In a spectacle of truly global proportions, South Korean football fans have risen up in a fury that puts their neighbours to the north to shame. Reports flood in from Seoul: the Hiddink era is dead, long live the Hiddink era, and his successor has been given the mother of all V-signs. The coach, a man whose name I refuse to learn for fear of mispronouncing it in print, has been publicly roasted on a spit of 4chan fury and K-Pop fury. The cause? A string of performances that have left the Taeguk Warriors looking more like a bunch of taeguk worriers.
But here's the twist that would make even a dim sum chef blanch: British scouts, those professional purveyors of damp squibs and rain-lashed Wednesday night fixtures, are lurking in the shadows. Their mission? To monitor the 'crisis' ahead of a World Cup qualifier. But let's not kid ourselves, chaps. 'Monitor' is the diplomatic term for 'salivate at the prospect of picking over the carcass of a fallen giant'.
I picture the scene: a smoky room in a Pimlico townhouse, men in ill-fitting blazers huddled around a thermos of weak tea, poring over satellite images of a Korean training ground. 'They've dropped a pass! Their morale is in tatters! Jolly good, lads, that's another two points in the bag for us.'
The South Korean FA, a body about as transparent as a pint of London porter, has so far remained silent. But you can bet your bottom dollar that their PR machine is churning out press releases faster than a barista in a Bank interchange. 'We have full faith in our coach,' they will bleat, even as they prepare his P45 and a one-way ticket to the coaching realm of the afterlife.
This, dear readers, is the beautiful game at its most beautiful: a symphony of rage, incompetence, and opportunism conducted by men with nothing better to do. The World Cup qualifier looms, and with it, the chance for a nation to either forgive or forget. I suspect they will do neither. They will stew in their fury, their kimchi will ferment with added resentment, and the coach will be left to face the music: a concerto of hissing from 50,000 fans and the faint, mocking applause of a British scout in the stands, jotting down notes for his next report from the edge of sanity.
And what of the players? They'll be out there, running around like headless chickens in a bibimbap, trying to remember which goal they're supposed to score in. For this is the lot of the international footballer: to be a pawn in a game of chess that no one understands, least of all the pawns themselves.
So here's to the South Korean fans, whose rage is as pure as my mother's love (and about as effective). Here's to the British scouts, whose job security depends on the failure of others. And here's to the coach, a man who will soon learn that in Korea, the only sacred cow is the one on the barbecue.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find an airport. I hear they do a rather nice line in crisis gin.
