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NEW MUSICAL EXPRESS

13th February 1999

in order to prevent confusion for those without a sense of humour please note that this is a spoof; it is not true
Sunday: fookin' 'ell! City got beaten 4-0 by fookin' Bury! Time for action. So I wait for Meg to come off t'mobile to Jerry Hall, Kate Moss, Hillary Clinton and fookin' Nelson Mandela, then I put it to her.
"Meg, love?" I asks, twirling my thumbs around, like.
"Yah, what is it my little provider?"
"D'you mind if I buy Manchester City?"
"Don't be absurd, Noel."
"Aww, but Meg, I could mek something of that team. Return 'em to the glory days of Bell, Lee and Summerbee. Besides, they wouldn't cost much, and..."
"Yah. We've discussed this before, Noel. The answer is 'No'."
"Well, it's my money! I don't see why you should know our joint bank account number and not me, anyway! It's not fair!" I grumble. "Tell us the account number, go on!"
"Noel, what happened the last time I let you spend your own money? I belive you went out and bought that ghastly yellow coat which made you look like a common trawlerman. I think we'd best stick to the present arrangement, don't you, sweetie? Besides, it would upset Rupert if you bought Manchester City..."
"Rupert? Who the fook's Rupert?"
"Rupert Murdoch, my employer at The Sunday Times. He's planning to buy the Manchester United. It wouldn't do for you to be rivals, especially when we're going for high tea on his yacht tomorrow."
"Since fookin' when? I was gonna go for a pint wi' Bonehead!"
"We have to. I'm doing a photoshoot for Vogue in the new Manchester United football team dress. It's a little favouroonie for Rupert."
"You - you can't pose for the fookin' Red Scum," I splutter. "You've gorrer wear the fookin' City shirt!"
"No way. Light blue clashes with my Issey Miyake eyeliner. Red suits me."
"Well if you think I'm gonna go poncing off to some fookin' yacht with the future owner of the Red Scum you can fookin' think twice," I shout. And I mean it. Fookin' Man U twats! I 'ate 'em, me. You 'ave to put your foot down sometimes.
"Fine dear," says Meg, calmly flicking through The Sunday Times Style section. "If you've made your mind up, I suppose there's nothing I can do."
Monday: "G'day Meg! G'day Noel!"
We're on board Murdoch's yacht wi' Murdoch and half the fookin' Armani, swappin' kisses wi' Meg and laughing at me. Bastards!
"Care for a drinkeroonie, Noel?" says Murdoch, in his fookin' sailor cap. Right now, a glass of cyanideroonie's what I fookin' need. I never thought I'd see the fookin' day. Murdoch takes me to one side.
"Exciting times, these, Neil, mate."
"It's Noel, actually..."
"I've got grat plans, Neil. When I've acquired Manchester United, I'm gonna acquire City at the same time. See, United's reserves are gonna need a bigger training ground, so I thought, what the heck, disband City and let United's kids use their old ground. Your wife's idea, actually. She said she was fed up of seeing your long face on a Sunday morning when you checked the results. Great lady, by the way, your wife. Great writer..."
I didn't hear the rest. I'd fookin' jumped overboard...

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c 1998 Andrew Turner
aturner@interalpha.co.uk

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