Sven Caught With Metaphorical Pants Down This Time
Sven, Sven, Sven.
Don't you just love the sniff of glamour, the thrill of intrigue, the frisson of illicit liaisons? Furtive meetings with influential movers and shakers; suggestive glances and snatched clinches with leggy lovelies.
It's the excitement isn't it? The popular conception of you as the mild-mannered accountant type, carefully stewarding the fortunes of English football in a calm and rational manner towards the logical conclusion of ultimate success - it's all facade, really, isn't it? You are, in fact, one of the great thrill-seekers of our times, the modern equivalent of those chaps who used to go over the Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Maybe you see yourself as a James Bond figure: jetting off to exotic locations for top secret rendezvous with strangely accented men of power, pausing only for a spot of rumpy with dusky harlots, before returning seamlessly into your studied public guise.
Was the most embarrassing fact about the "Fake Sheikh" affair not the publication of some rather banal, mostly self-evident assessments of your squad members, nor the startling fact that you may actually not be committing the rest of your working years to dearest Albion, but that the real purpose of your trip to Dubai was so very nearly exposed? Namely, of course, that you had just defused a nuclear bomb planted by a splinter group of megalomaniacal jihadists under a casino blackjack table with only one second left on the timer, while simultaneously casually sipping your vodka martini and winking at a curvy minor European royal across the table. Imagine if the NOTW had gotten hold of that one!
-A dashed close shave, old chap!
-Not at all M, I used the Sheikh as a decoy; escaped on the bugger's jet...
-Then how do you explain these, found in your attache case? (holds up pair of womens knickers - Sven smirks lasciviously.....)
It's little wonder that you leave the running of the mere English football team to David Beckham, what with the future of the free world resting in your hands. How can you be expected to spend your time considering whether accomodating Lampard and Gerrard in the centre of midfield and the resulting absence of a natural holding midfielder leaves the defence vulnerable to counter attacks, when there are psychotic criminal masterminds converting disused volcanoes into missile-launching evil citadels and barmy ex-KGB men conspiring with middle-eastern bastard statelets to create nuclear arsenals everywhere?!
People always wonder about Nancy though. You know, why does she stay with him? How can she put up with it all? But Nancy's no fool. Wasn't M a woman in the recent Bond movies?
Think about it......
Don't you just love the sniff of glamour, the thrill of intrigue, the frisson of illicit liaisons? Furtive meetings with influential movers and shakers; suggestive glances and snatched clinches with leggy lovelies.
It's the excitement isn't it? The popular conception of you as the mild-mannered accountant type, carefully stewarding the fortunes of English football in a calm and rational manner towards the logical conclusion of ultimate success - it's all facade, really, isn't it? You are, in fact, one of the great thrill-seekers of our times, the modern equivalent of those chaps who used to go over the Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Maybe you see yourself as a James Bond figure: jetting off to exotic locations for top secret rendezvous with strangely accented men of power, pausing only for a spot of rumpy with dusky harlots, before returning seamlessly into your studied public guise.
Was the most embarrassing fact about the "Fake Sheikh" affair not the publication of some rather banal, mostly self-evident assessments of your squad members, nor the startling fact that you may actually not be committing the rest of your working years to dearest Albion, but that the real purpose of your trip to Dubai was so very nearly exposed? Namely, of course, that you had just defused a nuclear bomb planted by a splinter group of megalomaniacal jihadists under a casino blackjack table with only one second left on the timer, while simultaneously casually sipping your vodka martini and winking at a curvy minor European royal across the table. Imagine if the NOTW had gotten hold of that one!
-A dashed close shave, old chap!
-Not at all M, I used the Sheikh as a decoy; escaped on the bugger's jet...
-Then how do you explain these, found in your attache case? (holds up pair of womens knickers - Sven smirks lasciviously.....)
It's little wonder that you leave the running of the mere English football team to David Beckham, what with the future of the free world resting in your hands. How can you be expected to spend your time considering whether accomodating Lampard and Gerrard in the centre of midfield and the resulting absence of a natural holding midfielder leaves the defence vulnerable to counter attacks, when there are psychotic criminal masterminds converting disused volcanoes into missile-launching evil citadels and barmy ex-KGB men conspiring with middle-eastern bastard statelets to create nuclear arsenals everywhere?!
People always wonder about Nancy though. You know, why does she stay with him? How can she put up with it all? But Nancy's no fool. Wasn't M a woman in the recent Bond movies?
Think about it......
posted by Tommy77 at 4:20 p.m.
2 Comments:
I hate going to casinos, it’s so competitive and if you lose you know who has taken your money and can even watch them walk away with it. Plus those high roller casino types you see throwing stupid amounts of money on the table makes everyone fold all the time, it makes things worse! So I’ve started playing online casino blackjack instead, blackjack is a friendlier game as you don’t compete directly against the other players. You’re all just trying to beat the dealer, you don’t hate each other and you can even have a friendly chat.
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