Transfers. Specifically Carrick and Chong. We were in for both of them, we got neither. We had deals agreed with both. It was ready to go, and in both cases, some cheeky brown envelopes and a case of McEwans Export has turned their heads. Franks doing again no doubt, and proof once again of the bias against Levante.

As for tonight, Dinamo Kyiv. Dinamo fecking Kyiv. I’ll tell you something about those tasty little chicken based treats. That side have spent all season playing like Stanley Matthews. They play us and all of a sudden we make them look like Bernard Matthews. We only had 10 men as well. Ramis sent off for looking at the ball boy in a stern manner. Absolute joke that, and completely unsurprising.
Took that crown off them though didn’t we eh? I don’t mind Olympiacos winning the league. All them golden oldies, they were bound to piss it anyway. It’ll be our turn to take the crown next season anyway.

Speaking of crowns reminds me of this time at Hewitt’s house. He comes flouncing in giving it all that King BS that he comes out with. He’s got this crown on his head, a sceptre, and this ridiculous big red Henry VIII style cape. Honestly, he looked like a cross between a Time team extra, and an explosion at Gay Pride. It was all a load of rubbish to be honest. A cheap dressing up kit he’d got off Ebay for about £3.99 plus postage I reckon. Obviously I pulled him into line immediately. I said Oi, Hewitt, I’m the only King around here. I’ve taken down Prince PMW, and I saw off that pretender Earl as well. I don’t think a little boy like you is going to be too much of an issue.

Anyway, he starts mouthing off, so I took that sceptre and used it to knock that crown clean off his head. He was balling, saying something about feeling naked without head gear, and that he gets ill if his head gets cold. So he trots off to his boudoir, and comes back with a fedora on. I told him Hewitt, it’s a swanky hat. I know you think you’re a legend, but you look like a twat

Anyhow, after a while, he’s got himself together and starts droning on about how he’s the best ever, how he’s unbeatable, and how he has gone down in the annals of history as the most special one of all. I called him out, went through the evidence, and called him a complete and utter shirt button. 

He wasn’t happy obviously, but I was more interested in my Ginsters Cornish Pastie by that stage. It’s a great piece of pie to be fair, especially when it’s been improved with the addition of 3 grams of coke. Hewitt didn’t fancy one of my versions though, said it’d send me to an early grave. I told him I wanted to be buried in a glass coffin. Remains to be seen if that happens though.

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