How To Make Sure The Footballer’s Christmas Party Goes With A Bang

It’s the time of year Sir Alex Ferguson dreads. No, not because he’ll be drawn against Real Madrid in the Champions League again, or that kids keep asking if he’s Rudolph, but because his young charges will want to go out and mash it up to celebrate Christmas. As we all know, these things turn ugly pretty fast, and that’s largely the fault of Rio Ferdinand turning up.

In fact, Ferdinand now divides his time between making at least one major lapse of concentration per game and being unofficial Red Devils MC, which makes him sound less of a gangsta’ and more like the bloke who mans the mic at an airshow. It falls to him to plan the treats for his bred’ren but despite his vast experience at organising stuff, like United’s brilliant offside trap, things still keep going wrong. So here’s a quick sheet o’ tips to make sure all the squad don’t have a court date hanging over their heads come Boxing Day:

1) Drink responsibly – tricky one, this, since every hour is happy hour when you earn a hundred pounds a minute. Experts suggest you don’t mix grape and grain, but since Cristal and Absolut have been mixed with more chemicals than you’d find in Keith Richard’s carry-on bag, that doesn’t really count. Of course, depending on where you go, you might be served with a pint of lager for sir and a glass of white wine/fruit-based drink for the inevitable lady, but the footballer party is unlikely to be based in the back room of a pub with a dead royal above the door.

Footballers like a cocktail because it’s beloved of rappers who wear the jewellery equivalent of the Brinks-Mat robbery. Despite the fact that cocktails are essentially the least hard thing to drink because they don’t strip the back of your throat and have stupid ironic names like Panty-Fiddler and Polyfilla All-Weather Creosote Mix, footballers love ‘em because they’re generally primary coloured and cost more than the budget for a rescue effort following a major earthquake. In these times of economic woe, footballers will no doubt put on a bit of a show to prove they’re not unfeeling gimps, and will be pictured with a bottle of Corona instead of sixteen gallons of Cheeky Wimto. So the solution would be to scrap the free bar altogether and force them to brew their own beer to show solidarity with the masses.

2) Scrap the fancy dress – Seemingly beloved of Liverpool FC, who never quite got over the dressing up phase that stemmed from the ‘Anfield Rap’ video, all people, no matter who they are, look a tit in fancy dress. Turning up at a swish city centre hotel bar dressed as Napoleon Dynamite is only hilarious if you really do look like Napoleon Dynamite, and by the time you’re stumbling out of the door with a pair of breasts on legs, it’s a photo opportunity you won’t want to be reminded of.

Much like a group of girls on a hen night, there are some good-looking chaps who play football and some not-so-good-looking ones, and you will find the ones who, and I’m not naming Dirk Kuyt here, hit every branch on the ugly tree will play it for laughs. It’s not at all likely Cristiano Ronaldo will sully his ‘do in the name of comedy, and even his outfit which he claims is Indiana Jones could easily pass as a £2000 Gucci suit. It could lead to major morale dampening if you have to walk in behind him dressed as the Hamburgler.

The alternative is to just have a posh party with suits n’ ting. This would give us a level playing field and of course, confirm just who is guilty of crimes against style. Every Shoot interview of the mid-to-late nineties had the claim by a senior pro that one of their team-mates always looks “a nightmare”, which gave the impression all footballers have the vocabulary of a hormonal teenage diary-writer who’s just started her monthlies. In this day and age, formal attire doesn’t necessarily mean a tuxedo but if any team-mate comes dressed in an arctic white track suit dripping with huge watch-faces edged in liquid platinum, they should be laughed out of there pronto.

3)Decide which girl is going home with whom before the party starts – What do we all want after a night out, aside from a large half-pound chicken burger dripping with fatty mayonnaise? That’s right, it’s the company of the opposite sex, unless you’re that way inclined. Which no footballers are. Ever. Even though they hang around fit men with six-packs and strategic waxes every day. Don’t you even suggest it.

