective. She's always been scared of breaking the law, and even the idea of being seen behaving suspiciously fills her with dread. She manages to make herself look busy fiddling with her phone as she plans her next move, when who should show up but the blond Russian gentleman carrying the fur coat. He has an earpiece and shades; he looks very stern. Sian follows him and sees him open a door without knocking and enter a room. It could be a broom cupboard for all she knows. Without giving herself time to chicken out, Sian bends down to peep through the keyhole, her heart racing. What she sees in three or four seconds is enough to make her drop her phone in astonishment noisily, causing her to flee in fear of being caught. What she sees is the blond man and Eva counting money: a fat stack of bright green notes that Sian thinks might be 100 Euro notes. Jesus!
Sian isn't really cut out to be a detective. She's always been scared of breaking the law, and even the idea of being seen behaving suspiciously fills her with dread. She manages to make herself look busy fiddling with her phone as she plans her next move, when who should show up but the blond Russian gentleman carrying the fur coat. He has an earpiece and shades; he looks very stern. Sian follows him and sees him open a door without knocking and enter a room. It could be a broom cupboard for all she knows. Without giving herself time to chicken out, Sian bends down to peep through the keyhole, her heart racing. What she sees in three or four seconds is enough to make her drop her phone in astonishment noisily, causing her to flee in fear of being caught. What she sees is the blond man and Eva counting money: a fat stack of bright green notes that Sian thinks might be 100 Euro notes. Jesus!
Over the remaining course of the season Sian's investigations lead her to suspect that Eva is involved in a betting scam traceable all the way up to Abramovich himself. JT and Lamps are implicated, as is unpopular Chelsea left back Ashley Cole, in addition to Margaret Thatcher's wayward son, Sir Mark, who made his fortune out of arms deals to shady characters. This is serious James Bond shit; Sian is very afraid of what she has uncovered; she feels like a tiny woodchip standing before a blazing inferno, and has started taking sleeping pills to help her rest at night. Although she is afraid, Sian is no coward. She's taken to reading the Bible for inspiration before matchdays. It gives her a feeling of righteousness in the face of injustice. When she walks out on the pitch she feels like Joan of Arc; she is on a mission to protect the beautiful game of football from the greedy claws of Mammon.
When the season is over, she spends the Summer perusing online football betting sites. She has learnt to decipher cyrillic in order to monitor the Russian sites in particular. She thinks she has detected a pattern when it comes to Chelsea match betting, and her suspicions are aroused when she spies irregularities in the prices for a Chelsea own goal in the Charity Shield season opener (when the league winners play the cup winners) against Man Utd at Wembley. The odds being offered are far too generous. Sian knows what she has to do - she has to stop this rot as only a lineswoman can.
When the season is over, she spends the Summer perusing online football betting sites. She has learnt to decipher cyrillic in order to monitor the Russian sites in particular. She thinks she has detected a pattern when it comes to Chelsea match betting, and her suspicions are aroused when she spies irregularities in the prices for a Chelsea own goal in the Charity Shield season opener (when the league winners play the cup winners) against Man Utd at Wembley. The odds being offered are far too generous. Sian knows what she has to do - she has to stop this rot as only a lineswoman can.
The evening before the Charity Shield, Sian meets one of the linesmen due to referee the match at his hotel near Wembley stadium. She's stayed there herself before, and has a mundane excuse for being there and bumping into him. She's prepared plenty of juicy gossip so that her offer of a quick drink or a coffee won't be turned down. She doses the linesman's drink (a chamomile tea, as it turns out) with a hefty amount of her own sleeping pills, and wishes him good luck for tomorrow's game. She then speaks to someone on the FA match officials selection committee, voicing her concern at how peaky the linesman had looked when she bumped into him this very evening, and how she hopes he'll be okay in the morning. As it's not a premiership fixture, the linesmen on the standby list are drawn from lower leagues and have no top-level experience. It could be a potential embarrassment to the FA to have a match involving such prestigious teams officiated by an inexperienced linesman. She doesn't want to cause alarm, but she'd be more than happy to step in if the linesman does wake up feeling poorly.
Her ploy works a treat, and when the linesman fails to rouse the following morning, Sian gets the nod.
So this is it: the big day. The day when football says no. The day when money learns that it can't buy passion. When she shakes the players' hands on the pitch she lingers a little longer with JT and Lamps. She almost feels like their executioner, the poor dumb fools. Millionaires making themselves look bad by scoring own goals, and for what? For the odd quick hand job during groin strain treatment from some whorish 'doctor'? How shallow men can be, how immediate their awards need to be. But not Sian - she's on higher ground now, justice is her reward. She looks to the Chelsea bench and sees Eva, deadly serious, sitting hunched up next to Di Matteo, nervously biting the tip of her plastic glove. It's showtime!
