"I see you."

Morning muggles. Sorry I haven’t blogged of late it’s been tough getting a wi-fi connection out here on the goal trail. Yeah that’s right, goals as in plural. Not only did I net a brace against Scunthorpe (which you can watch here, preserved forever like my youthful, never ageing face, I’m the Dorian Grey of the Premiership bitches) but I also bagged another header against Bolton. In the Premier League no less. We might as well just call it what it is; a hat-trick of goals.

So I suppose what we’re saying is this, in Wayne’s absence I am Manchester United’s numero uno hit man (in more ways than one). There I said it. Admittedly Javier Hernandez scored a goal against Valencia (big whooop) but we all know that was a fluke. A one off. Alot of people think Little Pea is the next big thing but I know he’s not. And I tell him everyweek so he never forgets. I don’t even call him Little Pea like everyone else, I call him ‘Baby Pea’ because I stub cigarettes out on his arms when Fergie isn’t looking. Just so he knows his place.

I’m sure Neville does the same to Rafael. I see it in his eyes.

So what else has been a happening? Firstly the new series of Dexter started of TV. Excellent. Semi alert. Secondly I bought a new shovel. And thirdly Greater Manchester Police called off the investigation into the disappearance of Paolo, mainly because we received a post card from him the other day. Turns out he’s in Valencia doing a spot of back packing and ‘won’t be coming back.’ Personal trainers I tell you! Glad that’s all resolved even if Louise seems unconvinced. She pointed out that his hand writting has changed and he’s forgotten how to spell his name correctly but as I explained to her, that’s just details. Small little details no one cares about.

Anyway to celebrate the end of this unsavioury episode I burnt everything he’d left behind in the barbecue. As I told Louise it’ll help her move on if we destroy everything that reminded her of him. The clothes he left in the wardrobe, his toiletries, his gym towel, his bed clothes, the letters he wrote to her that I found hidden under her bed, the dress he bought her for her birthday, absolutely everything to do with the perma tanned nonce reduced to ashes. ASHES. It’s like he never fucking existed.

Right I’m off to find Louise. She’s been very silly this week and flirting with me non stop! She’s probably playing hid and seek again as we speak.

But I see her.

Lots of love

Michael Phillip Owen

Well well well we meet again loyal readers. What are the chances? Me an international football icon who can be mistaken for Ryan Reynolds at a distance and you, a nondescript fellow of minimal importance groping in the dark recess of the internet for porn, who no doubt stumbled upon my diary by googling LIVERPOOL + SEX GOD + PROLIFIC.

You lucky beast.

So what have I been doing all these months I hear you ask? Pre-tell Michael what has occupied your days since the World Cup finished and the start of the Premier League season?

Quite a flipping lot I can tell you. Firstly I took it upon myself to show the new signings around their new digs. Cos I’m a saint like that. I took my new ‘rivals’ (Bebe and Hernandez if you didn’t work it out – I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t) on an extensive tour of Manchester’s top tourism sites to help them acclimatize to the north. We took in the The Manchester Art Gallery, The Quarry Bank Mill, The Trafford Shopping Centre…. you name it. It was an hour of culture they’ll never forget. Then after lunch I even drove them to Salford and dressed the guys in ‘ghost’ outfits, took their wallets off them and jettisoned them by a burnt out car for the newbies ‘run home.’ It’s a bit of a tradition at Manchester United that I’m test running this year.

“It’s part of the initiation!” I yelled, as I jabbed Bebe out of my Merc with the aid of broken gin bottle.

You should have seen their little faces! I believe the correct term is ‘LOL’

But it hasn’t only been fun and games and japes in the world of Michael Phillip Owen, nosiree. Poor Louise is still grieving the disappearance of her beloved personal trainer Paolo who went missing roughly two weeks ago on Sunday evening between 11:52pm and 11:54pm, if I had to guess.

I went in to comfort her last night and she was still distraught! The poor lamb.

“I know he’ll be found in a wood by some jogger!” she kept yelling as I held her tightly, looking her square in the shoulder before offering a few reassuring words.

