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