So this is it: the big day. The day when football says no. The day when money learns that it can't buy passion. When she shakes the players' hands on the pitch she lingers a little longer with JT and Lamps. She almost feels like their executioner, the poor dumb fools. Millionaires making themselves look bad by scoring own goals, and for what? For the odd quick hand job during groin strain treatment from some whorish 'doctor'? How shallow men can be, how immediate their awards need to be. But not Sian - she's on higher ground now, justice is her reward. She looks to the Chelsea bench and sees Eva, deadly serious, sitting hunched up next to Di Matteo, nervously biting the tip of her plastic glove. It's showtime!
The first half passes without too much incident and the score remains goalless. Sian stymies a potential own goal move of JT's when he deliberately drops back to keep a Danny Welbeck pass onside, no doubt in the hope of intercepting it and directing it into his own net. Sian flags it offside the second the ball is struck, defiantly sticking her flag out with her lips pressed tight, pride moistening her eyes. Fergie races from his seat to the edge of his technical area and tells her to fuck off. There's a groan from the United fans and a cheer from the Chelsea fans when the offside incident is replayed on the stadium screens. At half time Sian tells the fourth official she's not happy with the abuse she received from Fergie, and would rather be on the opposite side of the pitch in the second half. She makes herself look picked on and rattled, and he agrees to her request. That way she gets to referee the Chelsea half of the pitch again.
When the teams come back onto the pitch for the second half, she notices how JT, Lamps and Ashley Cole are bunched together, whispering in each other's ears. They look worried. Within five minutes of the restart, each of the trio has forced Petr Cech into acrobatic saves from overstruck back passes, and JT has mysteriously slipped in the box at least three times. Sian has to think fast; the way this game is going she won't be able to stop them scoring an own goal. The action passes frantically - Sian's flag goes up whenever she can get a free kick for Chelsea and send the ball up the United end of the park. Fergie is bright purple. He is so incandescent with rage that he's been banished to the stand after throwing his glasses at the fourth official. Ashley Cole's zeal for an own goal is proving too bizarre, and he is substituted on the hour mark with the score still goalless. The same fate befalls Lamps ten minutes later, after Ancelotti loses patience with him for repeatedly failing to move the ball forward. That leaves JT as the only chance for a deliberate own goal. Sian acts swiftly, and the next time JT is challenged on the ball by Nani, Sian signals a deliberate elbow in the throat by JT. As soon as JT starts protesting his innocence, Nani takes his cue and suddenly clutches his neck before dropping to the ground and writhing in agony. The ref listens to Sian and sees no choice but to send JT off. JT goes bananas and sprints over to Sian, and tells her, among a great deal of other things, that he wouldn't piss on her snatch, not that she'd really want him to. It takes three of his teammates to prise the captain's armband off him before he's finally carried off the pitch. The fracas has added a full five minutes on top of injury time at the end of the match. Now the only thing that can go wrong is a fluke own goal by a Chelsea player. United mount wave after wave of pressure, as we pass the 90 minute mark. Sian wishes a United player would score, so that they could sit back and let Chelsea attack. It all happens right at the end of stoppage time. It's the last corner of the match, even the United keeper, Kuszczak, comes up for it. There's pinball in the box, the ball parries off players from both teams, it's hard to see who's doing what. Sian sees the ball bounce quite clearly a yard over the goal line before Petr Cech smothers it. The ref can't have seen through the melee of bodies, only Sian can make the decision for him. She can't risk it being an own goal, as the ball could have come off any player's boot. With all 22 players crowding the referee, she has only one decision to make - no goal! With the bet applying to regular play only, Sian knows she is safe, she's won the day.
The ref blows for full time, and before Sian can even breath out, she feels her hair suddenly tugged back so violently she's sent tumbling. Before she knows it she's seeing the blue sky above Wembley while something sharp slashes her face. It's Eva Carneiro! She's screaming blue murder, with her hair falling loose over her tracksuit and a wild animal in her eyes. She claws at Sian's flesh and eyes while Sian tries to poke at her with the stick of her flag. Sian's vision is already blurry from blood by the time Eva is pulled off her. Eva musters one last surge of resistance and lunges towards Sian, flobbing right in her bloodied face for everyone to see. Sian feels exalted, as only the righteous do.
