So you splash out on record-sized yachts, palaces, whole cellars ofChateau Latour 1961, rare Picassos and all the other capitalisttrinkets that Russian oligarchs love to own.
Then you swoop on a hip British football club called Chelsea,primarily to make yourself untouchable from Vladimir Putin and his oldKGB mates and quickly find yourself a brilliant young Portuguesemanager called Jose Mourinho.
He's a vain, cocky, lippy, self-annointed 'Special One', whose onlysaving grace is that he's a winner. A top drawer, incontrovertiblewinner. With your roubles, and his genius, the trophies fly in fasterthan your raucous helicopters past my former Chelsea riverside flat.
Making a point: Jose Mourinho had the last laugh on Roman Abramovich
After a League Cup victory, Mourinho's men win back-to-back PremierLeague titles, breaking Manchester United and Arsenal's decade-longstranglehold on the title.
He also has a stranglehold on his players. A staunch Catholic, loyaland disciplined in his own life, Mourinho encourages his team to behavethe same. And, by and large, they do.
This should have guaranteed the manager a job for years to come. Butinstead, you, Roman, decide you know better than he does about how topick the team.
So you buy the ageing, slowing Andrei Shevchenko for £30 million (orpetty cash, as I believe you call it), and insist a furious Mourinhoplays him.
Further, you encourage your fatuously titled, and utterly pointless,sporting director, Frank Arnesen, to meddle in team affairs, too. SoMourinho feels hurt, irritated and powerless. Three things guaranteedto make a mad, egotistical champion go AWOL.
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The final straw comes after you appoint another old crony, AvramGrant, as director of football. Mourinho leaves and, since then, it'sall been downhill for Chelsea. A procession of lesser managers havemerely served to prove how good he was by comparison.
And certain players, bloated with your absurdly inflated wages,begin to behave abominably, treating women like pieces of meat andboozing and betting their way on to the tabloid front pages.
On Tuesday night, Jose Mourinho returned to haunt you, and did it infabulous style. His Inter Milan team were ferociously competitive,highly-organised, dazzling on the break, lethal in the finish andplayed with a tempo and energy that fizzled all over the pitch.
More strikingly, they showed a raw hunger for victory and asupremely cohesive team spirit that I haven't seen in your lot since heleft.
Permeable: Inter Milan humbled Chelsea over both legs
After the game, we're told that you, Roman, held a two-hour meetingwith the players in which you hurled abuse at them, demanding answersas to why they had failed, yet again, to win the Champions League thatyou so crave.
'SEEMPLES!' as your Muscovite pal, Alexander the Meerkat, would say. It's your fault. You let your ego infect your brain and allowed the greatest manager Chelsea have ever had, to slip away. A man whose haughty arrogance, love of the high life, fashion style, outrageous talent and handsome looks perfectly personified the Chelsea image from the Peter Osgood and Alan Hudson era. Only with a harder edge.
I hated Mourinho when he was at Chelsea because he was a cocky, obnoxious, vile-mouthed, thoroughly annoying little man. But most of all because he won just about everything there was to win.
I can love him now because he's left the country. And because, without him, Arsenal stand a better chance of winning trophies.
Thanks Roman, you pea-brained billionaire chump.
Little master: Messi
I wish I could pretend that I'm pleased Arsenal have drawn Barcelona in the Champions League quarter-finals.
I wish I could say that one tiny particle of my being believes we can beat them over two legs. I wish I could imagine Cesc Fabregas hugging Thierry Henry in the Nou Camp on April 6, and murmuring: 'There, there, better luck next time, old friend.'
But the problem is that I've been waching Barca play all season and they are the comfortably the best, most thrilling and technically fantastic team in the world.
And in Lionel Messi (right), they have the most dangerous, intoxicating, deliciously gifted thing on two legs since Brigitte Bardot. So I'm afraid. Very, very, very afraid.
Enough to make Tiger's rivals chokeI had to laugh when I heard Tiger Woods is making his comeback at the Masters. Only an egotist of
quite staggering proportions could pull a stunt like this.
Like David Beckham, Woods is only interested in one thing himself. In his hilarious X-rated texts to his Vegas porn star stripper, which bore a striking resemblance to the ones Beckham sent my cousin, Rebecca Loos, a few years ago,
Tiger talks of wishing to 'choke' his mistress. I suspect this is exactly what his professional colleagues feel like doing to him now he's decided to turn the greatest, most important, event in world golf into a one-man media circus.
Beckham must be kept away, FabioTalking of Beckham, I've been bombarded with emails demanding to know if I'm sorry for hammering him last week, just before he tore his tendon.
To which my response is: no, why the hell should I be?
I'm sorry he's hurt himself. It would be inhuman not to. And I'm not, despite popular myth, inhuman. But I stand by what I said about his shameless PR-grabbing antics at Old Trafford last week. And if I'm perfectly honest, I'm glad Beckham's not going to the World Cup.
I've been saying for a long time now that he's simply not good enough any more and that having him there in South Africa would be more of a massive distraction than anything else.
Worryingly, Fabio Capello now says he wants to take Beckham anyway and sit him in the dug-out to 'inspire' the team. What a ridiculous idea.
I can see why Beckham likes it because he'd still be centre of attention on the world's biggestfootballing stage. But Capello must resist this bizarre outbreak of sentimentality at all costs.
The last thing England players need is some crocked old warhorse ex-captain sitting on the sidelines, making it all about him.
And as we saw on his return to United, that's exactly what Beckham would do.
My sons all think I look like Roy Hodgson, which is not, I must confess, the greatest aesthetic compliment I have ever been paid. But in terms of character, then I'd take the comparison in a millisecond.
Watching his Fulham side destroy Juventus the other night was quite extraordinary. And the perfect reward for Hodgson's consistent brilliance.
The man just quietly gets on with things in a superbly effective way. We never see him sloping into brothels, taunting rival managers, abusing referees or letting himself or his club down.
Flipping marvellous: Fulham's win against Juventus was simply brilliant
Nor do we see his players disgracing themselves in the way that their neighbours do at Chelsea.
Roy Hodgson knows his football, respects the game, buys well and has neither ego nor fear.
Whatever my friend, Mohamed Al Fayed, is paying him, he should double it.
Have your sayI am glad to see that you have finally 'engaged brain' before writing. I have always found it difficult to understand why you thought so little of Arsene Wenger.
He sees players day in and day out in training. He sees what they are capable of producing and what he can do to improve them. If he did not believe in individual players, he simply would not keep them at the club.
Yet you believe that you know better or knew better than him. I do not say he cannot make mistakes, but surely he has proved his abilities sufficiently for all of us to support him?
DANNY FISZMAN (Arsenal director)
Piers says: 'I agree, Danny. Arsene won us so many trophies that I became a spoiled brat and expected them every year. I can only apologise, yet again.'
How dare you call Peter Storrie a 'useless little man'. This is an unforgivable insult to all useless little men out there. He's far worse than that. Get a grip man and call him what he really is.
Piers says: 'You're right, Stuart. He's an imbecilic, cretinous, quarter-witted, moronic goon.'
YOU called Beckham a 'treacherous, moneygrabbing, fame-hungry, egotistical little weasel who likes nothing better than making everything about him'. Looked in the mirror lately?
Piers says: 'I'm not treacherous.'
Email Piers: email@example.com