The longer this went on the clearer it became that I was not here to discuss some minor staff role. The whole thing had been veiled in secrecy and somehow I had been the last to realise what was going on.

Recalling it all in the departure lounge at the airport it was the first time that I'd been able to make sense of any of it.

It would seem that Mauuel Pellegrini had been paid off (and from what I can gather took the club for all he could) due to a "conflict of working methods" with the General Manager Marco Almeira. This guy made a brief appearence, introducing himself before having a quiet word with Mark. They then both left. I was not exactly pleased with Mark leaving me to the sharks like that but the more I learned, the more I realised he was responsible for most of this mess.

It was him who had reccommended me. Yes, I was to become team manager of Villareal but pretty much on paper only. This club is full of secrets and Mr Almeira is the one pulling the strings...above him of course is Mr Riog.

I was to act as if I was in charge, sit in the dug-out, shout instructions, but Almeira was to have the last word on selection, transfers, all financial dealings...he would carefully script my press confrences. I was suitable apparently because I was unknown. I was to keep my head down and play along.

Of course I asked why Almeria didn't just do the job himself but was told that at the moment "it was better for the club if he was kept out of the public eye".

The guy sat to Riog's left, Ruben Cousillas was to be my assistant. From what Mark told me in the car afterwards he was loyal to Pellegrini and understandably angry with recent developments. He was to help me get to know the squad and make key decisions when Almeria was away on business.

His loyalty to Pellegrini prevented the hierarchy trusting him with the role given to me. He knew too much.

Arriving feeling a little shaky in Mark's car, I left feeling a lot worse as the local press, tipped off I'm sure, followed us out the car park.

I got back on the plane to Stanstead. I was manager of Villareal but didn't feel like I was allowed to tell anyone. I somehow thought that if I could get back to England I could just carry on as if none of this had actually happened.

I turned my phone on as soon as the plane docked back in London. A voicemail was waiting for me from my wife. It wasn't that clear what she was saying as there seemed to be some background noise. It was late Friday night so maybe some of the pubs nearby were spilling out onto the streets near our house. I then caught a few words of what she was shouting:

"There are men with cameras here...are you in some kind of trouble? What's happened?"

I called her and she answered before the first ring, she sounded quiet and a little shaken.

"Jon, what's happening, why are there cameramen and TV people on our front lawn?"

"Listen Luce, it's ok, we're not in trouble"

In the background I could hear our landline ringing and the doorbell going off every few seconds.

"well, why are they here then? Sky have got a van out there for goodness sake and I tried to call Mark but he's turned his phone off"

I took a deep breath and did my best to explain. Interrupted several times I think I eventually got most of the details across before she hung up on me.

I got my car and headed back to the South Coast. My mobile rang relentlessly on the seat beside me, not from my wife but from all kinds of people...old colleagues from my days at AFC Bournemouth, then my mother...old friends who hadn't called me for a year or more.

2 hours later I steered the car into the cul-de-sac where Lucy and I had made our home. It was obvious that nothing would ever be the same again. As I slowed on approach to our house a pack of journalists ran towards my car. I was dazzled by flash bulbs and heard a faint thud which I can only presume was an over keen photographer.

I opened my car door to the cacophony of thier questions. I pushed my way to my front door, trying to block out the whole nightmare.

"is it true? Are you the new Villareal manager?" shouted one....

"Why would they pick you mate?" added another.

As I turned the key the last question I remeber was "what does Mrs Mills think about this then?"

If they quietened down just a little for the next hour they would hear exactly what she thought.

The next couple of dayswent by in a blur. saturday was spent trying to convince my wife that a move to Spain might be just what we need at this point in our lives. She spent much of it telling me how naive I was and shouting at her brother down the phone for getting me caught up in the whole thing.

Some journalists had moved on, content with thier photo of me getting out the car, they simply made up the story. By now the club's website had confirmed it all anyway and so there wasn't much I could really say to them....apart from the actual reason that is.

The photographers had been replaced by a small gathering of Villareal fans who seemed anything but pleased to have an unknown Englishman in charge of thier beloved club.

My wife, a teacher, was to see out the last week of the summer term before flying out to join me for a short time but making it more than clear that this was only a temporary thing and she was not about to give up on her life in England. As it happened I managed to stall the whole thing a week anyway, allowing us to go over together.

I'd like to say the press reaction was understated, after all Villareal were still a small town club that had got a little bigger recently. But they went for it...they knew something was up but couldn't work out what. No La Liga club takes on the ex-boss of AFC Bournemouth, especially after taking them down a division. It seems the club had become a laughing stock with plenty of skeletons in its cupboard.

One by one the media had thier say...

"Los Submarinos Amarillos se hunden bajo"
(yellow submarines sink low)

"Ha ido el mundo loco?"
(has the world gone crazy?)

"LOCURA!"
(Madness!)

"Quien es el?"
(who is he?)