“Firstly dear he won’t be found dead by some over enthusiastic rambler in a wood, erase those morbid thoughts from your mind. No, only an amateur killer would leave a body strewn in a forest or hiking trail, practically begging to be found by a member of the public. A real killer, someone with brains and experience and a heart made of stone, would methodically dismember the body and bury it in a field late at night. You see there are too many roots and scavengers in the woods and the risk of detection is too high. In a field there is nobody to disturb you as you dig dig dig dig. If you were clever you could easily find a recently ploughed field full of soft disturbed ground and dig four feet down within an hour, or an hour and a half if you tweaked a hamstring. And the probability of a farmer noticing anything untoward? Somewhere between zero and fuck all. So no Louise he will not be found in a wood. I promise. If he is dead, and I’m not saying he is, you’ll never find him. Now who is for Pictionary? PICTIONARY!”

Then I yelled at her until she agreed to play me at Pictionary and stop crying. It was like the old days. The happy days. In the evening we even pushed the beds together. But only literally. But it was no mean feat as I still live in Cheshire and she left the chain on. I had to smash through the fucking patio doors at midnight. Still, it proves that where there is a will there is a way and nothing can stop you! It’s the magic formula that got me into the England squad. Just keep plugging away and ignore the voices.

And on Wednesday I got 15 minutes against Rangers. I’ll save that story for another time, but here is a preview. Shot on target.

Wowsar!

Until next time

Michael Phillip Owen.

It no longer hurts....

Hello again! It is I, your lord and saviour Michael Owen, I apologise for not writing sooner but I’ve been digesting last Sundays result and letting the cold hard reality sink in. It’s all over loyal fans. It appears we’ll all have to wait patiently for another four years before I, Michael Phillip Owen, can once again attempt to hold the Jules Rimet trophy in my clammy tinny hands. By the 2014 World Cup I’ll be 34 years young, meaning that thereafter the probability of me being a World Cup winner slips from the realms of ‘inevitable’ to ’slightly unlikely.’

Even with a weeks distance from that capitulation it is difficult to comprehend how we crumpled so badly against the Germans, they’re not that good. Last time I played them I netted a hat-trick. And I got a hat-trick against Wolfsburg  if you’re interested. Which you are.

So why again Fabio left me sitting on the big bench behind the small bench is beyond me. I phoned Jason MacAteer the following evening and he told me that the fans and pundits alike were scathing in their appraisal of our performance. I don’t particularly care for his opinion it’s just as his AA sponsor I have to legally phone him once a week and check he’s not dead. But the possibility of a public backlash worried me. I hadn’t done anything wrong… I hadn’t even been allowed to shine on centre stage. Even in our darkest hour Capello plots against me.

Macca had a lot of other questions for me; “why didn’t you get on the pitch?”, “why is Heskey allowed to live?” and “Is this opened can of corned beef I found still okay to eat?”

All good questions my loyal friend. From a personal point of view I did everything I could to press upon Herr Capello my desire to play. I trained (alone), I abstained, I carved his name into my pallid belly and screamed outside of the hotel until the wee hours. When you put in that much effort you should be exempt from criticism. Like disabled children. Had I been on the pitch I would have put things right …

Anyway I’m not going to worry anymore about what cannot be changed, all this worry chips away at my hamstrings, the only option I have is to redouble my efforts and show Capello/Beckham/Redknapp I really care. That I’m an option. Either that or apply to be England manager? I am, after all, our countries very own Maradona; footballing legend, superstar, both arrested in connection to cocaine and prostititues but acquitted due to lack of evidence and eye witnesses disappearing because they’re dead. The parallels are uncanny. I could probably grow a beard too if I start taking hormone therapy. And Macca could be my assistant! He’s a World Cup legend too and could do with some work after all.

Anyway. I’m off to write a CV but I’ll leave you with a joke to lift your flagging spirits.

Q: What is the difference between a BMW and 10 dead babies?

A. I don’t have a BMW in my garage.

Ha!

Until next time,

Michael Phillip Owen

Suited and booted and ready to rock bitches.

