Prancing With Wolves
So what’s the good word, I hear you ask. No? You weren’t asking? Oh well. Let’s just pretend you were. With Spurs off-air since last Tuesday’s seaside catastrophe, all eyes were on the race to be crowned the world’s thickest footballer; with Wayne Rooney and Ashley Cole storming into an early lead. While the jacket potato-faced Scouser was busy introducing his elbow to the delicate regions of James McCarthy’s jaw on Saturday- with the elegance of a cement-mixer being dropped through a mine shaft- it was Cole giving the tabloids plenty to think about with his gun-totting antics in Cobham. The England defender seeing fit to exhaust the contents of his boomstick into some unsuspecting intern; in what may well be remembered as the most euphemistic headline of all time. Oo-er, Ashley.
The winner, though, by quite a distance, is this scandalous waste of carbon. In my eyes, a fitting punishment would be to have him sexually ravaged by Bill Oddie. But, you know, I don’t make the rules.
Talking of animal cruelty. It’s Wolves this Sunday afternoon and there’s a widespread rumour going round that one of our strikers is due a goal. It’s quite an idea. Jermain Defoe just needs one– so we’re told- and the dams of profligacy will burst open and flood the place in no time. Just one, and more will surely follow. We can only hope. And by hope, I of course mean: put all your savings on him to score the winner.
I’ll see you in St. Lucius on Monday morning, then?