Question:
t has come to Steve McClaren's attention that he has been chosen by ESPN Soccernet to manage their Team of the Week. Being a consummate and exhaustive professional, he has decided to hold player auditions to help him decide who should be honoured for their weekend performances.
As we find him, he is sat at a table in a large meeting hall. Shaking his head, he mutters something whilst scribbling a note on a pad he had in front of him. The sound of football boots walking away on the hard, wooden floor precede the slamming of a door at the other end of the hall. The reverberating BANG can be heard for a full minute.
McCLAREN (quietly, to himself, lips barely moving): The cheek of it. Thinks he can get in my Team of the Week after a shocking performance like that? (Then, much louder...) NEXT!
He hears the sound of the door opening and boots approaching, though he doesn't look up from his notepad. After a suitable pause, he turns his face upwards to face the newcomer.
McCLAREN: Who are you and why are you here?
LEHMANN: Of course, I am Arsenal goalkeeper Jens Lehmann. I am here because my performance against Tottenham on Saturday lunch-time was excellent. Nobody was better than me this weekend.
McCLAREN (Chewing on the end of his pencil): Continue.
LEHMANN: Of course. I made two outstanding saves in the second half, saves that prove I am Arsenal's best goalkeeper. And Germany's best, too. Probably, also, the best in the world.
McCLAREN: You're weird, but I like your attitude. You're in. Now, send in the next guy.
The Arsenal goalkeeper departs, his giant hands dragging on the floor as he walks. A moment or two later, the door at the end of the hall opens once more and a short-ish gentleman approaches the table.
McCLAREN (His mouth agape as he sees who stands before him): Can I help you?
HESKEY: I'm Emile Heskey. I play up front for Birmingham.
McCLAREN: Yes, I know who you are. Why are you here?
HESKEY: I want to be in Team of the Week.
McCLAREN (Disbelieving): But, Emile,... I saw you play. You... were dreadful. You barely made a pass all game, you couldn't control a medicine ball... you stank. Whatever gave you the impression you could make my team?
HESKEY: Dunno.
McCLAREN: Stop wasting my time, and leave. Now.
Seconds after HESKEY has trudged out, two men stride confidently up to the table. They face McCLAREN; their hands behind their back, chests puffed out, a smug grin plastered across their faces.
McCLAREN: Names, positions and clubs?
LAMPARD: I'm Frank Lampard. This is Joe Cole. He's a forward. I'm a midfielder. We play for Chelsea.
McCLAREN (Eying them suspiciously): And what makes you think you should be in my Team of the Week?
LAMPARD (Nodding towards the strange looking man beside him): He should be in because he scored our fourth goal against Blackburn. Generally, he was superb. (He pauses for long enough for a slimy smile to spread across his face, which looks oddly like the surface of the Moon.) I should be in, because I'm the best midfielder in the world.
McCLAREN: Who told you that?
LAMPARD: My manager.
McCLAREN: Well, he would say that, wouldn't he.
LAMPARD: He's The Special One.
MCLAREN: Rubbish. He's a minor talent with a major gift for self-hype.
COLE (On the verge of tears, spit flying from his mouth as he blurts out his words): No - you're rubbish. Our gaffer's brilliant. He's the best manager in the world. Tell him, Frank. Tell him that Jose is the best manager in the world. (Stamping his boots on the floor) I'm not leaving until he says it.
LAMPARD (Quietly, through gritted teeth, to COLE): I thought I told you to let me do the talking. You've ruined it. He'll never pick us now.
There is a pause whilst McCLAREN looks down at his notepad. Once in a while, he scratches his head and mutters something under his breath.
McCLAREN: I've thought about it, guys, and I've decided you're in - you've both made my Team of the Week. (To LAMPARD) Now get that... thing... out of here, and send in the next guy. (Looking at the pool of spittle on the floor) Oh, and you'd better also find a cleaning lady.
The Chelsea pair leave, and another man comes in to the hall.
McCLAREN: And who on earth are you?
STUBBS: I'm Alan Stubbs. I'm a Sunderland defender.
McCLAREN (Shaking his head): Unbelievable. You're bottom of the table. You got stuffed at the weekend. 4-1. By Portsmouth. At home. (Shouting) Have you no shame, man?
Turning on his heels, STUBBS scuttles back down the hall and out of the door. A minute or two later, three more strapping young men appear at the door. They stand their for a moment, seemingly unsure whether or not to enter. They eventually decide to and wander, hand-in-hand, down to the table.
McCLAREN (Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles): Gaizka, why are you here. You're obviously going to be in the team. I told you that immediately after the game on Saturday. Why are you here?
