Soccer School

	Stephen in sheepskin coat, standing on the edge of a football pitch,
	addresses the camera.


Stephen		You're a parent. You have children. You want those children to
		become Premier League footballers. Well, this is the place for
		you. The Dave Wilson School in Ipswich, in the heart of
		London's East End.

	A line of ten-year-old boys are doing physical jerks. A track-suited 
	Hugh gives instructions as Stephen's voice continues.

		The name of Dave Wilson will be familiar to anyone who knows
		him. And also to those who followed the fortunes of Reading
		Town reserves during the dark days of the seventies.

	Close-up on Hugh.

Hugh		They were very dark days, yes. Very dark. Hmm. I hadn't thought
		of them as dark, but now you mention it ...

Stephen		Dave played a total of two games for the side before a
		cartilege snapped in his head. Dave. What was it like, to be
		thrown out on the scrap-heap at such a young age? Did you feel
		bitter?

Hugh		Ooh no. Worse if anything.

Stephen		No, bitter.

Hugh		Oh. Yeah. Bitter. Bitter ... and dark ... days.

	Cut to Hugh leading some stretching exercises. Stephen in voice-over.

Stephen		Following the injury, Dave tried his hand at many things.
		Nightclub owner, astrologer, interior designer, Shadow Home
		Secretary, the jobs came and went, but nothing seemed to stick.
		Until Dave turned up one day to watch his nephew playing in the
		school side.

Hugh		I wanted to get involved. That's it, really. You know, football
		has been good to me, and I suppose I saw the chance to put
		something back into the game.

	Cut to boys listening as Hugh lectures them.

		Football is a very simple game. What is it?

Boys		A very simple game.

Hugh		What is the object of the game of football?

Boys		Run into the box and fall over.

Hugh		Run into the box and fall over. Right. Ricky, off you go.

	The boys form a line and one by one they run to the penalty area and 
	dive spectacularly to the ground, clutching their shins. Cut to 
	interview.

Hugh		I'm trying to teach fundamental footballing skills at the
		earliest possible age. I've started teaching my eight-month-old
		son to fall over, and I've got to say, the lad's a natural.
		Falls over like a diamond.

Stephen		You think he might follow in his father's footsteps?

Hugh		Yes. For a while. But then, with a bit of luck, he'll fall
		over.

	Hugh demonstrates technique.

		Got to get your head back. As you go. Keep the neck loose, as
		you approach the box, then ...

	Hugh throws himself down.

		Got it? Right. Limping. Two lengths of the pitch. Go.

	The boys set off in massively exaggerated limps. Hugh approaches 
	Stephen.

		See that lad there?

	Close-up on a boy, limping spectacularly.

Hugh		Kid's got a future. No doubt about it. We've had a couple of
		London clubs down to look at him already. Falls like a dream,
		and he can limp as well with either foot.

Stephen		Shouting at the referee?

Hugh		Let's have a look. Daniel?

	The boy turns.

		I'm the ref.

Boy		Oh, but I've already ...

Hugh		You want to make it to the top or don't you?

	Daniel shambles over and starts yelling at Hugh, nose to nose. Hugh 
	turns to Stephen.

		He's something, isn't he?

	Another boy approaches Stephen and Hugh carrying a football.

Boy		Mr Wilson?

Hugh		Martin.

Boy		Found this in the changing-room.

Hugh		Oh yeah?

Boy		What is it?

Hugh		Never you mind about that.

	Hugh takes the ball and shouts to all the boys.

Hugh		Right, listen! Martin found this in the changing-room. Now I'm
		going to say this once. I don't want any of you wasting your
		time with these things. Any of you see one of these, you tell
		me or Mr Collins immediately. You want to make it to the
		League, then you think about training. No one ever got to the
		top of the game mucking around with these things, alright?

	Hugh makes to punt the ball away, but misses.
	   Cut to Stephen standing in front of a sign reading "The Dave Wilson 
	Falling Over School".

Stephen		Hope for the future, then.

Hugh		I grew up in what would now be considered a rather stern
		family, I suppose. My father wouldn't have a television in the
		house, so we used to gather round every night and watch it on
		the lawn.