There is a reason why Real Madrid presented Klaas-Jan Huntelaar at the Santiago Bernabéu on Thursday, hurriedly crow-barring him in before the weekend.
And itâÂÂs nothing to do with Ruud van NistelrooyâÂÂs dodgy knee, RaúlâÂÂs creeping age, or the fact that this weekendâÂÂs yet another bank holiday for the country that boasts more of them than anywhere else in the world.
ItâÂÂs nothing to do MÃÂchelâÂÂs untimely resignation, storming out the Bernabéu slamming the door and flicking the Vs president Ramón CalderonâÂÂs way.
And itâÂÂs nothing to do with the injury crisis that threatens to engulf the club, as footballers drop like flies buzzing absent-mindedly into this particularly sad womanâÂÂs living room.
(And, no, La Liga Loca couldnâÂÂt believe it either: you mean you actually took the time to write a review of a tin of Raid? Jesus. H. Christ.)
ItâÂÂs nothing to do with the huge clash between Real Madrid and Sevilla coming up on Sunday. Or the huge clash between Real Madrid and Barcelona, or the one between Real Madrid and Valencia or even the one between Real Madrid and Villarreal.
But it is everything to do with another colossal clash on the horizon: the one between Calderón and the membersâ assembly this weekend.
Poor old Calderón is supposed to be running a football club, instead heâÂÂs running scared. Of another defeat â on the pitch and, especially, off it.
This weekend, the members are supposed to approve the clubâÂÂs accounts. Much more likely â and this is what petrifies the poor presidente â is that they will put on the greatest show of disapproval since precious Princess Potato came home and told her Daddy, King Edward, that she was going to marry John Motson.
âÂÂAbsolutely not! I forbid it! No daughter of mine is marrying John Motson! Why, heâÂÂs just a commentator!âÂÂ
[Ba-dum tish!]
Much more likely is that they will reject the accounts. And shout nasty things, like âÂÂResign! Resign!â They might even push for a motion of censorship.
Which is why Calderón needed a signing â something, anything, to win them over. Some good news amidst all the doom and gloom. And quick.
Trouble is, it won't work. Never mind a pat on the back for buying the man who has scored a seriously impressive 79 goals in 97 games in Holland, CalderónâÂÂs much more likely to get a kicking.
Perhaps not so much because his reign has been awful â although itâÂÂs quickly going that way. Or even because heâÂÂs done lots of stupid things and puts his foot in his mouth so often itâÂÂs a wonder he hasnâÂÂt got athleteâÂÂs tongue. More, as La Liga Loca has pointed out before, because of the man lurking in the shadows.
The man that Calderón is genuinely scared of.
Scared? No, terrified.
Petrified.
Horrified.
Absolutely completely and utterly bloody bricking it.
Just look at his reaction at the slightest mention of Florentino PérezâÂÂs name. Every time the former president rears his head, Calderón loses his. ItâÂÂs not just anger or hatred flowing through him, itâÂÂs fear. Fear that Pérez will pinch his presidency.
Every time Pérez appears, so does Captain Paranoia, leaping onto CalderónâÂÂs shoulder and whispering in his ear: âÂÂHeâÂÂs coming for you. Your days as president are over. Over, I says, over! Mwah-ha-ha!âÂÂ
Just take the hot funk he fell into when Pérez appeared on the front of the Spanish press posing for a photo with Zidane and Ronaldo. A photo showing a former president and two former players. No big deal, you might think. But youâÂÂre not Calderón.
âÂÂItâÂÂs pathetic,â he cried. âÂÂI would have liked to have seen him rear his head when things were going well, not just doing it now to try to take advantage of our tough times.âÂÂ
âÂÂIn fact,â he added, âÂÂnever mind Ronaldo and Zidane, what about the other players? Everyone sees the photos of him presenting Zidane or Ronaldo, but I would like to see the photos of him handing Madrid shirts to Jonathan Woodgate or Antonio Cassano!âÂÂ
By doing his nut, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, Calderón only revealed his own weakness. No one could understand why he didnâÂÂt just keep his gob shut. No one could understand why no one in his entourage didnâÂÂt tell him to just keep his big gob shut.
But you had to admit it was quite a good come back: itâÂÂs all well and good banging on about Zizou but what about the rubbish Pérez bought too, eh? What about them?
What about Cassano? Fat, lazy Cassano, the man who, by his own admission, loves a night of snacks and shagging but football? Forget it. The man who did nothing at Madrid, except put so many notches on his bed post the bloody thing collapsed. The man who took plenty of cash back to Italy but barely a footballing memory worthy of the name. What about him, eh?
It was a good come back, alright. Only there was something not quite right about it. And it wasnâÂÂt the fact that he accused Cassano â quite possibly slanderously â of âÂÂfomenting prostitution in MadridâÂÂ. It was something else, something nagging away at the back of La Liga LocaâÂÂs tiny little mind. Something it couldnâÂÂt quiet put its finger on.
âÂÂI would like to see the photos of him handing Madrid shirts to Jonathan Woodgate or Antonio Cassano!âÂÂ
Even though La Liga Loca feels a little sorry for Calderón, even though La Liga Loca is convinced that just because heâÂÂs paranoid doesnâÂÂt mean that theyâÂÂre not out to get him, and even though La Liga Loca doesnâÂÂt much trust Pérez either, there was something not right about his little attack, about the choice repartee. Something that just didnâÂÂt ring true.
But try as it might â and, boy, did it try - La Liga Loca just couldnâÂÂt locate that nagging doubt.
Until, that is, today. Until, in amongst its papers, underneath the plates and the three-week old mugs of tea growing mould, La Liga Loca found something. A photo it knew was there somewhere. A photo in Don Balón magazine. A photo that confirmed what La Liga Loca always suspected, what it thought it remembered but, what with the onset of senility, it couldnâÂÂt be sure about.
A photo that shows that no matter how hard you try, you wonâÂÂt ever be able to hang Florentino for handing a Real Madrid shirt to Cassano, standing proudly alongside beaming his head off as the Italian waves an XXL No.19 at the worldâÂÂs media. Because Florentino wasnâÂÂt there that day, was he Ramón? Someone else, though, was.
Can you remember who, Ramón? Go on, think back. January 4th 2006. The Santiago Bernabéu. Cassano. Italian bloke. Bad skin. Bit of a belly
Still no good? Here, maybe this photo will jog your memory:
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