jorgemendes

“Being a sexy Spanish man growing up in Bilston, a small town on the outskirts of Wolverhampton was a learning experience for me. A baptism of fire”
Jorge Mendes April 2018

I had heard that Jorge Mendes. Super football agent, former nightclub owner and scourge of the boardrooms of the EFL was at Atherley Junction in Pendeford. A canal basin built in 1869. I was intrigued. Of course walking through the Pendeford estate you could see his £200,000,000 yacht from miles away. This beautiful craft had a full sized football pitch, a series of swanky nightclubs, a rocket pad for when his good friend Elon Musk drops by. It had five hundred cabins. It was a big boat. What was he doing here? I had been invited aboard this illustrious craft and I thought while I was walking the dags I would drop in…

Jorge was expecting me and was waiting at the passenger entrance surrounded by his coterie of twenty heavily armed ex Israeli female commandos clad in camouflage latex who looked at me and me dogs with suspicion as we shook hands. Jorge was wearing a Leopard skin cloak and a Hugo Boss Captains uniform. Glittering on his head was a massive diamond studded crown. What a beautiful tan he had. Like a beer garden table, dark oak. His teeth flashed as he smiled. What brilliance they were. Like stars in the sky they shone with an unholy glow almost radioactive. Jorge ushered me in past the solid gold statues of footballing greats that lined the cool corridors of the yacht to his antechamber of opulence. Here and there were dotted signed photographs from famous celebrities. Des O’Connor. Roger Moore, Sid James. Also football memorabilia. A signed shirt from Lee Naylor, and the ubiquitous Steve Bull signed program a little dog eared and battered. Amazing. The carpet was that thick it was like wading through it. Two of his bodyguards lifted up the trail of Jorges cape and I followed him through corridor after corridor filled with paintings of ‘tearful boy’ and ‘green skinned woman’ and those paintings of the dogs playing pool in a pub. At last we reached the centre of his craft. In the middle of the room was an enormous throne. opulent and rich made of solid gold carved in the shape of half naked women and demons. Around him were screens showing share prices, football matches around the world, and cartoons.

Jorge sat down at his throne and the place where he does all his deals. The dogs ran off around the legs of his bodyguard and I sat down on a Polar Bear skin rug in front of him and took out my stolen Ikea pencil and a peeled beermat ready to take notes. A phone rang somewhere and from the floor came a golden phone. Jorge picked it up, it was Donald Trump.

Jorge: Donny baby I can’t talk at the mo, I’ve got that lad from Southbank Resistance here to have a chat, I’ll ring ya back promise.

Jorge put the phone down and smiled at me…

Me: Fucking hell Jorge this is a boat and half ay it?

Jorge: Yeah, I wanted something I could sail across the Med while I’m chilling but ya know, this job. You never rest really. Always on the fucking phone setting up deals with European clubs, chatting to Ron… er Ronaldo. Cost a fair few quid as well. Bought it off a Russian Oligarch at auction. Steal at 200 Million to be fair, 60 nautical miles, 12 months MOT and a full service history. You can’t complain at that. I don’t mind boats always fancied a narrowboat but fucking hell imagine trying to squeeze twenty beautiful killer assassins on it. Fucking nightmare ahk. So yeah a few good deals paid for it. I’m the most powerful football agent in the world I ay going on holiday to Barmouth am I?

Me: Taking the piss though ay it Jorge? I mean you know all these clubs in the EFL and the Premier league are biting their palms and getting sweaty about your involvement with Wolves…

Jorge: Mate I couldn’t care less. I grew up in the Lunt selling scrap copper we nicked off the railway. I’m a poor boy done good and of course they don’t like it. People like me are never invited into the clubs where the rich men sit. Fair enough I walk around in these six thousand dollar suits but fucking hell mate, I’m happy with a pair of grey joggers and a Lonsdale wifebeater…

Me: Crazy ay it Jorge, fair play ahk. I mean it’s lovely don’t get me wrong. It’s like a canal narrow boat but upgraded, I know where your coming from but mate. The fume over you and Wolves eh?

Jorge: Ah I don’t give a shit really. I mean everything was above board and everything dotted and signed. Influence? Trust me, I’m chilling out on me yacht in the med drinking cold beers in the sun, I’ve got me girls, me pet Anteaters, me air rifle to pop seagulls. Sometimes I go to a local Italian chip shop I mean it ay Majors chippy but it’s ok. Why would I want to get involved in clubs day to day business? I’ve done my graft over the years. I can’t be arsed. I just point people in the right directions. Why wouldn’t I look after Wolves? They are my club, I remember the Bully years, the Southbank, everybody standing, knees up Mother Brown. Six pints in The George then amble down to watch the lads. Fucking great. Now I’ve got lads under me..

Me: Oh ar hahahahahahaha

Jorge: Cheeky bastard hahahahaha anyway yeah, lads who want to play sexy football, something nice to look at. I know Jeff Fosun from when he had a family Chinese restaurant down the Willenhall road. Another lad done well. Jeff used to razz around Bilston on a Mountain bike I nicked him delivering take aways to the pissheads. Did well. Now he’s a multi billionaire football club owner. I represent loads of sexy footballers of course he would come to me, I’m his mucka. Like I say we go a long way back from when we used to play football for the Merry Boys pub on a Sunday..

Me: Mad ay it how all these personalities come from Bilston and Wolvo ay it?

Jorge: At I suppose it is, never thought about it really. Take Nuno for instance, he was coaching Tipton Inebriates Utd in the Darlo league. I knew straight away he was special. I used to own a nightclub in Wolvo called Jinglies. We used to meet up every Thursday night (Shots for a quid) and have a giggle. When Jeff Fosun bought Wolves the first thing Jeff did was ring me up and say ‘fucking hell Jorge I ay got a clue sort me out ahk’ and of course I did. I don’t mind helping muckas out. Jeff had just brought in this lunatic from Coseley called Zenga. I day know him. But he didn’t half fuck stuff up. Didn’t have much of a clue bless him. As soon as I put the phone down on Jeff I thought about Nuno so it was putting two and two together like..

At this moment Jorges Israeli Woman Commando bodyguards brought in a huge dish of chips, some black pudding sandwiches, cheese and pineapple on sticks and a slice of quiche together with a steaming Sports Direct mug full of proper Yorkshire Tea.
Jorge: Get in dahn ya neck son then we’ll continue chatting…
End of Part one