When the teams come back onto the pitch for the second half, she notices how JT, Lamps and Ashley Cole are bunched together, whispering in each other's ears. They look worried. Within five minutes of the restart, each of the trio has forced Petr Cech into acrobatic saves from overstruck back passes, and JT has mysteriously slipped in the box at least three times. Sian has to think fast; the way this game is going she won't be able to stop them scoring an own goal. The action passes frantically - Sian's flag goes up whenever she can get a free kick for Chelsea and send the ball up the United end of the park. Fergie is bright purple. He is so incandescent with rage that he's been banished to the stand after throwing his glasses at the fourth official. Ashley Cole's zeal for an own goal is proving too bizarre, and he is substituted on the hour mark with the score still goalless. The same fate befalls Lamps ten minutes later, after Ancelotti loses patience with him for repeatedly failing to move the ball forward. That leaves JT as the only chance for a deliberate own goal. Sian acts swiftly, and the next time JT is challenged on the ball by Nani, Sian signals a deliberate elbow in the throat by JT. As soon as JT starts protesting his innocence, Nani takes his cue and suddenly clutches his neck before dropping to the ground and writhing in agony. The ref listens to Sian and sees no choice but to send JT off. JT goes bananas and sprints over to Sian, and tells her, among a great deal of other things, that he wouldn't piss on her snatch, not that she'd really want him to. It takes three of his teammates to prise the captain's armband off him before he's finally carried off the pitch. The fracas has added a full five minutes on top of injury time at the end of the match. Now the only thing that can go wrong is a fluke own goal by a Chelsea player. United mount wave after wave of pressure, as we pass the 90 minute mark. Sian wishes a United player would score, so that they could sit back and let Chelsea attack. It all happens right at the end of stoppage time. It's the last corner of the match, even the United keeper, Kuszczak, comes up for it. There's pinball in the box, the ball parries off players from both teams, it's hard to see who's doing what. Sian sees the ball bounce quite clearly a yard over the goal line before Petr Cech smothers it. The ref can't have seen through the melee of bodies, only Sian can make the decision for him. She can't risk it being an own goal, as the ball could have come off any player's boot. With all 22 players crowding the referee, she has only one decision to make - no goal! With the bet applying to regular play only, Sian knows she is safe, she's won the day.
The ref blows for full time, and before Sian can even breath out, she feels her hair suddenly tugged back so violently she's sent tumbling. Before she knows it she's seeing the blue sky above Wembley while something sharp slashes her face. It's Eva Carneiro! She's screaming blue murder, with her hair falling loose over her tracksuit and a wild animal in her eyes. She claws at Sian's flesh and eyes while Sian tries to poke at her with the stick of her flag. Sian's vision is already blurry from blood by the time Eva is pulled off her. Eva musters one last surge of resistance and lunges towards Sian, flobbing right in her bloodied face for everyone to see. Sian feels exalted, as only the righteous do.
Mandeep sees it happen. He's watching from the stands. His uncles have taken him to Wembley as a treat, to cheer him up and put some life back into him. They've grown concerned at the way his interest in United has waned of late. He shows no interest in women, much to his mother's anguish. In fact, the only clue they have that he isn't gay is the framed photo he keeps of a pretty dark-haired lady in a Chelsea tracksuit on the wall by his bed. Mandeep knows himself that his obsession with Eva is pointless, and no good for him. He realises that she's beyond his reach, and that he'll always be too tongue-tied to chat her up. He did get a telephone interview with her in the end, but he made such a balls-up of it that he cut it short by hanging up in shame, and didn't dare call back. However, if his uncles insist on sitting him down in front of a Chelsea match, he knows he's helpless to resist watching Eva, even if it is bad for his health.
Eva doesn't look happy today, she never cracks a smile and looks very agitated. She probably has boyfriend trouble, or perhaps one of her parents has died. The game itself is only the Charity Shield, so it's unlikely to be due to any importance attached to it. When Eva attacks the female linesman, Mandeep stands up and watches goggle-eyed. When he sees her spit in the linesperson's face, he sits back down and buries his face in his hands and slowly begins to weep. His uncles are distraught at the fragile mental condition of their nephew Mandeep and take him away before the penalty shoot-out begins.
Mandeep is in shock, he can't understand it. He can't understand how Eva could do such a horrible thing, and lose her dignity in such a scandalous manner before the World's television cameras and a packed national football stadium. She was feral - not the lovely, considerate girl he'd met at Old Trafford last year. Were women really such slaves to their emotions that a sweet girl could go hysterical at the flick of a switch? Why did he have to be drawn to her in the first place - merely because she has a pretty face and a nice figure? He feels disgusted with himself. He doesn't need irritating relatives or shrinks to tell him that the best thing he can do is forget all about Eva, and pick up the pieces of the life he's been neglecting. After all, he's a lucky man. He's got a season ticket at Man U, for god's sake, right behind Fergie.
Eva doesn't look happy today, she never cracks a smile and looks very agitated. She probably has boyfriend trouble, or perhaps one of her parents has died. The game itself is only the Charity Shield, so it's unlikely to be due to any importance attached to it. When Eva attacks the female linesman, Mandeep stands up and watches goggle-eyed. When he sees her spit in the linesperson's face, he sits back down and buries his face in his hands and slowly begins to weep. His uncles are distraught at the fragile mental condition of their nephew Mandeep and take him away before the penalty shoot-out begins.
Mandeep is in shock, he can't understand it. He can't understand how Eva could do such a horrible thing, and lose her dignity in such a scandalous manner before the World's television cameras and a packed national football stadium. She was feral - not the lovely, considerate girl he'd met at Old Trafford last year. Were women really such slaves to their emotions that a sweet girl could go hysterical at the flick of a switch? Why did he have to be drawn to her in the first place - merely because she has a pretty face and a nice figure? He feels disgusted with himself. He doesn't need irritating relatives or shrinks to tell him that the best thing he can do is forget all about Eva, and pick up the pieces of the life he's been neglecting. After all, he's a lucky man. He's got a season ticket at Man U, for god's sake, right behind Fergie.
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