ROB Green has signed for Chelsea to introduce the club’s new foreign signings to English culture.
The 38-year-old goalkeeper isn’t expected to take part in any football matches, just show new players famous London landmarks and introduce them to British cuisine.
Chelsea’s £50.4m signing Jorginho was the first to go on Green’s induction and spoke about his experience.
“Yesterday Rob take me Tower of London. I say to him ‘Rob, what are these men in the red facking uniforms?’
“He tell me they are Beefeaters. You English crazy. How they going catch crooks stealing the crown jewels in that stupid facking outfit.
Green then took Jorginho on a Thames Clipper cruise before the pair went for lunch.
“I tell him ‘Rob, I want to eat the fish and the facking chips, Rob. The fish and the facking chips.’
“He show me saveloy sausage and teach me new phrase ‘oi oi, saveloy’.
“We get the fish and the facking chips in paper and eat sitting on wall in front of tower block, like the real English people. I take one bite and say ‘Rob, this English food it taste like the facking shit.”
Should Chelsea sign Juventus centre-back Daniele Rugani, Green plans to take him to Madame Tussauds before going for pie and mash in Islington.
Kenna League managers are not expected to sign Green at next month’s fantasy football auction, but interest in Jorginho is likely to see the Italian fetch a high price in the bidding.
“Oi, oi, facking saveloy,” said the former Napoli midfielder.
“We don’t want to send a message managers have more chance of winning World Cups if they don’t show up to the auction,” read a statement from the chairman last night.
Given the leaked Wada report about several managers testing positive for banned substances at the event last month, many believe the auction is fast becoming the last place to find a successful fantasy football manager.
Special Kharine mention goes to Putin More Russians Puns, who after a nervy group stage raced up the table in the knockout round to take surprise third place, mainly thanks to Eden Hazard and Kylian Mbappe.
Sadly, for the PMRP manager cash prizes are only being awarded to first and second place.
Better luck next time goes to Test Team (Please Ignore). Having come last in the Kharine, their manager can look forward to a few nights in the gulag where a hand job from Pussy Riot will be the least of his problems.
One remarkable similarity between the last four nations left in Russia is their disciplinary record. Not one country has seen red and aside from Croatia (12) yellow cards have been sparse for England (5), Belgium (7) and France (8).
In a recent football history where the French throw their toys out the pram and sulk on the team coach, an England player cracks under pressure at a crucial moment or Marouane Fellaini, can those remaining hold their nerve?
Conversely, while the England football team has committed the fewest fouls of the remaining nations, their supporters continue to prove their fellow countryman Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection with a series of celebration-related incidents.
@AskPaddyPower What are the odds of numbers of Englishmen to die in celebration-related injuries over the next seven days?
I stepped into the stuffy entrance hall and closed the front door behind me. The smell intensified as I stood there listening for any movement. It was as quiet as a Berlin fan park at the end of the group stage, and just as threatening.
Carefully I began to walk through the flat. The remains of a takeaway and a six Jamaican lager beers for five pounds deal was on the coffee table in the lounge along with some curious-looking DVDs, but other than the flat looked as untouched as the Spain quarter final hotel booking.
As I approached what I guessed was the bedroom the pungent smell grew stronger. I turned the knob and as the door creaked open I had to cover my face with my arm.
There were flies everywhere. Big, blue and green blow flies that buzzed like a Balkan midfield during a useful spell of possession. At the centre of the black mass of insects lying on the bed was the shape of what used to be a living being, naked except for the flies, a pair of pants around its ankles and a brown leather belt around its neck.
Even in the midst of the city’s heatwave, where the clothes on broads became as minimal as their patience for men watching three games a day, there was no way this level of decomposition could happen this early in the tournament. It must have been here since just after he first round of group stage matches.
These days there were stiffs turning up all over the city. It was normally the work of the manager experiences department. Those Chekist bullies had people squibbed off for nothing more than bad table manners.
But this didn’t look like the work of a manager experiences button man. The place was too tidy, the drawers weren’t overturned and the corpse was still in one piece.
My hand over my mouth I moved in for a closer inspection. The flies continued to foam around the dark opening of the mouth. The eyes were sunk back into the skull, deeper than Belgian wingbacks in the opposition half, and just as shifty looking.
The expression on the face when he’d faced the big one was still there. It looked like a blunted Argentine attack, not sure whether it was just about coming into form or never finding it again.
I returned to the entrance hall and dialled Kenna HQ.
“Put me through to the vice chairman’s office. Tell him it’s urgent,” I barked at the secretary, the smell had stripped me of my politer conversation. By now she recognised my voice.
The phone clicked and the vice chairman was there.
“What have you got?” he said. He didn’t sound in a good mood, like a Colombian after losing a penalty shootout.
“I’ve found him,” I told the vice chairman.
“You’re sure?” he perked up.
“Yes, and he’s been dead for sometime.”
“Was it manager experiences? I knew the chairman would be behind this,” he began to jabber, but I interrupted him before he could lay out his whole, whacky conspiracy theory.
“He wasn’t blipped off by anyone else. It looks like he choked himself off while he choked himself off, if you get my meaning. There’s some pretty wild smut in the lounge. And he’s been dead for some time.”
The vice chairman breathed heavily at the end of the phone before saying: “Alright, collect your pay next time you’re here.”
I hung up. Before I left the flat I took one last look at the poor sucker in the bedroom I’d been hunting down for the last two weeks.