The Case of the Missing Maestro

The toe of Puel's left shoe beat the floor. His hands were clasped together - each policing the other. Marlowe watched and waited for him to uncoil.

'He was a real good boy, real talented. Came to work for me six months ago. Soon as he arrived, I knew something was up - say, you got a drink?' Marlowe had anticipated the question. Five seconds later, Puel was necking Bourbon like it was going out of fashion. But when would Bourbon go out of fashion? Same day as gambling, whoring and a guy tearing hell out of his buddy over a broad.

'This kid had it all. The hacks called him the new Zidane for Christ's sake. Aulas - that's the boss - laid out twenty-five million for him. Gave him the fattest contract I ever saw - I mean crazy money.'

'So what happened?'

'What happened? Nothing happened. The boss wanted fireworks and he got a fifty cent lighter. The kid's lost it, his confidence, everything - and Aulas blames me.' The kilowatts of nervous energy had travelled from Puel's feet to his hands, which clung desperately to his skull. Marlowe wondered when Puel's hair had begun to fall out. Six months previous, he figured.

'What exactly do you want me to do, Mr Puel?'

Puel bit down on his bottom lip and slowly shook his head. Marlowe counted as the second hand of his watch marched past five, ten, fifteen... He had met a thousand guys like Puel. Pawns in someone else's chess game: Puel could go forward or back or maybe diagonally if he got lucky - at the expense of another lousy pawn.

'I want you to find out what's eating the kid. I want Aulas off my back.' Now desperate didn't come close.

'I'll help you, Mr Puel. I'll need all the information you have on the kid. First, his name.'

'Yoann Gourcuff.'

Plebs 1 - 0 Sarkozy

It's official: the French are revolting.

As you're no doubt aware, France is in the grip of massive retaliatory strikes against Sarko's plan to raise the standard retirement age to a scandalous 62. But the brave, patriotic men of Ligue 1 choose to soldier on and, inspired by them, I have abandoned my satirical placard and crate of Molotov cocktails, and reached instead for my laptop. As Paris smoulders and the mob swells, I fear for the city's broadband networks. Such desperate times call for brevity so, without further ado, I offer you a thirty second round-up of this weekend's developments in the French top flight.

Rennes suffered their first defeat of the season; at home to Montpellier. Had Dimitri Payet - the league's highest scorer with eight goals in ten matches - converted a penalty during injury time, St. Etienne would have beaten Caen and thus replaced Rennes as leaders.

Despite recent signs of the big three stirring from their summer hangovers, only Marseille secured maximum points. Victory over Lille propels them from seventh to second, level with St. Etienne and Brest who are newly promoted yet haven't conceded since August. Brest's latest triumph: 0-2 versus Bordeaux. The Girondins can take some solace in another abject performance by Lyon, their supposed championship rivals. Claude Puel's side drew with whipping boys Arles-Avignon; a result that will surely accelerate his dismissal.

At the wrong end of the table, Lens and Monaco accompany Arles-Avignon in the relegation zone. Auxerre, evidently deflated by their experience in the Champions League, climbed to 15th thanks to an impressive win over PSG. Although the Parisians now find themselves in sixth place, I'm not alone in thinking that they're the best balanced of the front-runners: PSG's massive fanbase has been daring to contemplate a first championship title since 1994.

Elsewhere, teams nobody cares about lost to teams that almost nobody cares about.

Long live the Republic.