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Hey there
loner!
Do you
find your friends regard your assaults, unremittant sexism, blinged-up,
no-brainer attitude a pain?
No problem, become a PREMIERSHIP FOOTBALL PLAYER! (huge
wages/free Cristal on demand/talent no longer important as Jo Public
regards inflated salary as indicative of quality)
Contact
Gordon Taylor
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The
Mad for it Mayfair Buglers
This account of footballer high-jinks
in Mayfair private clubs swam into our purview just days before
the gang rape allegations …
JT: Should be
a good night; all the top boys together again after the summer madness,
and that fucking Commie comin' in and taking over the Chelsea. Right
I don't want any slackers tonight! (looking at bouncer) Chieftain,
you got the private Legends lounge ready?
JM: Yeh, and the scrag.
JC: And the powda.
Over a diet of slick r&b, the soiree develops.
JT: …and anyone who can shag like Dyer deserves the respect
of the JT. Our boy Babayaro can certainly get busy too, eh Cello?
When's Dwight coming dahn?
CB: Not sure, he's had to take on more parent hours since they reckoned
Jordan was utterly incapable of bringing up kids.
JM: If he don't make it dahn tonight he's out of the Napa tour,
simple as.
The footballers and their blondes retire to the private Diabolus
Suites: coke is snorted, champagne swigged and filming has taken
place, and while some are watching the results Jody Morris has returned
to the private lounge reception, dressed only in ladies' thong,
submissive's mask and range of tattoos. He thinks no-one can work
him out but everybody recognises his scrawny demeanour and receding
shaved hairline.
JM: Bling Joint, bling joint - come in, top time guaranteed.
Desperate Sloane: Let me in then.
JM: Nah u carnt, top boys, sexy chics and members only! Hah-hah.
I'm going to beat a cabbie up later, hah-hah.
Lady leaves, texting News of the World. Meanwhile, John Terry,
Cristal bottle wedged inside his ring, is due to take over the entirely
voluntary doorman shift. He is practising his heading by nutting
the mirror in his red gimp mask as all have now left him in Diabolus
Suite no 7.
Ring-ring. RING-RING!
JT goes to answer the phone, It is the voice of Sir Alex Ferguson,
sermonising as ever in unreasonable Govan brogue.
AF: Son, you're a disgrace to your profession. Somehow you've duped
everyone into thinking you're an England-class centre back. I know
of your desire to play for United, but I can guarantee that will
never happen. You will mark my words, because like everyone else
in football you have an absurd deference to the words that come
out of my bulbous claret face. I am Alex Ferguson, the power and
the lordly authority of the football. What I say goes, whoo-whooo!!
JT (over and over): Shhhhhitt! The guv'nor has fahnd me out.
What my gonna do?
CB: I'll tell you.
JT (startled): Shit!
CB: Stop talking to someone who isn't there on the other line, and
to yourself. Take your mask off and that bottle out of your arse.
Throw the wraps away. Get yourself a shrink and get yourself out
of football. Start working nightclub doors - you're clearly obsessed
by order though you love breaking it yourself, or form an S&M
club, your pastimes are beyond the pale of even most bored suburbanites.
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