The Secret Diary of Joke In Ear aged 67 & 3/4
2nd January
Fackin' 'ell what a new year that was. Don't remember much, but can't help feeling I must have watched Ghostbusters and Return of the Jedi back to back. That or Mike took his top off on the dancefloor again.
That cunt Al was knocking on my door at lunchtime. The noise made my headache worse, so I told him to fuck off and had a pasty and a couple of Alka Seltzer.
Fucker wouldn't leave it alone though, would he. Banging on about wanting a new striker because the one I got him in the summer is only around until June and the rest are useless, or something. Ungrateful bastard.
He kept going on about wanting to win a trophy and challenge for the top four. I said, "That's not what Mike's told you to do and just to fuck off" but he reminded me about the four cans of Special Brew he got me in the club Secret Santa, so I said I'd see what I could do.
True to my word, I phoned up Sira Ferguson and said "Fergie, you cunt, have you got any strikers who we could borrow? That Albertan lad was one of yours, and he's a fucking Frenchie, so is OK by us."
To be honest, I think he'd been at the Buckfast, 'cos all I could hear was him laughing and shouting about how Davie Moyles was just getting him some more Tennents Super so he'd ask him when he got back. Fuck knows why he thinks I'd want anyone from the manager of Preston North End, mind…
I was just about to call Al back in to my office so I could see his face when I told him to go fuck himself, but the TV was on and there was some advert for one of them loan companies, so I called them up and they agreed to loan us someone called Munnee. Apparently there's loads of interest in him, so he must be great.
You should have seen the look on Al's face when I told him; he was choking back the tears with gratitude. Soft bastard.
Job done, I went back to looking at holiday brochures. Fancy a bit of winter sun, me - can't be doing with hanging around 'ere in January.
Fackin' 'ell what a new year that was. Don't remember much, but can't help feeling I must have watched Ghostbusters and Return of the Jedi back to back. That or Mike took his top off on the dancefloor again.
That cunt Al was knocking on my door at lunchtime. The noise made my headache worse, so I told him to fuck off and had a pasty and a couple of Alka Seltzer.
Fucker wouldn't leave it alone though, would he. Banging on about wanting a new striker because the one I got him in the summer is only around until June and the rest are useless, or something. Ungrateful bastard.
He kept going on about wanting to win a trophy and challenge for the top four. I said, "That's not what Mike's told you to do and just to fuck off" but he reminded me about the four cans of Special Brew he got me in the club Secret Santa, so I said I'd see what I could do.
True to my word, I phoned up Sira Ferguson and said "Fergie, you cunt, have you got any strikers who we could borrow? That Albertan lad was one of yours, and he's a fucking Frenchie, so is OK by us."
To be honest, I think he'd been at the Buckfast, 'cos all I could hear was him laughing and shouting about how Davie Moyles was just getting him some more Tennents Super so he'd ask him when he got back. Fuck knows why he thinks I'd want anyone from the manager of Preston North End, mind…
I was just about to call Al back in to my office so I could see his face when I told him to go fuck himself, but the TV was on and there was some advert for one of them loan companies, so I called them up and they agreed to loan us someone called Munnee. Apparently there's loads of interest in him, so he must be great.
You should have seen the look on Al's face when I told him; he was choking back the tears with gratitude. Soft bastard.
Job done, I went back to looking at holiday brochures. Fancy a bit of winter sun, me - can't be doing with hanging around 'ere in January.
Labels: satire
posted by Paul at 1:28 pm
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