Well loyal readers the  World Cup is going great isn’t it? The first game against the US of A highlighted exactly why I’m here and why Emile Heskey should be put out to seed. Preferably in a mine field.

On a personal level it was hard to watch the game knowing that Capello was probably saving me for a more important clash, I sat on the big bench behind the little bench the players were on, either watching through my fingers or yelling for him to bring me on. I kept pleading, “Fabio! Fabio! Now is the hour! LOVE ME!” But the distance was too great and my brittle voice was drowned out by the cacophony of fans around me, the vuvuzelas and a brass band.

I was patient though, just as my therapist told me to be. I thought the boys would show an ounce of fire and brimstone against Algeria and that I’d soon be unveiled in the second round but alas, they were as listless as a anaemic Latvian hooker chained in my basement. After the game I made my feelings known to the gaffer. I put down my vuvuzela, climbed over the hoardings and wandered to the dressing room – whistling non-chalantly to myself before bypassing the stewards with a bit of ol’ Michael Owen magic.

“Hey, aren’t you Michael Owen?” I said to one as I slalomed past.

Smooth.

By the time the confused sap had recovered his composure I was already in the dressing room door and re-introducing myself to David Beckham by way of crutch to the face.

“CRUTCH TO THE FACE!” I yelled as I exploded into the dressing room, jaws dropping around me like Jodie Marsh’s underwear, “And why Capello….why WASN’T I SUMMONED?!”

I had some other choice words to share with the Italian piss lantern, I wanted to unleash years of pent up fury and anger at him in a totally non gay way, but again I was foiled by nemesis; men who are over 5′7.

I was then unceremoniously dumped in the street and left to mull over where this latest incident left me in the pecking order for Slovenia. As it transpires passion and aggression are not qualities that Capello appreciates and I was again left in the wings for the Germany game, poised and ready to help guide our beloved nation to glory. Sweat sweat glory… I must say I was roused by James Milner’s performance, what a tantalising duo we would make! He had more crosses than my last fitness test and that is the sort of service I, Michael Phillip Owen, thrive on.

I vill crush ze Germans.

See. You. On. Sunday.*

Michael P Owen

*If you don’t Capello is going to meet my little friend.**

** Hint: Not my penis.

A rare photo of Ledley in action. Frame it.

Morning readers! How are you today in grey, blustery and comforting England? I can tell you that, minus the locals and poor people, that South Africa is AMAZING. It’s great to be here on the eve of the World Cup knowing that you’re one of the few. One of the elite. One of the chosen. When you face a fellow England international in the Premier League you instinctively recognise one another as equals and share a rapport that cannot be broken. NEVER BROKEN. It is good to be back amongst my brothers.

Yesterday I had my first team talk with the manager in the hotel car park. It was very exciting! Capello looked me dead in the eye and said to me, mano to mano, “Owen. Keep your distance.”

“Keep my distance,” I replied. Nodding and hanging on every word, listening intently to his words of wisdom. It was great he was talking to me again! “Like I’m playing….. in the hole?”

“erm…..yes…..” Capello replied carefully, “..you’d be good in a… hole….”

I think that’s what he said anyway. I was mainly lip reading through the bullet proof windows of his car and, what with me hammering on said window, some of the finer points of the conversation may have been drowned out, but I think I picked up on the salient points. Regardless in those moments I think we connected and my role in the England set up came into sharp HD focus. He wanted me to drop deeper, to conserve my limited energy and to support the midfielders. Great plan boss!

Later that day I followed Capello’s instructions to a letter. I perched myself on the flat roof of a building opposite the Moruleng Stadium and peered through my telescopic lens – mounted on my L12 52. calibre snipers rifle, and observed England’s unimpressive 3-0 win over Platinum Stars.

Curses! You have deeply vexed me sir!

