Hungfellows

Leveque's Bacchanalia

Sir Luke Jimmy James here, your man on the spot (of bother) in the heart of the Valley of the Soccer Gods. Hotfoot from the factory where the Soccer Gods assemble the players (see previous missives), I’m currently parked in a Skoda, in a handicapped parking space, outside a highly secret facility. Acting on a tip from a reliable Twitter abuser, I think I’ve managed to locate the Soccer Gods Excessive Behavior Training Centre. It’s cunningly disguised from the outside to look like a London nightclub. The sign over the door says, “Hungfellows”.

If my information is accurate, this is where superstar players fresh from the factory of the Soccer Gods, get their final training in excessive public behavior. A player’s ability to plumb the depths of disgusting and despicable acts, and then recover to play brilliantly again (or not), has become an essential part of the modern game.

Okay, time to go in, feet first over the top of the ball. I’m disguised as a drug dealing pimp, three-piece Armani suit, Rolex, backstage pass for “Britain’s Got Talent”, and a mail order knighthood from Her Majesty the Queen of England. This baggie of coke and a fistful of dollars should see me past the bouncers and their seven-headed serpent, Hydra.

Tempted by a couple of lines, the bouncers turn out to be quite friendly although Hydra hoovered up the rest of the blow! That’s fourteen nostrils for you, I guess. I’m currently hiding in a stall in the Gents, my underpants wired for sound, my tiny camera fully primed. I’ll just slip this surreptitious periscope, handily disguised as a pair of stocking-clad high heels, up over the edge of the stall door and take a squint.

And we’re in luck already! Here come a couple of players I remember seeing back in the racist and abusive vocabulary department at the factory. It’s Terryitus, and he’s dressed from head to toe in a blinding white outfit. It’s hard to tell with the glare, but that looks like Suareziticus right behind him. He’s yelling something at Terryitus about biscuits and geese … no, crackers and honkies. Now he’s expressing a desire to take out some white trash. What a tidy striker!

I’m out on the dance floor now and the noise is almost unbearable but then so is the dancing! Jesus H. Ronaldo is the only one who  has rhythm, as he twirls and pirouettes across the floor but oh no! He’s passed too close to an anorexic supermodel and he’s flopped down! The trainers sprint to him along with his drama coach.

The potato-headed god, RooKneeintheBollox, is indeed here but as you might expect, he is heavily disguised wearing an “I’m Not Really Here” t-shirt, and invisibility shades sold by the well-heeled brand, Emperors Clothes. His ensemble is rounded out by a tasteful, large lapel picture badge of his plain but faithful wife, and their seventeen children. It’s an outfit that perfectly compliments the five grand a sniff call girl he has on each arm.

I’ve trailed the zigzagging party of reveling superstars back to the Hotel Olympus and am currently in the corridor outside the Nirvana Suite disguised as an Ikea dumb waiter. Several player-gods have already tried to order drinks from me and earlier the English Football Association Chairman offered me an England national team management contract but backed off pretty sharpish once he saw my “Made In Sweden” sticker.

What’s that noise? There’s a stampede of player-gods, supermodels, chickens, drug dealers, sacrificial managers, and goats boiling down the corridor towards me. Looks like they’re being herded by of a posse of paparazzi.

Quick run!

Luke James, before he was sent on a mission to the Soccer Gods, was the front man for the influential pop group, Fashion. Check out his rock and roll Armageddon memoir that took Fashion on an American tour with The Police.

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