We Have A Winner...
Talking of making a tit of yourself in front of footballers, a few years back I bumped into Robert Pires having breakfast in a posh London hotel. I decided, for reasons I still can't quite fathom, to engage him in conversation...in French. Unfortunately, my French is rubbish (I barely scraped an O-level 20 years ago), but that didn't put me off.

"Bonjour, Robert. Ca va?" I said to an obviously startled Pires.

"Oui, ca va bien, merci," he replied.

"Je suis un fan enorme. Je t'aime," I gushed. Bobby winced at my appalling Franglais but managed to maintain a smile. I really should have left it at that, but for some reason I blundered on, dredging forth what little French I could remember from my school days.

"Vous etes un footballeur fantastique," I schmoozed, getting into the swing of it. "J'aime beaucoup les rouges et blancs. Allez les canonniers" Ha, I thought, his was a piece of piss, but unfortunately my French football-speak was running dry. No matter: "Le soliel brille, la ciel est bleu, et les oiseux chant dans les arbres. Rein na va plus. Comme si comme ca. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme choses," I concluded.

By now Bobby had a visibly pained expression on his face and was looking round for a means of escape. My wife, sitting at the next table, hid behind her menu. I wondered whether I should torture him some more, but decided the poor man had probably had enough, what with that terrible facial hair and everything. I held out my hand to shake his and said "Bon chance, Bobby. Votre gillet de sauvetage est sou votre siege."

He left without finishing his breakfast.
Tom, Gooner, Londres Nord

And More Tales Of Acting The T**t With Footballers
OK, I don't usually wheel this one out because so few people believe me, but here goes.

In the summer of 2005, I used to work in a Spar in Ainsdale, which is just off the Formby bypass near Southport, which is near Liverpool. Coming up to closing time, I was sat idly behind the counter reading Nuts or Zoo or some other sterling publication, when who should walk in but none other than recently-crowned King of Europe Steven Gerrard. It was one of those moments when you go, "f*** me that looks a bit like... Oh f*** me it is!" in your head; you completely freeze and I presume I looked a bit like a slack-jawed idiot from the local village. He strode up to the counter and said, "Alright mate, I'm lookin' for some rosé - have you got any?" "Err, yeah" I replied.

Around the counter we wandered to the booze section, where I was asked: "Do you know which is the good stuff?" Again, moron that I was rappidly becoming, I jibbered back, "Well, that one's the most expensive and this one is the cheapest..." because you know, it takes a real genius to work that out. So he grabbed one of each, and a six-pack of Budweiser, and then it came to the transaction - the exchange of goods for cash. This was it - my chance to touch, touch, a living legend. As I handed him back his change, I grabbed his hand and said, "Nice work this season mate, thanks for everything!". He pulled away and left. By this point, I had nearly wet myself. I was ecstatic.

A mere three days later, and the stories about Gerrard definitely going to Chelsea were everywhere. I was inconsonable, blaming myself for his desire to leabe I thought I had acted like that much of a w*****. The rest is history, and now I like to pretend that it was simple human gratitude from a pleb like me that convinced him to stay, and not the £120,000 a week or whatever he's on now.

Also, my sister used to go out with James "the next big thing but perennially injured" Vaughan, who used to come round to my house with Victor Anichebe. James was a decent lad, but Anichebe is a massive c***.
Nick Glover, Scouser in Brum

...On a work's night out I walked past City legend Shaun Goater in Manchester City centre. Me and my mate stopped and waited for around 30 seconds thinking, did we just really see the Goat. Not wanting to miss a chance we then legged it down Deansgate after the Goat stopping just in front of him. I shook his hand and tried my best to think of something witty and insightful. Unfortunately all I could say was, "hope you get 20 goals this season" (ambitions are high at City!!) At the time he was on 19 and he then didn't score for around 5 games I felt liked I'd jinxed him. Funnily enough Jeff Whitley was stood next to the Goat at the time and he was not pleased that we blanked him.
Gavin (My mum also met the Arsenal team in Portugal years ago, she thought they were a pub team and asked George Graham if he was the landlord) MCFC

...To follow on the theme of acting like an idiot in front of a footballer, I was in Lyon earlier this season and was staying at the same hotel as the Man Utd players. They were on the 5th floor and we were on the 4th. We went up and took photos with a few of them as they went down for dinner before being asked to leave by hotel staff. After a few too many drinks in Lyon city centre we returned to the hotel in the early hours and just for the sake of it went to the players floor. Walked over and there was Carlos Tevez in his boxer shorts getting ice from the ice machine. I yelled 'Carlos. Carlos can I have a photo?' while stumbling across very drunk and he looked like he had seen a ghost, said 'No, No later later' and ran off. I am still embarrassed about it to this day. The theory is that I scared him so much in the middle of the night that Fergie left him on the bench for the game.
Gurmeet Sahni MUFC

...I feel compelled to add my story of footballer-based embarrassment to the already stellar collection in the mailbox. Mine involves Justin Edinburgh, then of Portsmouth, sitting quietly minding his own business in TGI Friday's in Fareham. He was with a few other people so I didn't bound over, but I timed my next pint with his so I could 'bump into him' at the bar. Every since the infamous Robbie Savage incident I've wondered if he decked the Welsh powerhouse in the player's lounge as was reported at the time. He confirmed that he had indeed belted him, which was met with a cheer, handshake and a 300-word anti-Savage rant from me. I doubt he could've been more uncomfortable if he'd tried.