I noted several things from my camoflagued vantage point and jotted down notes in my black book. Firstly we looked unimpressive against essentially a non league team, their ’star player’ was former Spurs reject Mbulelo Mabizela. How bad was he? Well let’s just say he isn’t remembered as fondly as good as fellow Spurs flop Timothy Atouba. Who wasn’t as good as his replacement Erik Edelman. Who in turn wasn’t as good as Gilberto. Who was replaced by Benoit Assou-Ekotto who is currently being eclipsed by Gareth Bale. They go through alot of left backs don’t they? What I’m getting at is that in the pecking order of Spurs left backs over the past five years he was so bad he could have worn leather trousers, a matching jacket and one fingerless glove and been on the front cover of a seminal 1980’s pop album.

Chamone.

Anyway it wasn’t pretty. Capello experimented with different support strikers either side of half time and played Heskey, and then Crouch, in my role, to ill effect, just behind Rooney. After putting in performances like that they won’t only be in my cross hairs! In fact they were so inept that you could partially excuse Wayne for his mid game temper tantrum. What people fail to understand is that in his own primitive way this is him just expressing himself and trying to communicate with people. Like a chimp picking fleas out of your hair. It’s his loveable way.

Anyway we went on to ‘win’ 3-0. Pah. Wait until the Yanks get a load of ME.

See you Saturday boys!

‘Brap’

Michael P Owen.

I wasn't washed up at 21! In your face underling!

Hello loyal readers! It’s me again. Your good friend, your chum, your confidant, Michael Phillip Owen. I thought I’d drop you all a note to let you know that I’m still alive (and yes, uninjured) and back in the UK after my two weeks training in Austria. Phew!

I won’t lie to you all. It’s been an arduous few weeks but I’ve done everything I could to impress upon the coaches that I am still as sharp as a knife and ready to lead England to glory. Which seemed to have worked a treat as Capello insisted, via my lawyer, that I should stay in Austria “impressing” whilst the rest of the squad take part in two friendlies in an attempt to prove their worth ….. suckers!

And so I returned to England to wait and see if I am one of the seven poor saps who are surplus to requirements and will not be making the final 24…

The tension in the house was palpable.

Louise and her new personal trainer Paolo came in on Tuesday morning to wake me up but I was already alert and ready with my phone in my hand – fully expecting a call from the boss. It’s quite sweet how eager those two are for me to make it to South Africa, I overheard Paolo saying to Louise “I hope he just leaves!” as she wept emotionally into the nook of his powerful arms. It’s been very emotional for her. I’m very touched by his encouragement and didn’t realise that despite his suspicious sounding surname he really is a fan! He has even insisted I sleep on the sofa bed to aid with the re-duperating process. Legend.

Anyway it got to early evening and I had still not heard anything, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit concerned. No news is good news they say. But does that apply here? I wasn’t sure so I popped round to see Jason McAteer who stays in a makeshift cardboard abode just behind the bins from my estate but he wasn’t  there. I forgot it was ‘Meth Clinic Tuesday’.

As I turned to meander back to my house I was greeted by the sound of Five Sport and melodic voice of Garth Crooks emanating from my neighbour Ron’s garden radio. I focused in a second. Names and numbers begun flashing in front of my eyes ……… Theo wasn’t making the plane. Nor was Huddlestone (surprise!). Parker neither. Once the rejects had been read out I could take a breathe and know that I, Michael Phillip Owen, wasn’t one of those unfortunate seven! As if it were ever in doubt. In your face Theo! There is only room for one prodigious, lightning quick youth in the final squad. ME. I’m the Peter Pan of English football! I was so happy I momentarily considered vaulting over the front gate but decided not to risk it.

Now some people feel sorry for young Theo but he gets no sympathy from me. No no. Did you see England’s display against Japan? I could only describe England’s attacking threat as both ‘toothless’ and ‘impotent.’ Just like my Uncle Jeff. Ha!

Anyway I’m off to book a flight. See you in South Africa!*

Toodles!

Michael ‘double tap’ Owen

* Except you Theo! You baby faced piss lantern!

