A manager’s sacking results in reactions laughable in their predictability; tweets in all capitals about the news, hastily penned epitaphs and obituaries, both glowing and vitriolic, Sky Sports News launching their jism all over cyberspace in an eagerness to dissect every facet of the departure, et cetera and more tedious et cetera. Our resident reporter turned his nose up at all this pitiable market-mongering; he knew none of this was the real truth. The real truth stimulates, not nauseates. He scuttled off to find said truth.
An unnamed source (we shall call him Zaphod Beeblebrox, for kicks) drops in a whisper of all not being right behind Chelsea walls. Zaphod, who has left his earlier career as a postman and now re-tweets things he finds interesting on the net for a living (double-junior assistant to the senior undersecretary of marketing, we’re told it’s a real job), casts aspersions on Chelsea’s announcement of Roberto Di Matteo being the interim manager.
“Aye, they say he’s the boss, but who’s really the boss?” Zaphod asks us with a roguish wink. “I’m telling you, I’ve heard things that will make your scrotum shrivel-“
“What have you heard?” our reporter interjects.
Zaphod grins mysteriously. “Chocolate,” he mouths slowly.
Well, that didn’t sound so bad at the outset.
The Stamford Bridge dressing room finds a shaking figure of Roberto Di Matteo. He looks up from his mumbling soliloquies after much prodding and poking, and manages to answer a few questions.
“Who is the real manager at Chelsea, Roberto?” our reporter asks.
“Umm… what? I am the… the manager. Why do you ask?” Roberto wibbles, still impressively imitating an aspen leaf in its prime.
“Who is the real manager at Chelsea, Roberto?” our reporter reiterates. Experience has taught him that a rhino-head goes a long way in extracting jam when jam needs extracting.
“What… what are you on about? Someone ta-take this crazy man away. I’m the mana-manager, I tell you!” Roberto cries, subconsciously pulling out clumps of hair from his head and popping them into his mouth.
“Who-” our reporter quips, slowly and deliberately, “-is the real manager at Chelsea, Roberto?”
Di Matteo’s resolve finally breaks, he gives an audible yelp and putters away, further into the bowels of Stamford Bridge, muttering about ‘initiations’ and ‘chocolate’. Our reporter smiles and follows, jam duly extracted.
Hallways meld into more hallways, and all of them meld into one huge door, medieval and metal-hinged. Our reporter enters and gawps; yes, the real truth is stimulating.
A huge swimming pool adorns the room, filled to the brim with lusciously brown chocolate. Three bobbing heads are spotted in the mix.
“Roberto,” John Terry’s baritone echoes off the walls. “Are you ready for your initiation?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Terry sir, I am sir,” Roberto says, falling over himself in an effort to please.
“And have you brought the items required?” Frank Lampard’s muffled voice sounds; his mouth chock-a-block with the Nutella he’s floating in.
“I have sir, Mr. Lampard sir,” Roberto intones, removing a cell-phone and a voluminous slice of pie from his coat-pockets and tossing them into the brownness of the pool. Ashley Cole, the third bobbing head, sniggers in delight and grabs at the phone. Lampard pushes his face into the pie, moaning in delight.
Terry has a small smile on his face. “The third item, Roberto?” he enquires.
Roberto’s knees almost buckle beneath him. “I…I…I…she hasn’t been able to make it today, sir-”
All three heads immediately metamorphose into ugly scowls and they scream in unison-
“GIVE UP CELL-PHONE, PIE AND WIFE. BE CHELSEA MANAGER FOR LIFE” This weird cross between a neo-pagan chant and a kindergartener’s rhyme rings out hard and true. Di Matteo’s legs give way.
“I will, I will, I will,” he sobs. “She’ll be with you before the next game, Mr. Terry. You have my word.”
Cheshire cat grins embellish all three faces as they climb out of the pool. Our reporter notes that a grand total of zero of them is wearing swimming trunks.
“You know how the initiation ends, don’t you Roberto?” Terry says. “None of us brought our towels.”
He looks right towards Lampard and asks, “Who’s going to be a darling and lick us dry?”
He looks left towards Cole and asks, “Who’s going to be a darling and lick us dry?”
He looks ahead towards Roberto and asks, “Who?”
Our reporter legs it.
It seems the truth both stimulates and nauseates. Well done, Chelsea.
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