Dear Mr. Bosnich,
May I call you Bozza? I am writing, Bozza, to wish you a very merry Christmas and of course the happiest of happy New Year’s.
I have been overseas for the past year, so have not been able to see your beaming face nor feel the goofiness overload of your contagious laugh on Fox Sports. Not to mention your unique and excellent insight into the world’s greatest sport. I trust that you are well however, and I very much look forward to watching you again upon my return.
Once again, a very merry Christmas to your good self.
For me, however, it won’t be such a merry Christmas. In fact it will be a most distressing, anxious and predictably frustrating Christmas filled with internal damnation, self loathing and outwardly directed blame. This is where you come in.
That’s right, as shocking as it may seem Bozza, it is you who I blame for all my annual Christmas miseries.
Now, don’t get me wrong Bozza, I know that you have a good heart. It shines through every time my phone rings and that ridiculous yet organic laugh permeates the atmosphere. Yes, I downloaded the ringtone. Cost me $2.99. I also know that, as you are a decent bloke, you would very much like to right the wrongs and hastily rectify this desperate situation I find myself in. The solution is simple and doesn’t require much on your part…
…just give me my last 20 years back.
Easy peasy.
Now, in my mind I don’t really feel that there is a need to provide an explanation or reason for this meagre request but, as I assume you have lawyers that upset quite easily, I’ll provide you with one anyway.
The year was 1994. A handsome young man was seated on the couch in his Brunswick home. On the surface, it appeared that this young man had it all; youth, looks and a fortnightly dole cheque. However, Bozza, there was an emptiness in this young man’s heart, a yearning if you will, despite his handsomeness.
A void of black hole proportions had suffocated this young man’s latter half of 1994. That is until one Monday night, on the couch, in December of that year. 7:30 and time for the EPL highlights show. Les Murray’s ethnically sexy voice caramelized the lounge room, Matt Le Tissier threatened to take over SBS with a highlights show of his own and Vinnie Jones was pure fucking awesomeness. But this wasn’t enough for the young man. These heroes wouldn’t suffice.
Have you ever witnessed a Christmas miracle, Bozza? I have.
Suddenly a blinding snow white light leapt from the TV, swept the Brunswick lounge room, circled violently around the handsome young man and vacuumed back from whence it came. Startled and frightened, the young man hid behind the couch and, brushing away his long eyelashes, peeked around the cushions with his right eye. Once the commotion cleared, the young man was scared no more. The heavy fog lifted, the black void destroyed by ‘The Answer’.
Do you see where this is going, Bozza? ‘The Answer’ was you! Another handsome man to look up to, to admire. The hair, the flamboyance, attitude and youthful athleticism. There before this handsome young man was his new hero, the rock star of the EPL, resplendent in that dodgy goalkeeper’s jersey, all day-glo and nauseating in its hideous 1990ness. Pointing, directing, jumping, yelling, strutting. Wet-look hair and “I’m gonna shag your Mrs” eyes.
Most importantly of all, Bozza, the young man had a new team to follow. Aston Villa. And a new EPL fan was born.
The handsome young man I speak of Bozza, is of course me. And, thanks to you, for the past 20 years I have been a passionate and pissed off Villa fan. “Hi-Ho Silver Lining” my arse.
Now, about my 20 years.
I guess I would be willing to negotiate if you think 20 years is too harsh. The first 10 years or so wasn’t really that bad I guess. We had a great team, some promising seasons and an excellent core squad. Plus, I loved the antics. You and Dwight Yorke cracked me up every single week with your shenanigans and that day in 1996 when all you wanted to do was wave at the Tottenham supporters and they booed and jeered you for it, well that was just poor form on their part. Tottenham fans suck anyway Bozza. Trust me. My best mate is a Spurs fan and he completely sucks. Anyway, my point is, for all the good times, I’m willing to drop it to ten years.
My last ten or so Christmas’ have been bloody miserable Boz. The uncertain queasiness that comes with lingering around the relegation zone whilst trying to force down a dry turkey drumstick is a feeling I will never forget. I haven’t been able to look a turkey in the eye since 2005 because of you. Oh and I won’t even mention early January’s ponderings over who we might pick up during the transfer window. The nervous excitement of “maybe this year” butterflies festering in the stomach, only to find out from your sucky Tottenham best mate that a 40-year-old Robert Pires or Emile Fucking Heskey is coming to Villa Park to “save the day”. No, I won’t mention that at all.
And this year, in my 40th year of life, no longer handsome, no longer youthful and with a new void. A silverware void. I haven’t been able to pick up a fancy fork without crying since 1994 because of you. This year, Christmas just around the corner and where is Villa? 13th! Sucked deep into the mire of yet another relegation battle having just lost to our bitter Midland rivals West Bromwich Albion 1-0. No longer are we the Midlands powerhouse. And who’s going to come and save us in January? Niall Quinn? Nigel Winterburn? Don’t be bloody surprised. It makes me sick, Bozza. Physically ill.
And why do I care, Mark? Why is my stomach in knots and full of ulcers? Because of you.
Now, I understand fully that, whilst you have been known to weave magic in the past, you cannot physically give me the last 20 years back, that would just be silly and impossible (would it?) Anyway, if it does turn out to be impossible, here’s my suggestion: You come and work for me. You be my personal valet. In your own time of course, I understand that you’re busy. For example, after a night of high energy special A-League and EPL comments, when you can’t sleep because you’re still buzzing, you come to my house and vacuum. When you have a half-day off from your busy ringtone recording duties, you come and see me and give me a shoulder rub. Are you a green thumb, Bozza? Then mow my lawns and cater to my orchids. Get the jist? I think this is a fair and reasonable outcome for both of us. Don’t you?
Remember, Bozza, it’s all your bloody fault.
Merry Christmas,
Love from Ben.
