And to think if I hadn’t sanctioned the Bolasie transfer we’d have never got those precious 3 points yesterday!
New balls please
Anyway that was just about the only good news in a pretty dreadful day.
So there I was atop the Burj Al Arab with Boris in my trusty Tennis shorts of 1985 vintage.
He says to me ‘Dick, do you want to use the racquet I won Wimbledon with when I was 17?’ Well what an honour, I could hardly refuse. Truth be told I was pretty psyched up and as I went to serve to start the first game, I’ve put so much force into my shot that I’ve let go of the bloody racquet and its gone way way over the edge of the court, spinning towards the sea a hundred feet below. Boris just crumpled to his knees, head in hands, inconsolable. I tried to placate him with the offer of some free tickets to our game against Rochdale and as many Ginsters pasties as he wanted (past sell by date obviously) but he just kept sobbing After an hour or so of this I had to leave, but I let the hotel staff know about Boris - there’s not much to obstruct a potential ‘jumper‘ up there on that platform.
So I went back down the beach where I found the missus rubbing oil into the bronzed rippling back of one of the Italian volleyball players, she‘s very ‘sun conscious‘.
She seemed well amorous and wouldn’t let me get back into Bravo Two Zero whatsoever, so eventually I relented and we ended up rolling around in the surf eating each other’s faces off, that was until a large shadow loomed over us blotting out the sun. All I felt was a vice like grip on my shoulder before I was bundled into the back of a cop car. I hadn’t the faintest what was going on, but I was bloody fuming, banging my manacled hands on the grill between me and the driver. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ I demanded. ‘You should have thought about that before you let your hands go a wanderings, Mr Lover Lover’ he said.
When I got to the cop shop it turned out that I was being charged with public indecency - a serious matter here apparently - they ought to see me and the missus bumping and grinding on the dance floor at Elfordleigh golf club when Fiddy Cent comes on - that is indecent!!
So they’ve taken me down to the cells and on the way the coppers said ‘I really would have expected better from you - what will your fans say?’ Who should be in the cell they sling me in but the American from the desert!! He was sporting a nifty panama & I made a mental note to hunt one down.
I asked him what they had him in for. ‘Aw shucks , they got me down at the Camel derby running a little ill-ee-gal betting shop - just need to get hold of my pal in Japan to go the bail, but he’s a busy kinda guy. I’ll be outta here like a shot as soon as I get him on the phone - No-one keeps George Lyman down!’
Above; a dramatic reconstruction
Well I got my phone call and got straight on to Big Pete - he was livid - called me all kinds of things but no sooner than he’d spoken to the guys at the station and they were falling over themselves to let me out.
The missus came down in a taxi to pick me up & take us back to the hotel - but as we passed the Burj Al Arab we were held up by a small crowd of people including some police with Megaphones with their eyes trained upwards.
I’ll post later but I’m gonna mong out now and watch some Al Jazeera on the hotel TV. Turning this bloody blackberry off though - Mubarak & Gadafi you think your under the cosh , try living a day in my shoes!
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