MENDIETA (Staring at his boots): Sorry boss. It was Jimmy's fault. He told me to.
HASSELBAINK: No I didn't. Boss, he's lying. I told him that if scoring two goals in a 4-1 win against Manchester United doesn't get you in Team of the Week, nothing will. I told him to stay at home.
McCLAREN: You should have stayed at home too, Jimmy. Obviously I was going to pick you in my team. You were excellent, looked back to your very best. And you took your goal brilliantly. Clearly, yours was one of the performances of the weekend.
HASSELBAINK (Sheepishly): Gee, thanks boss.
McCLAREN (Turning to the third man): But why are you here, Frank?
QUEUDRUE: I thought I played pretty well.
McCLAREN: I suppose so.
QUEUDRUE: Keeping United quiet this season hasn't been easy, and I thought I showed how versatile I was, playing at centre-back instead of my usual left-back. I helped keep Van Nistelrooy and Rooney pretty quiet...
McCLAREN: Oh, go on then. You'll do. I'm short of defenders anyway. All three of you are in. (Wearily) Now send in the next guy.
The three players rather trudge out of the hall, holding the door open for the next man to enter. He approaches with a strange swagger, almost as if one leg was longer than the other. McClaren doesn't look up from his notepad.
McCLAREN: Name?
FERDINAND: I'm Rio Ferdinand.
McCLAREN: GET OUT!
The bumbling United defender traipses out of the room. McCLAREN sits for a while at the table, holding his head in his hands. Eventually, he stands up, pulling up his trousers so that they sit high above his waist. Talking to himself under his breath, he walks out of the door at the back of the hall, and in to the waiting room outside. Looking around, he sees just four men left; they are all dressed in full football kits, sat on chairs. They look at him as he stands at the door.
McCLAREN: I'm bored with this. I just don't care anymore. Whoever's left, whoever you are - you're all in the Team of the Week. Michael Owen? You're in.
OWEN (Punching the air): Yessss!
McCLAREN: Pascal Chimbonda, Ledley King, Stevie Gerrard - you're in too.
TRIO: Wooo!
The foursome skip out the door, cheering and patting each other on the back. McCLAREN stands hands on hips in the empty room.
McCLAREN (Quietly, to himself): I need a drink.

Answer:

t has come to Steve McClaren's attention that he has been chosen by ESPN Soccernet to manage their Team of the Week. Being a consummate and exhaustive professional, he has decided to hold player auditions to help him decide who should be honoured for their weekend performances.
As we find him, he is sat at a table in a large meeting hall. Shaking his head, he mutters something whilst scribbling a note on a pad he had in front of him. The sound of football boots walking away on the hard, wooden floor precede the slamming of a door at the other end of the hall. The reverberating BANG can be heard for a full minute.
McCLAREN (quietly, to himself, lips barely moving): The cheek of it. Thinks he can get in my Team of the Week after a shocking performance like that? (Then, much louder...) NEXT!
He hears the sound of the door opening and boots approaching, though he doesn't look up from his notepad. After a suitable pause, he turns his face upwards to face the newcomer.
McCLAREN: Who are you and why are you here?
LEHMANN: Of course, I am Arsenal goalkeeper Jens Lehmann. I am here because my performance against Tottenham on Saturday lunch-time was excellent. Nobody was better than me this weekend.
McCLAREN (Chewing on the end of his pencil): Continue.
LEHMANN: Of course. I made two outstanding saves in the second half, saves that prove I am Arsenal's best goalkeeper. And Germany's best, too. Probably, also, the best in the world.
McCLAREN: You're weird, but I like your attitude. You're in. Now, send in the next guy.
The Arsenal goalkeeper departs, his giant hands dragging on the floor as he walks. A moment or two later, the door at the end of the hall opens once more and a short-ish gentleman approaches the table.
McCLAREN (His mouth agape as he sees who stands before him): Can I help you?
HESKEY: I'm Emile Heskey. I play up front for Birmingham.
McCLAREN: Yes, I know who you are. Why are you here?
HESKEY: I want to be in Team of the Week.
McCLAREN (Disbelieving): But, Emile,... I saw you play. You... were dreadful. You barely made a pass all game, you couldn't control a medicine ball... you stank. Whatever gave you the impression you could make my team?
HESKEY: Dunno.
McCLAREN: Stop wasting my time, and leave. Now.
Seconds after HESKEY has trudged out, two men stride confidently up to the table. They face McCLAREN; their hands behind their back, chests puffed out, a smug grin plastered across their faces.
McCLAREN: Names, positions and clubs?
