“Masseur for Monsieur?” An unusual enquiry in our grim
northern clubhouse. The gaffer, recently
lucky on the horses, has brought in a ‘top’ rather gullible American striker, complete
with personal preener. We’re all
in on it now, pretending we are some high powered Italian outfit, with what I
call our new azure ‘lie’ kit. Things came to a head when in the post match
interview in disgust I remarked, “a win?
‘tis stale” going further by
describing the match, “a dower (but nothing)
disgrace”.
But I've changed my
tune. Next week we are up against our
great rivals. The gaffer asked my views
on playing our superhero up front and I found myself saying “Orwell, that end? Swell!”
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