"Dedication to the cause ..... I'm not the only one who will bleed"

I believe that obstacles are sent to test us. Injuries are endured so that we return stronger, restraining orders teaches us control our urges, and, as I told myself on Thursday morning, as I stood outside the England teams training pitches, security personnel is sent to us to test our determination. I understand why you’ve done this Fabio. I do. I understand why you’ve posted two monobrowed guerrillas barring my path.

How bad do you want it Michael?

I want it badly Fabio. You tease. And what Michael wants. Michael gets. Oh yes.

Initially I returned from the training ground a little dejected. A little frustrated. I couldn’t understand why Fabio would select me, currently England’s highest scoring footballer, for his 31 man squad, only to bar me from practice after just one session. Was it something I’d said? Something I’d done? Was it for striking Darren Bent with my crutch? If it was then he should be nothing short of impressed. To hit Darren from that distance, with such an unwieldy instrument, is nothing short of miraculous. Had I not been restrained then surely the second would have hit the mark too, what with him being prone at that point too.

It makes no sense.

Later on that day I sat in my hostel dorm and composed a stiffly worded poem for him but eventually rejected sending it in favour of doing my training. I donned my England kit (circa 2006/07) and went through my paces. Lunges. Shuttle runs. Press ups. Star jump. Shadow boxing. You name it. Then I went into the common room and surfed the channels until I caught news stories on the camp. I took notes. The swelling around Darren’s eye has certainly subsided. Then I scrutinized the movements in the background. What was Fabio drilling into them? It was difficult to tell really as the anchor woman obscured their movements but there was a segment on the fringe players on the squad who might be shelved and I wasn’t mentioned, which bodes well, and then there was a few shots of Rooney, Bent and Heskey scoring a few goals.

So that’s your game is in Fabio? Goals. Very canny. Very old school. Next you’ll want assists! It’s certainly a step up from Sven who really only demanded of me that I ‘looked earnest’ in my on pitch endeavours.

The good old days.

That afternoon I spent over an hour in Aundostvic Park with Mel the Australian backpacker and a stray dog, hammering home a few goals! God it felt good. Save for the dog shit it reminded me of my days training with Newcastle. Just with better opposition and more intensive. I can’t wait to tell the boys how it’s going tonight at dinner. I’ll even show Fabio the poem I wrote for him. It’s called ‘Pick me or I’ll knife you you duplicitous fucking wop.’ Actually that’s not really a poem, more a title. But I wrote it over and over again so it filled a page.

Good times.

Anyway I’ll write soon! Wish me luck!

Michael.

Surprise!

Firstly ladies and gents allow me to apologise for not writing sooner, it’s very amiss of me. I’ve been in the zone. The danger zone. I’ve been recuperating, laying in the oxygen tent, shadow boxing, weeping openly and then recuperating some more. It’s been an intense routine. To a muggle like yourself you will struggle to comprehend the mental discipline you need to go through this or understand why you’d subject yourself to this torture, but it’s all worthwhile when you can smell the World Cup around the corner.

It’s impossible for me to really describe how good it felt when the voice in my head announced I had been named in the 31 man squad. The months of worry whether i’d make it were finally over – the extra hours of training I had put in, abstaining from sexual intercourse for the last 18 months, drinking nothing but Lucozade Sport, it had all been worth it – I would be on that plane!

First thing Monday morning Louise, and her new personal trainer Paolo, gave me a lift to Wembley Stadium where the coach to the airport would be waiting. Louise had packed me my favourite cheese and pickle sandwiches and I was firmly clutching on to my 1997/98 Liverpool boot bag.

It turned out there wasn’t enough room on the coach for everyone so I was the team player who volunteered and had to be escorted to the roadside – this did however allow me to give the guys a big wave as they set off in the rain. It also gave me the opportunity to do a comedic run alongside the coach as if I was desperately trying to get on, everyone really got a big laugh out of it, especially Rio as usual, who sat there pointing. It was great to be one of the guys again.

They must have thought they’d seen the last of me but you should have seen their faces when I turned up in Salzburg today! It was a Kodak moment. They were all shocked and stunned to see me again and we were kidding around in no time. Rio, the rascal, asked, “are you our new coach?” Pah! “Only if I’m coaching the opposition… in losing!” I replied before crutch fiving him. We all laughed so hard when I said that. Especially me. I was still laughing long after anyone else had stopped which was a mite awkward.

