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By Roxy Beaujolais, our correspondent in foreign parts.
Well, my little Tour Eiffels, my little je ne sais quoi. Tony advertised for a foreign correspondent, I replied, got the job, and he sent me off to… Manchester.
I know it is a foreign country et al, but realmente, I mean. It’s not even in Europe. I am sure we passed Groenland on the way out.
The cause of my first assignment was the opening of Billy the Dog’s new Creationist Bar in the outer wastelands beyond civilisation, and I must say it was a night to remember. The Chums of Chance were there taking photos, and it was Such Fun. I have never seen Billy so extasié.
But first, of course, before the evening’s fun, we trooped off to the Stade City of Manchester. There was a moment of difficult when this stupid little man with a strange accent asked for my ticket, but I quickly explained that I, being a taxpayer in the UK, had paid for the Stade, and thus was entitled to free entry. He was about to argue, but Billy stepped up, fist at the end of his wrist, and that seemed to settle the matter.
After the match I managed a word with Sheik Yermoney who runs the show, and put to him the question on the lips of tout le mond, “How will your funny little club de football meet Uefa’s new financial fair-play rules Monsieur Le Sheikh?”
He looked at me with an Arabic look, which had a definite sense of narquois in it, so I explained.
“To play in the League of the Champs,” sayeth I with the air of one addressing a slow and rather rotund six year old, “clubs must not have aggregate losses of more than €45m over the three seasons from 2011‑12. Your little essaim d’abeille has a turnover of £87m to May last year, and yet, you silly little Sheik you, this summer you have spent £120m or more on these strapping young lads that any lady would be pleased to meet on a dark night.
“Now,” I added in case he was a little retarded in getting the point, “according to Untold Arsenal which knows of this stuff, the cost of players is amortised over the length of the contracts – normally four years.
“So,” I continued, hitching up the miniskirt and looking the old boy straight in the whatnot, “even if you sign no more players, you will be paying £75m a year in amortisation in the 2011-12 season. On a turnover of £87m. And that’s before salaries which the financial wallahs back at Untold Pastures will come to a further £120m a year, which leaves you with a loss of, oh, I don’t know, over £100m a year, before we even take into account the paying of the cleaners.”
He looked at me with curiosity.
“You do have cleaners don’t you?” I asked.
He looked at me again, this time in what I took to be a quizzical manner. I smiled, as a lady can only smile when she knows that Billy the Dog is not only behind her, but also simultaneously at her side.
Sheikh Yermoney looked at me a third time, with a look that I can only describe as Gallic.
So there it was. In the match, one of the teams beat the other team, and there was a lot of shouting. On the private jet on our way back to Billy’s home in Islington he suggested that Manchester C are going to by-pass the Champs League.
“If they win a top four place, they won’t care if they get banned from the Champs,” he said. “They will tour the Arabian lands, and the Sheikh will be a superhero as he races his camels. It’s all just a game.”
I sipped champagne and watched the world spin by as the chauffeur took us to the original Creationists’ Bar in Genesis Drive, Ilford, and not for the first time I marvelled at Billy’s trademark fifty foot long mirror and the huge dance floor, agreeing to do it again.
“Blackburn?” asked Billy, but I think maybe I misunderstood and kicked him in the goolies. One does have one’s good name to protect, after all.