THERE’S an episode of Seinfeld in which Kramer accidentally gets a job whilst merely passing through an office block. Unqualified for the position, he’s promptly fired after a couple of days even though he never really worked there in the first place.

It’s easily done. I didn’t go to New York seeking employment, but sometimes an opportunity arises which is just too good to miss. ”Most jobs take energy,” the ad said. “This one gives it! We have an exciting opportunity to join Red Bull New York as a Marketing Manager.” Now, I didn’t need to read any further. I knew I was the enthusiastic and goal-orientated person they were looking for. I’m committed to the sports industry, and it’s true – I’m deeply concerned about the growth of New York Red Bulls.

I found myself standing in a cheap suit in front Red Bull New York’s top brass before you could say Einstürzende Neubauten and, to my surprise, they set me on and I got to work. During my very first morning, I spent a whole year’s advertising budget on a piece of shit hoarding featuring striker Jozy Altidore kicking a red bull right up the arse (above).

It was well into the afternoon, around the time I was changing the club’s official anthem from The Rapture’s ‘Whoo! Alright, Yeah… Uh Huh’ to Edelweiss’ ‘Bring Me Edelweiss’, when they realised their mistake and hauled me over the coals. There was just enough time before I had to clear my desk of cracker crumbs to do a big shit in a plant pot and sign off a photoshoot of Juan Pablo Angel missing a bull’s arse with a banjo.

It’s just my rotten luck, as well, that another Red Bull opening has been filled: in May, the Salzburg job will be taken by ex-AZ Alkmaar miracle-worker, Co Adriaanse. Never liked him anyway. With one mad eye on shortly joining Ireland, Giovanni Trapattoni used the other one to watch a matadorial Rapid Vienna strike five deadly first-half blows upon his charges, before mercilessly twisting the blade twice in the second.

“It was not a defeat, it was a catastrophe,” Trapattoni said. ‘DEAD BULL!’ exclaimed the Austrian press, and it scarcely mattered to Austria Salzburg that their spring season opener at Taxham fell to wintry weather, because they were too busy guffawing to notice. In fact, they still haven’t stopped.

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REMEMBER the Sons of Ben, hardcore soccerphiles all dressed up with nowhere to go? Well, following MLS’ confirmation that Philadelphia will indeed be the league’s 16th franchisee come 2010, the 1,600 fans of no team now have one, but with no name. So, what frenetic phonetic will frame the future of Philly football? Watch this, erm, fpace.

Having already endured some turbulent episodes in the run-up to co-hosting Euro 2008 (questions asked in parliament of one club’s finances, another putting the league in the dock in an attempt to reduce a points deduction; it’s unbelievable stuff, I know) what the Austrian game didn’t need was for one of its leading sides to appeal against a 2-1 defeat because – wait for it – their dilly-dallying goalkeeper wasn’t ready for the game’s opening goal, a penalty. But that’s exactly what followed Rapid Vienna’s recent 2-1 loss at Cashpoint Altach.

Perhaps without the heat of UEFA’s breath on their necks, the ÖFB would have dismissed top of the table Rapid’s frantic invocation of Game Law 14 – which states that clubs from capital cities aren’t allowed to lose to villages of populations less than 7,000 – as mere sour grapes. However, unbelievably, this league fixture will be replayed in its entirety.

But what can you expect of a governing body which goes against all conventional wisdom and doesn’t even consider Edelweiss’ “Bring Me Edelwiess” as the anthem for Euro 2008? Instead, we have official mascots Trix and Flix featuring Shaggy – yes, that Shaggy – with “Like a Superstar”.

The summer finals’ motto is “Expect Emotions”, which is presumably a disclaimer to the sort of schizophrenic psychosis exposure to this shit induces. I mean, I don’t know about you, but when I think of Austria and Switzerland, I think of beer, yodeling, and bearded midgets frolicking with big titted fräuleins; not two polystyrene-suited dickheads abseiling to the tune of a Jamaican Gulf War veteran.

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As a sideswipe at the phoniness of fame and fortune, The Catcher in the Rye is so persuasive that its author, J. D. Salinger, hasn’t left the house since writing it in 1951, and Mark David Chapman shot John Lennon dead on its perceived say-so 30 years later.

But just because you enjoy the infectious cynicism of protagonist Holden Caulfield, doesn’t mean that you, too, will end up trembling in a Manhattan side street clutching an autograph book and a concealed weapon. No, you can cheerily share his concerns, such as where do Central Park’s ducks go during winter, without giving a damn about what happens to the rest of New York city’s wildlife. But I’ll tell you anyway.

The Red Bulls are on a pre-season team-building break with their Salzburg equivalent, where they probably spend their days rehearsing some crumby rap or other about what fun it is to work for an energy drink, and, with bladders brimming with the stuff, their evenings locked in lousy dormitories crying themselves to half an hour’s sleep on saturated mattresses.

Only joking. They’re just familiarising themselves with the surroundings, for not only do Red Bulls New York and Salzburg share a badge and colours, they will, from 2009, share grounds. Despite lying in different continents, you’ll be forgiven for thinking that their ersatz homes – Red Bull Park and the Bullen Arena – are one and the same; on television at least, which, for a global brand, is all that really matters. I mean, look at New York training in Salzburg (above) – or is it the other way round?

While David Beckham prepares once more to flog Major League Soccer to prime-time TV audiences, the league’s salary cap bypass for individuals of merit – the ‘Beckham exception’ – is snaring little else of note. Well, unless you count Juan Pablo Angel, that is. And that Mexican bloke that kept jumping the ball past awestruck defenders three World Cups ago.

It’s true that the face of MLS is being transformed, but it’s largely thanks to the league’s relaxed approach to sponsorship. Introduced to welcome a pair of charging bulls to New York’s jerseys, it will enable half the clubs to kick off this season advertising the usual shit, leaving the rest with a few phone calls to make. In a sportscape where the club is king, branded shirts are most un-American to the fan’s eye. Unless, of course, they’re unfortunate enough to support a club that is the sponsor, and vice versa.

Anyway, there’s a corner of the world where such lily-livers are frowned upon, where Coca-Cola is mixed with red wine because it alone doesn’t get you pissed, and not even an alpine winter stands in the way of what really matters.

Indoor football bridges the gap between autumn and spring in Austria, and it was Austria Salzburg’s pleasure to accept an invitation to get right in the faces of some of Bundesliga’s professional billboards on live TV at Salzburg Arena’s Hallencup.

Okay, so the side which heads the sixth division lost all their matches on the squeaky stuff, but that’s hardly the point. 1,500 violetten raised the roof for tussles with the likes of Cashpoint Altach and Josko Reid (boldly representing the worlds of betting and double glazing, respectively) while only a few hundred witnessed Altach’s loss to Linz in the final. ‘Goosebumps,’ proclaimed the press of Austria Salzburg’s good, old-fashioned ultraism, ‘enthusiasm one would wish for at every football ground.’

In the tournament’s afterglow, the overseer of Austria Salzburg’s re-emergence, Moritz Grobovschek, stepped down and a swift ballot ushered in Gernot Blaikner. A local businessman who worked with the club shortly before Red Bull’s takeover, it is hoped that their admirable principles retain their lustre and that, just like the ducks in Central Park, they eventually prove that some absences are only temporary.

Austria Salzburg’s brand new English language official site is here.

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