Two crimes committed by players based in Manchester this week. David de Gea allegedly ate a donut while wandering round a supermarket. I have given this heinous episode some thought and come to the conclusion that Tesco are quite clearly in the wrong for giving Dave a cussing. The gloved magician should have been presented with a box of donuts as he entered the shop, and then carried on the shoulders of checkout staff around the aisles, being presented with items to give his blessing to. I imagine that after hearing of this shortcoming Mr Tesco himself will drive his hovercraft to Manchester and give Dave his very own self scanning till by way of apology.
On the other side of Manchester (Stockport) old sandpaper neck committed the ultimate sin possible by a professional footballer. With his team of vultures losing 2-0 he was asked to enter the fray and try to get them back into it. Mancini realised that the sound of thundering hooves bearing down on the Munich defenders might have the desired effect. Even if it didn’t it would certainly clear a channel of the pitch as ground staff had to come on and clear his droppings away. Tevez refused to go on, thus betraying every football fan the world over. Apart from the Citeh fans, they stand with their backs to the game in a stance they call the “Poznan” and everyone calls the “Dickhead”. Anybody that watches football would give anything to have been a professional footballer, quite apart from the eye melting wages, female adulation and free lambrini at every nightclub in town, it would be incredible just to do something that you adore for a living. As there is no such job as filling swimming pools full of cider and testing cheese while training seahorses in synchronised swimming, then playing football would be that way of living the dream.
We are led to believe that Carlos Tevez receives somewhere in the region of £230,000 in basic wages, goal and appearance bonuses, obviously no image rights, 15 live llamas and a ton of parsnips per week. Yet despite this the marvellously ignorant bottom botherer couldn’t even be arsed to walk onto the pitch and play football. I could understand it if he was a deep sea diver, being paid in self-raising flour and he was being asked to dive for cuttlefish in the narrow sea channel between Geyser Rock and Dyer Island, otherwise known as Shark Alley. I could empathise with his refusal if he was a fluffer on set of a top adult movie and had been coated in hippo fat and told to touch his toes. I could feel his pain if he was asked to use his tail to stir an industrial vat of sulphuric acid while they inserted a turning handle up his tea towel holder. But he wasn’t. He was asked by his manager, the manager of the club that pay him every week, to go out on to the pitch and play football with his bounty hunting chums. He didn’t and will now face the full wrath of Brian Marwood. Terrible punishments have been demanded by the Citeh fans; they want him to train with the academy players and be banned from the first team for a minimum of 14 minutes. We all know that he couldn’t train with the elite academy or tantalising and potential-filled athletes — I think this is the youth team’s full title — as the poor mites would never sleep again. So it is likely that following a full internal investigation (by that I mean internal in the club sense, not up his bottom) they will fine him 10 llamas a week and make him cover his neck up in public.
In other news, Fernando Torres and Andy Carroll have been getting a lot of attention from the media for their collective goal shyness. It had seemed that Torres was getting back to her best after scoring against United, but she soon put the media straight by missing an open goal later in the game. Much has been made of the transfer fees paid by Roman and Dogleash but I have figured out what is afoot here. After Liverpool played Newcastle in 2010 the players assembled in the bar for a warm glass of wren’s blood (traditional tipple of the North East) and Torres set eyes upon the giant frame of Andy Carroll. Their gaze locked upon each other and just for a moment, they might have been alone together on Ayres Rock, stripped to the waist and coated with feathers. After their mental tryst they could not stop thinking of each other and after half a dozen secret meetings at Harrogate services they formulated a cunning, yet monstrous plan.
Nandy-bo’s, as Carroll called him, was to demand a transfer from Liverpool, his destination to be London. He knew that Roman would pay top money for him, and then with this money he had to persuade Dogleash to buy Andy Pandy Mandy Bendy, as Torres called him, from Newcastle. Of course the evil peddler of shell suits, Mike Ashley, would demand a huge fee from Dogleash because he would be aware that King Kunty would have trousered a fortune from the Nandy-bo’s deal. After a furious meeting with Dogleash and his standard lamp, Torres was allowed to speak to Roman. Luckily Abramovich can only speak three words of English (yes, no and vagina) and Torres quickly negotiated a huge signing on fee and astronomical wages. Torres had already convinced Dogleash and his standard lamp that Carroll was the man to replace him and within a matter of hours both deals were done and dusted, the lovers were one step closer to their master plan. Now all they had to do was fail spectacularly at their respective clubs. They set about this task with aplomb, Carroll demonstrating his admirable drinking skills rather than his aerial ability and Torres enthralling his team mates with his knitting patterns.
Jump forward to today and their plans are nearing completion, as both sets of fans continue to grow frustrated by their lack of goals the pressure is mounting on their clubs to do something. On January 2nd at 10:55am there will be an offer faxed to both clubs for a loan deal, allowing the players to relieve the pressure and get their goal scoring confidence back with regular games. They will both move to this club and will be able to melt into the background of their surroundings, a place where this kind of relationship barely even raises a flicker of interest. A place they can walk hand in hand, their back pockets stuffed with money and anal beads and no-one will bat an eyelid. Nandy-bo’s and Andy Pandy Mandy bendy – welcome to Brighton.