INT. LIVERPOOL TEAM-BUS, POST-MATCH
Lucas Leiva and Phil Coutinho are chatting intensely
LUCAS: I know Phil, but that's part of the job. I feel no bitterness.
PHIL: It's not right, Papa. You're clearly a better candidate for vice-captain. I mean, I like Danny and all, but...
LUCAS: We need to let it go, son. Danny's a good man. Have you seen his knuckles? Besides, I...
The pair are disrupted by a monstrous bouffant, beneath which lurks Raheem Sterling
STERLING: Safe, bloods...you seen my curling tongs? I've lost them, innit?
LUCAS: Well, didn't Brendan have them the last time? He's so vain lately.
STERLING: Nice one, bruv! [He shouts towards Rodgers at the top of the bus] Gaffer! Gaffer! Swop you my tongs for your weight loss belt! I like it...it tickles.
Sterling bounds away and the two resume their intimate chat
LUCAS: I'll tell you what is freaking me out. Brendan's teeth are well-creepy.
PHIL: I know! What in the actual fuck is going on there? Every time he smiles at me now, I get a chill.
LUCAS: Wait until he grabs your face for a 'wee chat' -- it scared the shit out of me.
PHIL: Just don't look him in the eye. Joe Allen did that last year and the poor guy ended up wearing matching outfits. Then his form went to shit. And that beard? That was a cry for help, nothing more. If you ask me, Brendan has some kind of voodoo shit going on. It's well freaky. I think Sahin found out about it and that's why...
The pair are interrupted yet again. This time it's José Enrique. Both men's faces assume a mischievous expression. They are pleased to see Enrique but clearly plan to have a little fun at his expense.
ENRIQUE: Alright mates? Stevie's got a cob-on back there 'cause me and Borini were having a farting competition again. He's such a gloomy buzz-kill and now nobody wants to play FIFA. You boys up for a tournament? By the way, you like my new dreadlocks? Grew 'em last night.
LUCAS: [Clearly insincere] You look absolutely BOSS, José. You should keep that look. It REALLY suits you.
ENRIQUE: Really Papa Lucas? You're not just saying that?
LUCAS: Tell him Phil.
PHIL: It's true mate. You look AMAZING. You should totally keep that look. You know who really loves your new look? The Gaffer. He was just saying it there, wasn't he Lucas?
LUCAS: He was, yeah. Thinks you look dead smart. You should go and have a chat with him now about that thing.
ENRIQUE: Eh? What thing?
LUCAS: Jeez, José. Remember yesterday you were telling me and Phil that you could totally play striker and save the club a fortune?
ENRIQUE: Oh right, yeah! I could, too!
PHIL: Well go and tell him now. He's in a good mood after losing another four pounds on Weight Watchers.
ENRIQUE: Do you think?
LUCAS: Absolutely! And don't forget to look him straight in the eye. That's REALLY important.
ENRIQUE: Cool! Thanks guys, you two really are my best mates!
Enrique makes his way enthusiastically towards Rodgers and Colin Pascoe, who are examining the shorts section a menswear catalogue. Lucas and Phil collapse into hysterics.
EXT: TRAINING COMPLEX, MORNING.
The team are making their way out for a light session. They troop past Rodgers, Pascoe and Mike Marsh, who stand in a huddle, half-observing, half-joking amongst themselves. As they do so, José Enrique emerges alone, his head shaven, his mouth agape and a with vacant stare akin to a lobotomy patient. He shuffles pathetically towards the group, who become visibly more animated.
RODGERS: Hey José! Over here son! [He turns to the others conspiratorially] Watch this!
ENRIQUE: Hello Gaffer.
RODGERS: Alright son? Love the tidy barnet. Listen, I thought I might play you up-front in this practice game. What do you think?
ENRIQUE: [Visibly shaken] Oh no, Gaffer! I had a terrible dream last night that a beast with shiny fangs cut off my hair and told me never to cross the half-way line. It was spooky. I woke up in a park.
RODGERS: Alright fella, don't worry. You just sit in your own half and knock it long for Suarez, okay? Okay.
ENRIQUE: [Shuffling away] Okay. Okay. Okay. Knock it long for Suarez. Okay.
RODGERS: [Turning to the others] What a plum that boy is!
They all laugh uproariously until Luis Suarez, sporting a beard, emerges. The mood instantly changes.
RODGERS: Hey Louie! Louie!
Suarez jogs over but will not make eye-contact.
RODGERS: I'm gonna play you on the left of a front three today, okay? Okay?
SUAREZ: [Staring at his feet] Whatever. I'll play anywhere, me. [He jogs away]
RODGERS: [Without hesitation] Mike, get me Wenger on the blower. The wee bastard's worked it out. Let's cash-in.
PASCOE: What do you reckon to my new shorts, Brendan? Do you like them, or...?
RODGERS: Y'know, I really don't know why I keep you around, you cretin. [Exits mumbling]