When Michael Laudrup first arrived at Getafe last year, the macho men of the Spanish media were very much with the man-crush, bewitched by his winning smile, perfect teeth and luxuriant, soft hair. Except the lie-detecting La Liga Loca, of course, who saw through his skulduggery, sorcery and easy-going, relaxed manner straight away. Oh yes. It turns out that Laudrup was an evildoer of the worst kind with a broken, shard-ridden lump of granite where his heart should have been. The dastardly Dane has just performed a triple whammy of sleights against the good people of Getafe.