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Tottenham had slumped to the foot of the table, losing all of their games since beating Bradford Park Avenue in the cup. They had scored a grand total of 2 goals, and Michael couldn't give a monkeys. Although injured, and a professional footballer by trade (you wouldn't know it would you?) he wasn't paying that much attention to the goings on at White Hart Lane. His book had ricocheted to number 3 in the literary charts, and he had framed all the reviews he'd received as they were all absolutely fantastic.
"The next big thing in football writing!"
"I can't wait for his next masterpiece!"
"A real moron, but a fantastic writer!"
He finished ogling the wall, and swivelled round in his new ultra-swivelly writers chair so that he faced his newly acquired antique mahogany desk. He picked up his platinum plated fountain pen, hovered it above the page, and waited for the inspiration for a new book to hit him like a bolt of lightning...
...Still no inspiration. Michael looked at his watch. He had been sitting here for 2 days. The first thought that hit him was, "Wow, I really need the toilet" and the second was, "Agh, too late."
Sopping wet, he nipped upstairs and handed the offending garments to McHugh O'McScottish, who was lying at the top of the staircase a good 3 metres from his severed arm. Michael tutted loudly at the Scotsmans tardiness and put the arm in the waste-paper basket. On second thoughts he decided to open the door to the East Wing and give it to the lions and tigers and so forth. He opened the door a crack and hurled it in. There was an ear splitting racket and the sound of a window being smashed before the noise settled to reveal a lot of contented chomping. McHugh, semi conscious on the ground muttered Scottishly under his breath something about whether he could have his arm back. Michael realised his little faux pas and tiptoed off, hoping the semi-conscious Scotsman hadn't noticed him.
Since becoming a literary darling, Michael had been inundated with calls from the worlds most gorgeous women begging for dates. This didn't explain why he was going out for a date with Janet Ffolkes-Plompton, the winner of a recent television talent contest where contestants had to compete for the honour of having as many Badger characteristics as possible. He decided he was due to start getting ready, as she was calling for him at 6. He disappeard into his bedroom, and didn't emerge until sometime later when he heard the doorbel ring.
<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Richey:
<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by I'm Not Ruud:
Have you seen the article about Michael being wanted by Aston Villa? I cracked up when I saw that; it made me think of this story.
I hope he's not really as dumb as he looks.
Keep it up!!<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Yeah, I read that this morning, It cracked me up too. If he joins Villa it proves he must be a bit dim!
:-)
Rich<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Otherwise this is still a wonderfully entertaining story. Happy New Year and glad this is back
His nerves going haywire, Michael opened the door to reveal Janet Ffolkes-Plompton, winner of Badger Idol. He gazed adoringly over her, taking in her curiously elongated face, and the soft white and black hairs that covered her face. She opened her mouth to reveal two prominent front teeth, and lumbered into the house. Michael, the gentleman as always, took her coat and hung it up in the cloakroom. He guided the tall, elegant lady/badger into the drawing room where they engaged in polite conversation as to the current state of politics, and the unusual strength of the currency of Kryzygstan in the open market.
After an hour of this frivolous fun, Michael took her by the hairy hand and guided her to the back of his limousine, where McHugh O'McScottish was due to drive them for a night on the tiles at the world's most exclusive nightspot ChinWellies. He had disowned the traditional footballer-friendly places as being for the "common person", as he was now one of the elite.
Upon arrival, he flashed his member card, much to the disgust of the doorman. Hurriedly, he put it away and produced his members card, which was accepted without too much fuss. He made a mental note to keep the pictures of his member to himself. To go producing it in public simply would not do.
After a wild night, sipping champagne and laughing about poor people, McHugh drove Janet Ffolkes-Plompton home to her house in Warren Street and returned to pick up a slightly bedraggled Michael, who he unceremoniously shoved in the back of the limo.
After all, Michael had a light physiotherapy session tomorrow, followed by the F.A. Cup Second Round tie between Spurs and First Division Crewe.
Darren Anderton Memorial Physiotherapy Wing, White Hart Lane
Nursing a killer hangover, Michael did some gentle upper body exercises while the new club doctor Fergal Bagpuss stood around and stroked his chin concernedly.
Michael, I'm worried about your overall fitness. Have you been doing any exercise at home?
Oh yes Michael lied earnestly, I wake up at 6 every morning and go on a 29 mile run. At 9am I go swimming until 9pm, and in the evening I lift weights.
The doctor shrugged and ambled off, and Michael basked in the glory of his own intelligence and cunning. There weren't many footballers as clever as him surely. He finished his upper body workout and swung his feet around so that he could put his shoes on. After half an hour of trying he called the doctor back to help him.
<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by BobBev:
He's back and as funny as ever :thup:<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Thankyou! Its good to be back. I hope i can keep this one going!
.
and as funny as ever :thup:
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