FERGIEX

Luke Jimmy James here, reporting live from the Valley of The Soccer Gods. Today I’m seeking out a legend who has fallen on barren ground, a mortral who sewed dragon’s teeth but brought forth no crop of silver trophies.
 
My editor’s budget doesn’t run to SUVs or even rental camels, so I am well and truly on my pennyfarthing bike on this one. I’ve pedaled like a bugger and thanks to the Valley’s traffic system I’ve managed to keep pace with Zeus’s limo. He’s pulled up just ahead in the Athlete’s Foothills of Mount Nike. I’ve just parked my bike between the buttocks of a snoozing shepherd and am creeping through midfield towards the limo. The mouth of the cave is littered with statues. Zeus is out of the limo, brow like thunder, toga flapping and he’s into the cave. No time added, I’m going after him. At least there’s no turnstile or seven-headed dog guarding the entrance, just an old sawback nag tied up. Strange, the horse is muttering “what a friend, what a friend” over and over.
 
I’m in through the cave entrance now, and the floor’s littered with empty red wine bottles. Some pretty expensive vintages too if this reporter is any judge of a label. No Hirondelle here. I’m crouched behind a boulder and I can see Zeus talking to a figure who appears to be struggling to repair the frame on a broken transfer window. Looks like he could use a glazier or two to help him. Look at the state of this damp and fetid cave, the walls are dripping blackened tears. What is this fearful place, a craven cottage in hell? There’s not much light, just a dull red glow coming from the figure’s nose. Zeus’s laughter is echoing around the chamber, he’s holding something aloft, it appears to be the soccer uniform and on its back is a name, a name that gladdens the hearts of all those afflicted by cross eyes, neck scars, and horse teeth. The red-nosed figure is lashing out now at Tevez’s name on the shirt, he’s moaning, a dreadful wailing as if of leaky bagpipes fills the air.
 
“Why are you still playing for City? You said you’d bog off back to yon Argentinian bog from whence you crawled!”
 
Zeus has got the cackling under control. He’s addressing Fergiex:
 
“Foolish mortal. Did you not lock horns with him? Did you not deny him a regular first team place? Did not your lust for silverware so boil your blood that you lashed out at him?”
 
“He was a trouble making, ego maniac. The big headed bugger was the scourge of team spirit in the changing room. I had the other lads to think about, the club! I just wanted what was best … ah just wanted to carry on … being the best.”
 
Fergiex is fumbling blindly around among the litter of bottles at his feet. He’s looking for one last sip of the wine of victory. He’s trawling the dregs. But the bottles are all empty, they clatter with a hollow sound around his ankles. He raises his head,
 
“One … last … trophy … I beg of you … one last trophy.”
 
He’s collapsed, sobbing, the wad of gum falls from his mouth. I’m sorry, I’ve watched match-winning goals scored with sly hands and given, I’ve gazed upon Cisse’s hairdos, I’ve even eaten a beef and onion pasty at the Villa ground and lived to tell the tale, but I have no stomach for this. It’s an early bath for me. Blow wind and crack your cheeks! We are indeed but unwanted bubbles in the Jacuzzi of the gods. And I am on my bike!