"Casa de Mentiras"
(house of lies)

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As the week went by I did my best to bring my wife round to the idea of moving to Spain. What exactly would we be leaving behind? I was stuck selling hot-tubs and she was getting sworn at by kids she was trying to teach. But she was right, neither of us could speak very good Spanish and what if the whole thing fell apart after a few months, all that hassle for nothing.

In the end we agreed that we would give it a 6 month try. She would take an extended break from work and we would let the house out to her younger sister. We'd been told that the club would supply us with adequate accommodation and a car.

The last day before we left the rain struck again and I caught my wife checking out the weather channel and shopping online for new clothes...she was warming to the idea for sure.

The journalists had never really gone away....getting exclusive snaps of me going to the shops for the paper and staring back out at them from the lounge window. But the interest was definatley fading. The first of the English pre-season games had started and big money transfers were hogging the back pages.

I'd imagined that Villareal would be on the phone constantly, checking arrangements, conference calls with the squad, but no. I'd recieved 2 e-mails from Isabella regarding meeting athte airport and the address of our accommodation. I even had to go on the club's website to see the pre-season fixture lists...they'd played one already, the day after my 'interview'. It was obvious that they had meant what they had said, I was manager on paper, nothing more. I'd wanted a way back into football but not as a joke. How long before could I really go along with it before I wanted to get properly involved? But who was I kidding anyway...I'd managed players in League Two before but these were internationals, how will they possibly respect me when I'm in awe of most of them?

Sleepless on our final night in the house I got up at 2am and called an old mate of mine from my Bournemouth days. For a minute I thought I'd lost his number as it wasn't under R but I found it under H for Harry.

An hour passed by as we swapped stories of our footballing days. Harry was the gaffer at Dean Court when I was just starting out, before the injury and the pointless long recovery.

He reminded me that players were the same all over the world whatever the level you are at. He told me not to worry, let things run thier course and little by little make my presence known. I had nothing to lose...enjoy it.

It was getting light when we finished talking. I thanked him for his help and got a few hours sleep before the alarm went off.

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We didn't have that much to pack really. The furniture stayed apart from the odd bit. Lucy's sister promised to take good care of the place and drove us to the airport in the early morning mist. It felt like the start of an adventure and I'm sure my wife was secretly looking forward to this new chapter in our lives.

It felt a bit strange handing over our one-way tickets at the airport and there was a little bit of reflection and emotion as the ground got smaller beneath us. I recouped some of the lost sleep on the way whilst Lucy went through a Spanish phrase book, waking me up every now and then to ask me the way to the police station in dodgy Spanish.

We touched down and went to collect our luggage. My wife's case came round soon enough but I couldn't work out why mine had not at least been near hers. Sure enough, as the odd sorry looking unclaimed bag did it's lonely laps round the carosuel I gave up and reported it to customer services. They apologised and asked me for the address where I was staying. They promised that my clothes would be with me within 24 hours....48 at most.

I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders at my wife who was off in the distance seeking out perfume from the airport shop. It wouldn't have been so bad but I'd spilt Pepsi down my shirt and shorts during a bumpy spell on the plane...I looked a bit of a mess.

As we went through customs we saw Isabel waiting for us. I introduced my wife and our driver took our bag. I could see her looking at the stains on my shirt and shorts...I didn't know enough Spanish to try and explain.

"just one bag?" she asked

"yep...there was a mix u....yeah...just the one"

I knew my Spanish was going to have to get a whole lot better if I was to survive out here.

We stepped out to the car pick up area and were greeted with windswept rain in the face.

As we drove away a flash of lightning lit the rain filled sky

I was scared to even look at my wife's face...her summer dress already drenched.

"If I wanted rain I could have stayed in England" she said through gritted teeth.

Isabel smiled politely. "welcome to Spain" she said, trying to help.

I just stared at the embarrassing stain on my shorts.

Things could only get better.

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As we drove on the wind blew the clouds West and the first signs of sunshine broke out. Our mood lifted as we passed through streets of nice looking houses, excitied about creating a new home for ourselves, even if it was just for a while.

But the nice houses became less frequent until the driver pulled up outside a building to our left.

"here we are" smiled Isabel..."this is where you will live, but remember, things may get better so please don't....how you say in English? Despair?"

Ok, so it's not what I had in mind but it had some charm. My wife just sat looking at it from the car, seemingly unable to speak.

The driver handed us our one bag and the keys. I opened the gate and it came away in my hand. We opened the front door and stepped over a small parcel in the porch.

My wife took a look around the place and to my surprise was quite complimentry about the place. She had lived in a place like this in France growing up and she began to see the possibilities of making it nicer.

Isabel walked in behind us and said that she would be back in an hour to take me to the ground for my introduction to the press. She looked me up and down again, taking in my creased and stained clothes she said "maybe Senor Mills would prefer to change clothes before that huh?" before making her exit.