The footballer either has a WAG or he doesn’t. Gone are the days when a pro came home to a homely wench with a fondness for angora and a disturbing resemblance to Colin Montgomerie. The footballer girlfriend must exude raw sexuality but also be bone thin, which is difficult if you’ve got musculo-skeltal problems and can’t raise the energy to grip a cigarette. Those without WAGs are free to choose whomever they want to get to know, even in the Biblical sense, but to stop all them roasting shenanigans, major action needs to be taken.

We’re all aware that no means no, so how does the footballer act with honour and decorum in such matters? Contrary to young men’s beliefs, a girl has the right to refuse coitus even if she’s been winking at you with more than two eyes all evening and theatrically licks the side of her Sex On The Beach every time the PA says he likes the way you move. The only way to be certain is to be chaperoned, surely, and it must fall to somebody independent to do the job. Here is where referees could earn some extra dough. Pierluigi Collina may have been the best referee in the world, but could he be as impartial in the bedroom?

For those with WAGs, they must decide if they want to chuck the missus/baby/posh house thing down the loo and go off with someone who was a brunette before she stepped out of the house that evening. I propose a Crystal Maze style test where a footballer must prove he can be arsed to mess up his life for a sweaty thirty seconds up against the side of a limo in a side-street. This has two advantages. Firstly, footballers love bling and you can sell anything with the promise of a jewel as a prize, and secondly, you could get Cristal to sponsor it.

4) Invite the press – a strange idea for footballers looking to cut loose after a hard half-season having weekday afternoons off, but the presence of the paps may work in their favour. It’s more likely to keep the lads on the straight and narrow if a camera swings their way every time they go to suck a maraschino cherry from the belly-button of a seventeen year old called Keisha-Leigh, and it could also be a realistic, light-hearted portrayal of young working class life. It’s not always a ball being a footballer, and we might see scenes of the sensitive, poetic one sitting in the corner with the thousand yard stare, or the two jokers making funny comments about the cabaret. We might all learn to respect each other if we were allowed to bring the walls down around their private world.

5) Do party games – I like a lucky dip as much as the next man, and if I come home from a party with an injection-moulded blue insect and a slightly-too-small comedy moustache, I’m chuffed. I can’t be the only one. We always say footballers aren’t mature enough, so treat them like kids. Serious assaults will drop by at least half.

6) Make them a spectator sport – revere them when they’re knocking the ball about, hate them when you see them double-parking a Hummer down a one-way street. The footballer’s image is mightily confused and the Christmas do could be an opportunity to give us all a hint of their world. How ace would it be to have a chorus of football supporters in the gods above the party, chanting all night long as their heroes work the room and, ahem, score? They could also stand outside singing the dirty version of Old King Cole while our idols concerned themselves with painting the pavement.

7) Write down the emergency numbers before people arrive – we all know 999. Some of us even use it to phone the Coastguard. But a footballer has different needs, and so no footballer party should be attempted without a list of the following contact details: solicitor, barrister, second solicitor, dodgy mate, mate of dodgy mate, bent copper, emergency contraception clinic, backstreet surgeon, editor of Daily Star, bassist from popular indie combo, snooty actress who’s probably dirtier than she lets on, QC, Wentworth Miller from Prison Break, locksmith, DNA expert, Judge John Deed, Gazza, neurosurgeon, someone who can supply clean urine, mate with posh voice who can answer phone the missus knows about, someone to hold six phones missus doesn’t know about, watertight alibi, safe-deposit box place with money for bribes, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.1 articulated lorry and war vehicle hire and Paris Hilton.

I’m no party planner, but that would satisfy even the most cretinous member of Mötley Crüe. And if it’s good enough for spandex clad goons, it’ll be good enough for our young heroes and their titanic tastes. But it’s not admissible as evidence. Sorry, Rio.

Chris Stanley