My name is David Icke and I’m THE SUBSTITUTE GOALKEEPER

20 11 2013

Imagine that you were offered a role in a football club, that would be pretty sweet wouldn’t it? Imagine the girls, the cars, the money, not to mention the fame. Most people would regard the offer as a “where do I sign” situation.

Now imagine that the role offered was “Substitute Goalkeeper“. Imagine it, go on, drink in it.

Give yourself a couple of minutes.






I obviously don’t know what you thought about but if you’d had some positive thoughts about the role you didn’t think enough.

While there are undoubtedly some benefits attached to the role – you seem to be an integral part of a team, you wear a matching tracksuit, you take part in the warm up and you get a medal when your club wins a trophy – the role is all surface and no feeling. The role of “Substitute Goalkeeper” is probably one of the most soul-destroying roles in football.

Imagine that you were actually fulfilling this role, try to imagine how frustrating your working life would be. You were once a somebody, you were told about glorious futures and you were sure that a glorious future would be yours. The trials backed you up. You were the school’s number one, the county’s number one and the country’s number one before you left school, then you joined a professional club and the youth team manager loved you. You were the number one and everything was coming up roses!!!

Nowadays you look blankly at dignitaries when they thrust highly-prized medals around your neck, nowadays you know the price of those highly-prized medals; a manager shits on your personal pride by forcing you to travel the highways, byways and air routes so you can sit on a bench “just in case” you may be needed.

Imagine starting each summer with the same forlorn hope that this could be your season if you just proved it to the manager. Imagine how you feel when your situation starts to develop a familiar pattern. Imagine how you’d feel if you woke up and felt futile, you know you’re trying your damnedest but it’s not happening.

Imagine starting each day by staring in the mirror and wondering if you took a wrong turn somewhere. You gaze and gaze at the reflection of your face trying to convince yourself that you’re a loyal servant, you know you could be useful, you want to be useful, you yearn to be useful, but you already know that HE won’t let you prove it. Could you take this?

Imagine travelling to a match on a sunny day. It’s just the kind of day that makes one glad to be alive except you can’t feel happy. When things were going well the sun was your friend and the motorway signs pointed the way to gloriously exotic adventures. Now the same signs point towards a lack of fulfilment. Throughout the journey you can’t shake the idea that your hopes of being useful are going to be crushed again, just like last week, and the week before, and the week before, and the one before that.

The jokes and the stories and the banter fly around the first team’s coach so you smile a painted smile to look like you’re part of it. Your eyes aren’t smiling and neither is your soul, you just don’t feel part of it. You know you can’t really play a proper part. You inadvertently notice the others’ aura of swagger and immediately regret that you aren’t able to feel like a first choice player. All you can do is crank up that painted smile.

It’s the hope that really kills you, all week you’ve known that the number one has a stiff back, all week you’ve known that there may be a chance, all week you’ve been trying extra hard in training and doing everything possible. Sadly deep down you know what the boss is going to do.

In the end you know that it didn’t matter that you tried to make your face say “I could do a job boss, give me a chance, just give me a chance!!!”, or that you really wanted the manager to see just how much your pride is hurting from your eyes, deep down you know it’s futile. You already know that at 1:30 pm on Saturday the manager will be calmly announcing that you’re on the bench again.

Imagine arriving at a ground and walking past Clem, or the Sky Cameraman. Imagine wondering if the viewers are able to notice your swaggerless walk, imagine wondering about what the viewers are wondering about. Are they wondering about me? Have they forgotten me? Are they taking the piss about me? Do they pity me? The matchday host says hello and shakes your hand but you can feel him looking past you, towards the swaggering ones with the headphones.

It’s not easy to ignore the banter and the smiles, the easy words and the Ralgex of the changing room but you try. It’s not easy to ignore the manager reading the team out but you try. You sit there with a painted smile. You’re on the bench again and that’s all there is to it.

Imagine not even needing the words “I’m sorry but you’re on the bench again” to know you’re not playing, week after week, month after month of benchwarming will do that to you. Imagine having to conceal the hurt in front of your teammates again. You can’t show them you’re weak, that you’re less than a proper man, they’ll just take the mick for months. The manager looks at you and taps you on the back like an old friend, his smile hollowed out, his eyes apologetic.

You hope to catch the eye with warm up enthusiasm but you remember you’re not playing and revert to programmed actions and mechanical movements. Mind you, you can’t help but look for signs of injury in the number one, Monday’s stiff back hasn’t left your mind in the last 6 days. You quietly hope the cutting edge to Monday’s banter comes true.

Magically the number one appears to be moving like an old man after a drill. The goalkeeping coach’s got to notice this, the boss has got to notice, one of the other players has got to tell him. You can feel you train stopping at Hope station, the train is cancelled in the smile of the number one, the cruel bastard was taking the piss.

Imagine sitting on a bench watching other people doing your job and depriving you of glory, you know you could do a good job yet HE won’t let you. You know you could do a job, the club knows you could do a job, they wouldn’t have awarded you with a contract otherwise, but nothing matters because HE refuses to give you a chance.

Then kick off arrives and your mind drifts off after a few minutes. You want your club to win, you want the win bonus, but all you can think about is what you’ll be having for a takeaway that evening.

You could be out there but you’re in the padded recaro seat. Every match the same, sitting there with your gloves off. You just sit there, and sit there, and sit there waiting for a bus that will never come.

You just sit there, thinking and doubting, doubting and thinking, waiting for a bus on a discontinued line. You just sit there match after match passing you by. Is this what the football dream’s about?

Could you accept all this and still be a complete human being?

On the other hand, earning 10 grand a week for sitting on a bench, where do I sign?



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