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Michael Dawson looked down the bed at his leg. It looked a bit better than it did at the football game, where it did a pretty good impression of a turner prize candidate. It was not encased in what appeared to be a large white sock. He groaned.
The doctor had told him that the main bone in his lower leg (he didn't know the exact terminology, he was a Doctor of Financial Growth Studies) was clean broken. He could realistically expect to be back in action in around 10 months time.
10 months? That took him past his 27th birthday in November, and all the way to the middle of next year. He would be approaching pensionerdom. Soon, he would be shuffling instead of walking, and perfecting the 'sudden stop' when in any public area. He would be buying pipe tobacco, and talking about the good old days when he was a lad. He was going to be practically a coffin dodger by the time his recovery came round.
His cast had been on for a good few hours now, and he had slept straight after its application. He looked down at it, and saw, in blue felt tip pen, a delicate scrawl. He peered at it the best he could.
It read: Best wishes Michael. Minty Tallulah x x x x
Sent home by the hospital for some serious R&R, after a bumpy ride in the worlds most rickety ambulance, Dawson switched on his television, and at last, something to warm his heart:
On this day, with England mourning the break in Michael Dawsons leg, Esther Rantzen has had a successful teeth replacement. It is reported 78 African Elephants were brutally shot to death for the priceless Ivory, but for Esther Rantzen, our Queen of Hearts, anything is worth it. The wrinkly past-it TV presenter was unable to comment on her transplant because of the size of her teeth, which had to be airlifted into place. Lets hope she's back, making retarded self righteous television programmes very very soon.
This warmed the cockles of Michaels heart. He gazed up at his Esther Rantzen tribute poster and blew it a kiss. In the light of all this tragedy, he smiled, and watched another repeat of Only Fools and Horses.
The rest of the month went past for Dawson with the speed of an asthmatic snail. He was forced to stay at home, and follow the Tottenham games himself, and if he felt up to it, McLaren had a spot for him in the stand if he felt like watching the game. He wanted to be out there on the turf, the roar of the crowd cheering him on, and the high profile sponsorship deals behind the scenes. He wanted a sponsorship deal badly. He had taken part in one in his Valencia days, for the new Smurfs 3D video. But as the worldwide face of Smurf publicity, he didn't get the positive marketing attention he craved.
He escaped the flak, however, for Spurs' final pre-season friendly in which they shockingly crashed 5-1 to 3rd Division Yeovil. He allowed himself a smug grin, as without him, the defence looked as permeable as a bath plughole.
When the season kicked off, Spurs drew their opening two matches 0-0, which helped Michael fall asleep. However, in the second match against Manchester United Hao Hao got sent off, which forced a chuckle.
His cast still mystified him. How and when had Minty Tallulah signed it? How would he find her?
Where was she? Could she actually sing? Who cared?
In a dilapidated tenement block, an old woman watched live television coverage of pro-celebrity horseshoe throwing, and decided there and then, that she wanted to take over the world.
Her mouth opened into a wide toothy grin, and she cackled loudly. Her gruesome laugh got louder and louder, and more manic. She got out of her chair, still laughing and made for the front door. Hobbling as fast as her legs would let her, she set foot outside the door, and made for the tenement stairwell.
She slipped and fell all the way to the bottom and died. I guess it kind of put paid to her plan.
Spurs' early season form has condemned them to the foot of the Premier League table, allowing newly promoted Hartlepool to clamber a place up, to 19th. The table is depressing reading for all Tottenham fans, with no wins, two draws and three defeats all telling a horrible story.
Only 2 goals scored tells of a team horribly profligate in front of goal. Veteran Striker Emile Heskey shockingly has both of them, and finds himself as Tottenhams top scorer. The last game, a 3-2 defeat away at Liverpool showed signs of a recovery, but McLaren shows no signs of taking forced action to rectify the slump. It's all Michael Dawson's fault for being injured. Lets all send him hate mail.
Funnily enough, Darren Anderton is still playing, this time for Mansfield in the Conference. He's been injury free for years now. He must be entering his second youth.
October came and went with Spurs playing catch up. For every game or so that they won, the teams above them also won. It left the league kind of tight, with 2nd place down to about 18th place being separated by 6 points or so. By the time the 30th of October came round Spurs were 19th, and England sat bottom in their qualifying group after losing their opening two games, to Armenia and Macedonia 1-0 and 2-1 respectively.
Michael Dawson, in a sadistic sort of way, found it mildly amusing that since he wasn't in the team, they were doing badly.
Hao Hao was being made the scapegoat in Tottenhams poor performances, with 4/10 being achieved twice. He was also having difficulty settling in the area. That may have had something to do with the fact that Dawson had organised for a large lorryload of incontinence pants to be delivered to the young Chinese players house. The mental strain of this was too much to bear. Obviously.
On the Champions League front, getting through the 3rd qualifying round had been a breeze, and Polonia of Poland had been swept aside like a fly trying to circle a dog turd, while being swatted with a newspaper. In a group paired with Graz, Modena and Baku, they hardly looked like being challenged. Baku were thrashed 6-1 and Modena were eased out 3-2. Interestingly, the young academy forward Jamie Crosby starred in both games, grabbing a brace of hat-tricks. This bade well for the future, with the usual strikers missing the goal like they were having fun doing so. Interestingly McLaren didn't seem to want to play Crosby in the Premier League that much.
Dawson sat down at his desk and poured himself a double water. He was feeling dangerously reckless tonight you see. He was going to see the National Miming Awards in the West End, and Minty Tallulah was up for several awards. He was going to try and make an impact.
Well that was a waste of time. She won 5 awards, but was only there by video link from Uzbekistan for some reason. Something about a family problem involving an insane great grandmother.
He had tried to cosy upto the video screen, but he had singed his lip with the static. With hindsight, it was a pretty dumb thing to do.
He sat down for breakfast and read his mail, most of which seemed to be written in blood, much to his befuddlement. They all sort of went along the same line:
Its Yor Folt wee're loozing. Get beta noww or fase are wraff.
That was interesting. Another one:
This is the bank manager here, you owe me money.
He didn't bother reading on with that one. He put it in that funny little plastic container where he put all of his bills. His mum called it a bin.
Another letter:
Boris Broomstick was right, its all your fault.
Ahhhh, he loved fan mail. There was no better feeling than being insulted by people he didn't know. The bank managers letter had scared him a bit though.
He toddled off and went to watch the Reserves playing Gillingham Reserves. He had nothing better to do, so it seemed like a viable option
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