Welcome. Today we tell you the story of a player who not too long ago wore the famous red shirt of our club. We must warn you that the story is grim, in a Dickensian sort of way; for a start the protagonist is allegedly a dick who alleges that others may also be dicks — hence the Dickensian theme.
This is a story of a
man, sorry boy (manchild?), who wishes to remain anonymous; let us call him Charles.
For the purposes of lending authenticity to the story, this writer wishes to narrate it in the first person. So sit back with your cup of coffee, and read.
Hello, dear fans. My name is Charles (real name withheld). Most of you might recognize me for my steadfast commitment to your dear club. You see, I’m the one who runs for the whole 90 minutes when a certain preening prima donna looks to whinge most of the time, only turning up to score some flukey free kicks; while some east European lazy oaf saunters about, like he was paid to walk about the park. (What do you say? He leads the assist chart? Well let me tell you something, statistics are like arseholes, everyone has one. Er, that analogy didn’t fit, but you get the point, don’t you? He’s an arsehole.)
But I digress; I work my socks off, dear fans, and your love for me proved that I was right to work said socks off for the team. Yet, what do I get? An away game to Liverpool? Just 34 appearances this season? About £10m for the two years of running every game for 90 minutes?
I tell you what, Britain has a new President. What is that you say? Prime minister? Sigh! You know very little, dear friends. Very little. Sir Alex is the president of Britain. It’s true. Which is why I have gathered you all. He is the president of Britain and he controls the world from his office at Old Trafford, and I’ll tell you what, I think I have discovered he’s a part of the Govan mafia. Don’t you get it? I mean, tell me one thing: who sips wine in the vineyards of southern France, with a cell phone on the other hand, belting out orders to his minions. I don’t know about you, but for someone like me who’s grown up in tough neighbourhoods, that looks like the overlord of a vast criminal organisation. You know, what I saw was just the tip of the iceberg. I know you may talk about David Conn’s new column on the Guardian that promises to uncover the murky footballing underworld, but I have far more murky information. My murk wipes the floor with his murk.
But despite this knowledge I thought, for the good of the team and, especially you, my dear fans, I would keep mum and hope my loyalty to the President, and Great Master would be repaid. But, you know what, he turned out to be colder than any of the Scorsese gangsters rolled into one. At least, they cared for family. This man, made me feel an outsider to the family. And when I went home to my family (my other one), I took only sadness with me.
The recession hasn’t helped either. (I believe I must blame recession too, because everyone seems to blame it for everything, and I think one can make perfect sense by ending any sentence with the phrase ‘due to recession’. But then, I digress.)
I tell you. The life of a footballer is not easy these days. Especially at a club like United. I know, I’m sorry, dear friends, I love you all, but I must tell you, I wasn’t loved at the club. And hence I thought I must move on. Also my best friend — some people say he owns me and my rights, but I am a self made man — let’s call him Hyundai (I can’t let you in on his real name, but Hyundai is the only other Korean car manufacturer I could think of, the other being my ‘owner’s’ name) said United weren’t even making an offer for us. I mean, they made an offer for us but he said there wouldn’t be enough time for us to make up my mind. I know, it sounds crazy, but Hyundai never lies. He’s a man of integrity, and I’ll ever be indebted to him, even though I’m a self made man.
So, on that note, I have come to the conclusion that loyalty is a two way street. And since I was never felt wanted, I must leave with a heavy heart. I still love your City. The rain calms my nerves, and at least the blue side will give me enough money to be able to put food on my plate three times a day. Now I can at least fly to the training ground instead of driving. Take that, you Real Madrid loving, United-betraying winker! And with a heavy heart I must say again, I love you dear fans, and thank you for sticking up for me, which is why I am sticking it up to you.