"What am I gonna do Luce? I can't face the world's media with this dodgy stain between my legs...looks like I've had some kind of incident"

"give 'em here....I'll try and scrub them for you"

I handed them over and watched her make them a whole lot worse.

As they dried on the window sill we opened the parcel which was from Mark. There was a note inside saying that he hoped we liked the 2 cars he'd negotiated for us. We hadn't even given a thought to the car side of things but as soon as we read that we ran to the window and looked around. Nothing. We wandered a little further down the road and saw what he meant.

Again, not what I had imagined....

As I wandered back to the villa my wife reminded me that I didn't have my shorts on. At the same time an old lady walked passed and started to chase me back into the house with her stick shouting at me....great, now the neighbours think I'm some kind of perv....

I pulled my shorts back on and the stain looked worse than ever. The press are gonna love this I thought.

We opened the rest of the parcel to discover 2 books.

I was just about to dial his number and give him some stick when a car horn sounded outside.

It was Mark not Isabel, ready to take me to El Madrigal Stadium to be introduced to the world as the new Villareal manager.

I got into the passengers seat.

"you wet yourself mate?" he asked....

"just drive...I'll explain on the way".

There were no photgraphers waiting for me outside this time and I asked Mark if they had lost interest in the story.

"No mate, there's plenty of interest, just wait and see"

We walked through the corridors and saw Mr Roig waiting by a door.

"Ah, Mr Mills, the newspaper men are all ready for you and I see you are not yet changed?"

"err, there was a...."

Mark cut me off and expalined the situation in Spanish to him. I could see his frown as his gaze fixed itself on the dodgy stains.

"Hold this and stay seated for goodness sake" and he handed me a Villareal scarf. He then opened the door where a blur of flashbulbs and camera clicks startled me, sending me back on my heels and into Mr Roig who struggled to compose himself. I dropped the scarf in the dazed muddle of my entrance and heard the odd chuckle from photographers as my stained shorts stole the limelight.

We sat down behind a long desk with the Villarael emblem emblazened on the wall behind us. On the surrounding walls were photographs of glorious moments in the club's history. My throat went dry and I glugged slowly from the bottle of evian on the table.

Mr Roig hushed the crowd with the control of a powerful man and introduced me in Spanish.

He then went on to talk for a while, the journalists laughed in places but I felt helpless not understanding what he was saying. There was then a long pause which I soon realised was my moment.

"Thank you all for coming here today" I read from the sheet of paper handed to me as I went in "I am pleased to be part of this fine club. Errr....any questions?"

I'd already clocked the surprise on thier faces that I had spoken in English and not attempted Spanish but I still wasn't prepared for what followed.

"Senor Rocha, ESPN Espana, Cuales son tus esperanzas para el club?"

I froze and looked for Mark in the crowd but he was gone. A long painful silence followed before I turned and smiled to Mr Roig.

He leaned to me and whispered "what are your hopes for the club?"

"I hope to take this club to the top, to win trophies, for Villareal to be the best"

Again, silence, apart from the odd sound of scribbled notes.

"Louisa Sambrosa, Marca, Usted cree que puede ganar la liga?"

This time I at least recognised the words La Liga...Roig leaned towards me and translated - do you think you can win the league?

"yes, it is just a matter of time"

This prompted a few chuckles and I so desperatly wanted this nightmare to end. I drained the bottle of water.

"Carlos Mendez, El Mundo..." - the guy was smirking as he spoke and I took an instant dislike to him.

"Cree que va a hacer frente sin poder hablar espanol?"

The journalists all looked at him and smiled, awaiting my reply.

Roig didn't look pleased and rose to his feet..."no more questions now" he shouted in Spanish and ushered me out the room.

"what was that last question Sir?" I enquired

"The same one I have for you Mr Mills...do you think you will be able to cope not knowing how to speak a word of damn Spanish!"

He stormed off, leaving me with a member of staff who was to show me the rest of the stadium. I immediatly saw them scan my shabby stained outfit but I couldn't even be botherd to explain and just followed them down the hall.

The facilities were better than I'd expected. In fact my whole mood was lifted a little just to know that I was working at such a high level, even if I was a joke here. I was shown the dressing room and function area. I felt like I was on a tourist trip and should be taking photos, not thinking that from now on this was where I worked.

I was overwhelmed by it all. The member of staff who was showing me around then said something in Spanish and left the room in an apologetic way. I was a bit lost as my sense of direction was pretty poor.

I turned a few corners and went through a couple of doors until I came across the most important place of all...

I stepped out onto the pitch and took in the view...

Eventually a member of staff found me and took me through the various doors until I was back out in the car park. Isabel was there waiting and drove me back to the villa.

As I walked up the steps to the front door I saw another parcel. This one looked as if it had been hand-delivered since I had been out.

I walked into the front door and opened it.

The note read - 'some light reading'

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