But they weren’t the only ones suprised that afternoon. Later on I did a quick head count as we were warming up and was a little shocked to see so many “strikers” in the squad, I can only presume that Bent and Defoe have been selected as reserve full backs as this is the only scenario that makes the slightest bit of sense. I won’t be questioning the gaffa though that’s for sure, mainly cause whenever he speaks to me he puts on this funny accent that makes me laugh so hard that one time, a little wee come out.

You can actually see me in the background here. The only thing stopping me is an advertising hoarding.

Anyway the rest of the session was pretty difficult. The high altitude training was a little uncomfortable and what with the crutches, four feet tall advertising hoardings and security personnel, it was a trial even getting onto the pitch. The coach must have wanted to train on long crosses cause I was made to attack the goal a whole 3 pitches over from the other guys. Not one cross reached me. I was ready though. Michael Owen is always ready.

Anyway I’ll catch you soon!
Michael a.k.a. The Lance Armstrong of football. (Without the cancer.)

Did you miss me? I missed you....

Hello boys and girls it’s me, Michael Owen. Obviously you’ve been on the interweb with the memory of  my tantalizing League Cup cameo fresh in your mind and thought “hey I wonder what former England darling Michael Owen, who has shamefully been left out of the national squad again, for no flipping reason whatsoever, been up to recently?” Well you’ve tracked me down and let me tell you it’s been an action packed couple of months in Owen Land. I shit thee not. I’ve scored two, count ‘em, TWO goals in the past month alone. I nearly smiled.
So what else else have I been up to? Well earlier this month I was in the Michael Owen wing of the Carrington training ground and had the pleasure of meeting new signing Chris Smalling when he popped in for his medical. Bless. So being the wholesome lovely chap I pretend to be I went over to greet him and give him a few words of advice. People around here like to call me Yoda! Although that’s because he had a crutch too. Locker room nicknames can be so cruel. Anyway the lad asked me if I had any gems for a young player like him? ‘Yes’ I said. Firstly stop referring to yourself as ‘young.’ You’re 20 years old. By the time I was his age I’d scored 10 goals for England – a school boy error but I forgive him. I’ve made a mental note to lend him my VHS of the England v Argentina game so he’ll always remember there is only room for one child prodigy at Old Trafford and that is me. ME. I’m football’s answer to Peter Pan you t**t. I was about to tell him that he’ll never play for England by way of strangulation but the physios managed to wrestle me to the ground. Hands like lesbians…

Aside from that I’ve been spending alot of time with my agent Rob Llyod who is concerned that as I’m on a pay-as-you-play contract I need to ‘maximise my revenue streams.’ He’s informed me that unless I want to live in a house made of race horses I’d better start hawking myself around like a cheap whore to any global brand listening. Due to this I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time out of oxygen tent and at a series of meetings with droll marketing types who say things like ’synergy’, ‘low hanging fruit’ and ‘glass ceilings.’ Yawn.

The upshot of all this is the agency have run a series of focus groups to measure which demographics resonate with me and which markets to target. Which apparently is female Daily Mail readers over the age of 40 and injured servicemen.

At the last season the group was asked to come up with words and terms that came to mind when they thought of me. Don’t think it over. Just the first thing that slams into that pretty little head of theirs. I was hoping, and slightly expecting, words like relevant, cool, explosive, peak, virile, fame, diverse, aspirational or reliability. That’s where the ka-ching is. I’m only a year older than Justin Timberlake for God’s sake! I could bring sexy back if it didn’t require rigorous exercise. The results weren’t as positive as I hoped. Circling the drain, Windows 98, disposable, expiration date, stair lifts and ‘meh’….. The list goes on. I was so displeased I started referring to myself in the third person which is something I usually reserve for more private moments like when I watch people sleep.

However the jokes on them as the marketing company keeps their details on file. That’s not a threat Mrs Hutchins of Salford. Aged 42 and living alone. Just another truth grenade from the Andy McNab of football…

Until next time. Keep fit.
Michael

"Kill someone for a copy...."