I left him alone after this except to ask for some change for the cig machine, for which he actually gave me 50p (cheers, Just), then my mate ruined it all by falling over in front of him half-cut. We left shortly afterwards.
Jamie Waller, Toon fan

...In 1993, during the early days of Sky and the first season of the newly-formed Premiership, I woke up one morning to be told by my mum that the legendary Brian Clough was coming round to our house that evening. Obviously I thought it was a wind-up, but then she explained that our neighbour worked on the Shredded Wheat ads and knew Cloughie, who apparently needed to find someone with Sky so he could watch a game which was being played back up north while he was filming down south.

Lo and behold, Cloughie turned up that night (looking a little worse for wear, supported by his driver) and bedded in to watch the game. It was only five minutes before the match started when, mortifyingly for me, my brothers and my dad, we realised we didn't actually have a Sky Sports package and wouldn't be able to get connected in time. Try breaking that to Old Big 'Ead!

After a while my dad built up the courage to tell him and thankfully there was no ranting and raving. He even signed autographs for me and my brothers, before giving us all a pinch on the cheeks and heading back to his hotel. Still, I can't help thinking how much I would have learned watching the real Special One analyse a game right in my own living room. Bugger. My neighbour also lost his job a few months later, but that's probably more to do with the Shredded Wheat ads being a pile of pap...
Toby "Young Big 'Ead" Bentley

...I just wanted to take a moment to validate Simon from Belfast's comment in today's mailbox.

When I was 17 I was working for a sports journalist in Brighton and was asked to pick Gerry up from a local gym where he had been working out. Having no idea who he was I was slightly worried (in 1990) when I was approached by a middle aged, scruffy, unshaven Ulsterman attempted to enter my company provided white MG Metro. After much confusion I let him into the car, only to be overcome with the most incredibly putrid smell. I seriously thought he had shat himself and was forced to wind the window down immediately.

So Simon, all I can say mate is, imagine the smell he was giving out when you were there - and then multiply it by about 10. Why the bugger didn't shower before leaving the club baffles me.

I won't even go into the time that year Alan Mullery popped into the office and I told my boss some bloke called 'Harry or something' was waiting to see him. Apparently he used to be a player?

Or the time I spat my beer out at Gary Stephens when he told me Steve Foster decked him for referring to him by his surname on a TV interview.

Happy days.
Ryan (Sensitive nostrils), LFC, London

...A bit slow in writing this one but I feel the need to tell you about a story a friend told me, he had an embarrassing moment with the legend that is Chris Kamara. He went on to say he was in a restaurant in Birmingham and doesn't follow football in the slightest, he saw this "guy" who looked a lot like Lionel Richie so he thought it would be funny to start singing "All Night Long" & "Dancing On The Ceiling" to him, Chris obviously out for a quiet meal was not impressed and told my food loving friend to "f**k off Rik Waller", a classic comeback and my friend had received a major burn from the Soul Glo using Chris Kamara!
Andrew (still laughing to this day) Edwards

...About 4 or 5 years ago me and my mate Jay bumped into Gareth Southgate in Po Na Na in Harrogate. This was the summer that Man United were supposed to be interested in picking up Southgate, as our defence was a bit turkey back then (I think that was when we'd flogged Stam and bought Laurent Blanc, the slowest man in the world, from memory). In the end though, the rumours disappeared and no bid ever came.

Anyway, I marched up to Gareth, said hello, and asked him if he was disappointed that United hadn't tried to buy him. He responded, tongue-in-cheek, 'well why ever would I want to play for Man United?' Now I'll be honest, I'd had a few jars, and didn't detect the sarcasm there, so I replied (complete with counting along on my fingers) "well, you could win the Premiership, win the FA Cup, play in the Champions League, maybe win the Champions League, get back in the England team, get shitloads more money...."

That was pretty much the end of the conversation there. Still, Jay took up the reins, and proceeded to have a very long conversation with Gareth, as though they were long lost friends reacquainted. He was there for about forty-five minutes, and it turns out he was seeking Gareth's advice on whether or not to finish with his bird, because "whilst she's a l'Oreal model, she's got a big arse, and I want to shag around a bit". Gareth's advice was that he should finish with her if his heart wasn't in it, so brilliantly he proceeded to phone her from my garden at around half two that morning and end it. She never quite knew what had prompted it to end that way...

As a brief aside, Gareth was out with a large chap wearing flip flops and a quite camp white vest, which prompted us both to ask if Gareth Southgate was gay. Turns out it was Mark Schwarzer.

So there you have it; Gareth Southgate, promising manager and relationship counsellor extraordinaire. And not a gay.
Joe Mann