Monday, 8 September 2008
Now I’m not one to cause trouble…but, there’s been something nagging at my mind for the past couple of days.
Imagine you’re in charge of a struggling Northern football club that has fallen on hard times. It wasn’t so long ago that you were competing at the top of the premier league and in the Champions League semi finals but now you find yourself in the third tier of English football. As a result of your spectacular collapse you had to sell off your brightest and best young players but the money was swallowed up by creditors.
Now what if you had employed one of your old mates from a previous club in the capacity of manager but he wasn’t that good and it was his assistant who’d done all the graft anyway. Unfortunately the assistant had buggered off back to London and the team had started struggling again leading the fans to get on the back of the goggle eyed, poisoned dwarf you had in the management position.
So, as they always do, the evil hobgoblin realising he’s been found out manages to secure another job with a bigger club where luckily his mate is the owner. This staggering piece of good fortune leaves him in sole charge of transfers and you suddenly remember that one of the young stars you had to flog off had a sell on clause and went to that very club.
Obviously you get on the phone to the aforementioned vertically challenged horrible little cunt and remind him he owes you a favour.
Next thing you know there’s some money winging its way into your bank account, the manager of the other club has resigned due to being undermined by the evil, cocksucking elf and you’ve got a meeting at a service station on the A19 and a brown paper bag full of notes in your back pocket.
Luckily you get to live happily ever after, mind you I don’t know about dwarf boy though as a whole city full of people is hard to guard against.
Ps – How much did James Milner go for again?