Hello loyal readers! It’s been a while since I have blessed you with my writings. Apologies. However I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I’ve had a very busy Christmas eating TV dinners and watching series 4 of Dexter. Very educational. I also played against Fulham but the less said about that the better. Particularly as that bitch Zamora scored again. Zamora for England? More like the glue factory! Anyway I’m off to post biting comments about him on some Fulham fansites under my alias notmichaelowen1980.

In the interim I’ll leave you with a short story I wrote in between gently weeping and punching myself in the stomach. My therapist said it was healthy for me to write down my thoughts – although since bringing this to our last session she’s avoided me like the plague. But don’t worry fans! I’ll hunt her down eventually.

Literally.

“I am not Michael Owen.  I am Pique.  I answer only to ‘Pique’. I am dressed as the clichéd Mexico ’86 World Cup mascot.  Michael was a creaking vessel of monotony; the Ip Man of tedium.  But Pique?  Pique is the kind of guy who’ll ‘spontaneously’ play the bongos at a house party without being called a wanker.

I’m sitting atop the roof of the FA’s school of excellence in Lilleshall; I check my Tissot watch: its 4 minutes to three, its almost time.  As Michael, I used to come up here and practice doing interviews; I’d take Mark, my hamster with me and pretend he was Stuart Hall… some time later I would find Mark lifeless and unmoving in his Rotastak™ cage: he’d hung himself with a rudimentary noose fashioned from sunflower seeds.

But now I’m Pique… and I’m nonchalantly flicking dated Panini stickers into my upturned sombrero….waiting patiently for my demented plan to reach fruition.   I’m armed only with a hackneyed South-American moustache and an automatic weapon.  Next to me Neil Shipperly is sleeping soundly, clutching his sniper-rifle and wearing his painstakingly constructed ‘Italia 90’ tricolore-stick-figure-thing-costume.  At this angle his paunch makes him look slightly like an expectant zebra-crossing.  A nervous laugh escapes my mouth, Shipperly grunts.

People in my way......

I motion to flick Andy Hinchcliffe into my hat when suddenly the calm is pierced – the fire alarm!  Lee Hendrie, dressed as that soulless Dog from USA ‘94 has fulfilled his part of the bargain…soon the prodigiously talented youth of England will be forced to evacuate and conduct a head-count outside…then the killing begins.

The doors to Lilleshall Hall open; the empty car-park is quickly but calmly filled with the cream of Englands young talent, there’s Ricardo Scimeca…he’s ushering the more talented teenagers into neat and easily targeted lines, how he’s getting such a response whilst dressed as a Lion is beyond me…but its working.   In a matter of seconds, England’s future football-stars will lie quite dead…forcing the forgotten men of yesteryear back into the national consciousness – and world cup contention, for years to come.

“NEIL!! IT’S TIME!!” I scream – Shipperly wakes, rises and aims his rifle in a swift single motion.  As his finger gently caresses the trigger I realise with sickening clarity that Neil has neglected to cut holes in his spherical football helmet – my grudging sense of appreciation for Neil’s attention to detail is swept from my mind as the first bullet shatters what remains of my knee, the second ruptures my spleen. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!” I scream … I hear pandemonium from the car-park, the shots have scattered the assembled talent below… All is lost…my England career is over….

“I CAN’T SEE A F*CKING THING! WHY DID I HAVE TO BE SO PEDANTIC!?” screams Neil, clawing desperately at his globular soccer blindfold, he stumbles, trips and falls over the flat-roof…the last thing I remember is Neil Shipperly’s bloated mass crushing the last breath from Ricky Scimeca’s frail body… Police would later find a bloated stick-man laying dead on the corpse of a midfielder dressed as a Lion…it wasn’t meant to end this way…”

Hope you enjoyed and have a Happy New Year! Unless you’re Jermain Defoe – in which case you can burn in hell.

Michael.

Copyright 2009 Crab Football. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. This is fictional.