Dead Bull
It’s official, folks: Red Bull kills. Just one sip and that’s it, your sorry arse is going straight to hell. Actually, that’s not true: you’ll need a bit more than that. Anyway, for the sake of New Yorkers, the Detriot medics who this week warned that quaffing two cans of a ‘popular energy drink’ a day may mortally increase blood pressure really ought to pack their stethoscopes and head for the Big Apple.
You see, some months before the self-crowned ‘King of Beers’ tickled European sensibilities with their funny-the-first-time fantasy of ‘Soccertainment!’, Red Bull landed in the States clutching a blueprint for its reality.
At its heart lay Red Bull Park, the ‘Soccer and Entertainment Center’ and sometime home of New York’s MLS franchise. Thrilled by the proposed facility, a few thousand locals bought into Red Bull’s vision and dared to envisage the luminaries which would, one day, mostly keep its home bench warm.
Luis Figo’s and Ronaldo’s names went tantalisingly undenied by the club’s PR machine which recently blew a gasket when Thierry Henry spoke to the local rag. “I always say that one day I can play over there,” he said. “For me, New York is the best city in the world.”
Wow. So, how’s work on Red Bull Park coming along? Thanks to the intercontinental mass of pipes and valves they call the interweb, football and shopping’s latest cathedral reaches for the heavens right before our very eyes. Hmm. Better get a move on, boys! Henry’s only got so much va-va-voom left in the tank.
The failure of Red Bull and David Beckham to secure success for their playthings this season resulted, naturally, in the chop for their coaches. In a move contrary to the ‘laid-back sincerity’ of company head Dieter Mateschitz’s ‘brand philosophy’ – whatever that is – jumped-up middle-management decided ex-US national boss Bruce Arena’s objectives – whatever they were – haven’t been achieved.
While LA Galaxy sought to swiftly replace Frank Yallop with somebody Beckham’s heard of (namely, Ruud Gullit) the fall-out from Arena’s exit featured tales of a New York dressing room mutiny led by that pair of renowned shit-kickers, John Harkes and Claudio Reyna.
There’s no such disquiet by a Salzburg airfield; discounting the nearby roar of jet engines and the screech of rubber on tarmac, that is. As Red Bull’s other bastard offspring staggers dazed and confused around Bundesliga no-man’s land, the real Austria Salzburg ended their sixth-division term against HSV Wals just as impressively as they started it, with five unanswered goals.
Herbstmeisters once again, beating second-placed Obertrum to the four-month hibernation period by six points, the club posed for a family snap in a supreme show of just how far they’ve progressed in the space of these pages.
Who needs Detroit quacks? It’s quite simple. Lay off the taurine, live long and prosper.
