FAT FRANK, Roo, Captain Fantastic, Goldenballs and Crouchy were the first to climb the apples and pears up to the team room in the swank five-star hotel on the outskirts of London.
“Nice, innit?” said Fat Frank, also known as Lamps, and a midfield general with the sort of IQ that Mensa members only dream of attaining, as he surveyed the team room.
Roo was under orders from Fergie to rest his weary Kingdom Come and plonked himself on a red velvet-covered Tony Blair.
“Oi, who’s that Bacardi Breezer over there?” he wondered aloud, Roo’s eagle eyes settling on a James Bond look-alike with a microphone and video camera in the corner of the private room.
“Sorry, mate, just have to leave this gizmo here . . . . I’ll be gone in a Cock Linnet.”
Goldenballs – with a Peter Pan groomed in California and Milan – gave the man-who-looked-like-a-waiter in the tuxedo one of his special smiles as he made to leave the room. “Hold on. Can you flick on the Ronan Keating? It’s Steve Bould in here . . . oh, and any chance of a pot of Bruce Lee? Just leave it on the Aunt Mabel when it’s ready. Tom Hanks for that.”
The five were tempted to turn on the Matthew Kelly but decided it wouldn’t go down well with the manager who, along with the rest of the team, was due back from the Fat Boy Slim any time soon. So, instead, Captain Fantastic took up a copy of the Holy Ghost and looked at the betting odds for the match against Egypt that night.
Captain Fantastic broke into a fit of the giggles. “What’s the Jackanory? What’s given you the Flight Lieutenant Biggles then?” wondered Crouchy.
“I see you’re down here at 50 to 1 to score two goals tonight,” replied the skipper, his mind racing back to the barren times he’d endured with his erstwhile club-mate in front of The Kop before he was hiked off to newer pastures.
“Worth a Sol Campbell that is,” Crouchy replied, “how about a Pavarotti?” Crouchy flicked a tenner in his captain’s face, before realising he wasn’t even starting the game. His confidence disappeared. “Oh, . . . . that’s if I get to play.”
Crouchy looked across to Roo. “Aren’t you injured?” he asked. Roo nodded, but explained the doctor had given him some Gary Abbletts and, a smirk rising to his face, added that even when only half-fit he was still a better call to lead England’s attack. “Are you on the Gary Neville?” asked Crouchy.
Goldenballs was growing bored with the conversation and started playing with the device the waiter had left behind on the table. “What do you think this is for? Do you think the Gaffer wants us to sing a song to build up team morale?”
With that, everyone else in the room broke into a version of the Spice Girls’ hit single, Goodbye. Goldenballs looked somewhat bemused. “Why? Who’s leaving?” he asked.
His team-mates shook their heads and moved on to other matters, like how much money they were earning for opening supermarkets. “I’ve paid a lot of Bees Wax this year,” one of them moaned, wondering why the sportsman’s tax emption across in Ireland wasn’t brought in by their own government in Westminster.
Their in-depth deliberations on the price of Vera Lynns and Britney Spears were cut short by the grand entrance of the manager and the rest of the team. “We’ve got five hours to kill. I’ve a good idea to build up team morale,” said The Gaffer. “We’re going to play a game . . . . ‘I Spy’. Who wants to go first?”
