Imagine a world without football? I know, it’s scary. But what’s even scarier is that the Premier League stars we know and love would all be searching for jobs like you and me. No scouts, youth academies or agents, just a good ole’ CV. In this column we provide insight into what those job applications would actually look like. This is ‘Premier League CVs’.
Eden Michael Hazard
Before you ask, no – I haven’t the foggiest who Accrington Stanley are. To be honest, I can barely name you a London team in blue, yet alone this lot. My former classmate John said don’t bother learning about them because they’re north of the Watford Gap, but again I had no clue what he was on about, except perhaps being rude about Craig Cathcart and Adrian Mariappa. Nope, none of these come onto my radar despite being the classiest milk monitor this side of Leuven. I may still be at kindergarten, but I have ambitions let me tell you.
So what if I spent a decade at a playgroup? While you lot were busy with your ‘school’ careers, I was busy playing with my brothers. Even though Thorgan and Kylian (mum and dad never lived THAT one down) were clearly not on my level, just by being in my presence they made decent pre-schoolers out of themselves.
Teacher’s pet, Les Petits Génies kindergarten, Lille
- Tidied away all the toys in alphabetical, size and interest order
- Shone in arts and crafts program
- Lead role in all musical and theatrical performances
Milk monitor, King’s Road playschool, London
- Fed my many younger classmates
- Inspired new creative presentations
- Won all spelling bee competitions
- Rudi Garcia
- Jose Mourinho
- Maurizio Sarri
To whom it may concern,
Strong bones, they told me. Pearly white teeth, they insisted. Well, I tell you now I appreciate the value of a gallon or two of bovine wine. Playgroups are a bleeding minefield nowadays with the amount of tumbles and death-traps that go completely unheeded by the incompetent teachers. Most importantly, I wouldn’t be able to dazzle the hapless buffoons in my group with my sparkling angelic smile.
I find myself trapped in a childish world, and yet I know it is where I am guaranteed to thrive. My two baby brothers are, let’s be honest, pretty slow compared to me. Don’t tell them I said this, but the only thing we share is a name. Thorgan tagged along when I graduated summa cum laude from Les Petits Génies playgroup but he just couldn’t cut it. Never mind, he’ll make his own way in the big, bad, cut-throat world of kindergarten.
When the faintly moronic chubby kids were cracking their enigma code of telling right and left, I was fixing the clock on the wall. While they genuinely found satisfaction out of eating glue, I was gluing the last matchstick onto a life-size Eiffel Tower model. Of course I never actually let on that it was me, and let my teachers take the credit. The internal amusement from watching the struggle with the concept that a five-year-old was smarter than they were was reward enough for me.
It was fun for a while, leading everyone on while I coasted through the complex structures of lower education, but I needed to get out. They do say genius need company, so I applied myself to join the prestigious King’s Road playschool in London. I mean these were major players on the international toddler’s circuit – at least I thought they were. Sure, I swept up most gold stars on offer, and there was a slightly higher level of intellect, but I soon saw that the others around me were still not good enough for my purposes.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret; despite appearing to be just another gracious member of the playgroup, if you control the milk, you control everything. Don’t be fooled by the flashy presentation; the pre-school grind is a vicious as the unkempt streets of the Bronx in the 70s. It’s all about supply and demand, subtlety and precision. Let the teachers think they’re in control, and you can run the entire operation. In other words, let grumpy Iberian adults have their milk, and they’ll let you purr all day long.
The problem is that they are ultimately expendable, but are too stupid or arrogant to realise it. They cling on to the safety of the classroom where they think they have their backs covered. Lately, I have been getting a bit bored of being the king in a small pond; nobody knows, but I have actually been admiring the St. Santiago Catholic School for the Gifted in Madrid. They are as pure as the milk I hand out every day, and would be lucky to have me.
One day even my looks will begin to fade and I will no longer be able to charm parents and kindergarten staff, and I will have to end my career in milk monitoring. Since I am supremely blessed with natural talent I will, of course, have no problem controlling everything in the supposedly grown-up world beyond what I know now. I’m taking no chances though, and intend to get a proper tan after years of dreary rain.
Don’t worry – I’ve already got my exit plan rolling. My current playgroup leader is practically doing my job for me by smoking us all to death, not to mention being as stubborn as a mule – and as insightful as one too, when he fails to evolve every playtime around me, as he obviously should do. How he passed the CRB checks is beyond me.
Right, I’ve got Mr Maurizio’s full-fat to dish out – I’m half-tempted to add a vape kit alongside to give the man a heart-attack, but where’d be the fun in not watching him implode?
All I need now is help getting to Spain. If you can help forge a parents’ note to get me out of London, get in touch. In case you hadn’t guessed I’m too young to have any social media or email, so just log on to MumsNet and search for boy genius – you’ll find me.
Eden Michael Hazard