LAMPARD: I'm Frank Lampard. This is Joe Cole. He's a forward. I'm a midfielder. We play for Chelsea.
McCLAREN (Eying them suspiciously): And what makes you think you should be in my Team of the Week?
LAMPARD (Nodding towards the strange looking man beside him): He should be in because he scored our fourth goal against Blackburn. Generally, he was superb. (He pauses for long enough for a slimy smile to spread across his face, which looks oddly like the surface of the Moon.) I should be in, because I'm the best midfielder in the world.
McCLAREN: Who told you that?
LAMPARD: My manager.
McCLAREN: Well, he would say that, wouldn't he.
LAMPARD: He's The Special One.
MCLAREN: Rubbish. He's a minor talent with a major gift for self-hype.
COLE (On the verge of tears, spit flying from his mouth as he blurts out his words): No - you're rubbish. Our gaffer's brilliant. He's the best manager in the world. Tell him, Frank. Tell him that Jose is the best manager in the world. (Stamping his boots on the floor) I'm not leaving until he says it.
LAMPARD (Quietly, through gritted teeth, to COLE): I thought I told you to let me do the talking. You've ruined it. He'll never pick us now.
There is a pause whilst McCLAREN looks down at his notepad. Once in a while, he scratches his head and mutters something under his breath.
McCLAREN: I've thought about it, guys, and I've decided you're in - you've both made my Team of the Week. (To LAMPARD) Now get that... thing... out of here, and send in the next guy. (Looking at the pool of spittle on the floor) Oh, and you'd better also find a cleaning lady.
The Chelsea pair leave, and another man comes in to the hall.
McCLAREN: And who on earth are you?
STUBBS: I'm Alan Stubbs. I'm a Sunderland defender.
McCLAREN (Shaking his head): Unbelievable. You're bottom of the table. You got stuffed at the weekend. 4-1. By Portsmouth. At home. (Shouting) Have you no shame, man?
Turning on his heels, STUBBS scuttles back down the hall and out of the door. A minute or two later, three more strapping young men appear at the door. They stand their for a moment, seemingly unsure whether or not to enter. They eventually decide to and wander, hand-in-hand, down to the table.
McCLAREN (Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles): Gaizka, why are you here. You're obviously going to be in the team. I told you that immediately after the game on Saturday. Why are you here?
MENDIETA (Staring at his boots): Sorry boss. It was Jimmy's fault. He told me to.
HASSELBAINK: No I didn't. Boss, he's lying. I told him that if scoring two goals in a 4-1 win against Manchester United doesn't get you in Team of the Week, nothing will. I told him to stay at home.
McCLAREN: You should have stayed at home too, Jimmy. Obviously I was going to pick you in my team. You were excellent, looked back to your very best. And you took your goal brilliantly. Clearly, yours was one of the performances of the weekend.
HASSELBAINK (Sheepishly): Gee, thanks boss.
McCLAREN (Turning to the third man): But why are you here, Frank?
QUEUDRUE: I thought I played pretty well.
McCLAREN: I suppose so.
QUEUDRUE: Keeping United quiet this season hasn't been easy, and I thought I showed how versatile I was, playing at centre-back instead of my usual left-back. I helped keep Van Nistelrooy and Rooney pretty quiet...
McCLAREN: Oh, go on then. You'll do. I'm short of defenders anyway. All three of you are in. (Wearily) Now send in the next guy.
The three players rather trudge out of the hall, holding the door open for the next man to enter. He approaches with a strange swagger, almost as if one leg was longer than the other. McClaren doesn't look up from his notepad.
McCLAREN: Name?
FERDINAND: I'm Rio Ferdinand.
McCLAREN: GET OUT!
The bumbling United defender traipses out of the room. McCLAREN sits for a while at the table, holding his head in his hands. Eventually, he stands up, pulling up his trousers so that they sit high above his waist. Talking to himself under his breath, he walks out of the door at the back of the hall, and in to the waiting room outside. Looking around, he sees just four men left; they are all dressed in full football kits, sat on chairs. They look at him as he stands at the door.
McCLAREN: I'm bored with this. I just don't care anymore. Whoever's left, whoever you are - you're all in the Team of the Week. Michael Owen? You're in.
OWEN (Punching the air): Yessss!
McCLAREN: Pascal Chimbonda, Ledley King, Stevie Gerrard - you're in too.
TRIO: Wooo!
The foursome skip out the door, cheering and patting each other on the back. McCLAREN stands hands on hips in the empty room.
McCLAREN (Quietly, to himself): I need a drink.

Answer:

HAHA.. funnyyy