Abramovich’s letter to Watchdog

Copy letter

Dear Watchdog,

Firstly I’ve always been a big fan of the show, your steely, philanthropic crusade to ‘battle for the little guy’ is reassuringly heart-warming and you are undoubtedly the ‘Jim’ll Fix it’ of criminal negligence. Not Nicky Cambell though, he always slightly nauseated me.

Onto business. I am the owner/CEO of a company called Chelsea Football Club, providing football solutions to both the 35-68 Crayfish Ciabatta, and the 18-45 tattooed Lambretta demographics. After ploughing a significant amount of personal capital in transforming my company into a market-leader, I have over the last couple of years, tempered my investment.

I’m not going to lie, I’m not exactly a ‘little guy’ as such, but I have felt the pinch of the global recession as much as any other Tom, Dick and Gary. That was until recently, with growing stakeholder pressure mounting through poor performance in the first 2 quarters of the financial season, I agreed to bankroll an investment of £50m to purchase a Fernando Torres.

With my company long needing a Torres to boost the potency of our market standing and to uplift a beleaguered workforce, I managed to source one from a company called Liverpool Football Club I found in an industry magazine.

Now, as a youngster growing up in rural Russia, my father was an astute businessman who only ever gave me once piece of entrepreneurial advice, which I’ll never forget.  “Roman, there are two types of people in this world who you should never do business with, Cossacks and Scousers, you’ll end up paying through the arse.” he said.

Wary of this, I made my first telephone enquiry to the company they told me they didn’t have any Fernando Torres available, but they did have an N’gog and a couple of Poulson’s. Sensing the opportunity to barter, “even for £50m?” I asked confidently. “er…I’ll av te get the gaffer lad, ang on”. Check. Mate. I felt like Gary Kasparov.

A few moments passed when a rather out-of-breath American gentleman answered the phone “hey there sir, I’m John W Henry, Frank told me all about your generous offer, and I’d like to say we’d be delighted to accept. How would you like your Torres delivered, is helicopter ok?”.

“Well, yes that would be fine. Send us an invoice and we’ll do a BACS transfer tomorrow”. This seemed to easy, I thought, smelling a rat. Nevertheless, the record of the Torres model is unquestionable, so it seemed like a no-brainer. As the popular expression goes, if something sounds too good to be true, it invariably is.

My instincts never usually let me down so I was happy to have done the deal, as were the board, the whole company was buzzing. However, this hysteria turned out to be short lived as upon installation, the Fernando Torres we purchased transpired to be fraudulent dross, allowing those bastards to get the better of us in monthly performance.

I was absolutely furious, as we have shelled out our biggest investment for years on a foppish lesbian looking thing which couldn’t hit a bison’s arse with a BMW.

They said they have posted a receipt, which has never arrived. Their accounts department claim they have no record of my transaction and the invoice number I’ve quoted doesn’t exist. Through stifled laughter, their Finance director advised me that “all of our invoices start with LFC01 lad, so we’ve got no record of MUG50000000”.

I’ve been taken for a ride by these cowboys and I also hear through my network of sources that they are planning to take £45m off rival competitor Manchester United for a ‘blag’ Pepe Reina they picked up in Egypt for £50. They have to be stopped before anyone else can suffer at the hands of these fraudsters.

I look forward to hearing from you to explain in more detail.

Jilted regards,

Roman Douglas Abramovich

P.s. I will offer a reward of £1,000,000 and one Soloman Kalou to anyone who can bring me Damien Commoli’s head in a leather satchel. Put that in your TV show.

Complaint email to BT

To whom it may concern at BT,

I trust this email finds you well. Unfortunately, this is where my pleasantries must cease. I am not usually a confrontational person so it is with regret that I contact you in such a manner. Last night whilst contacting BT trying to solve a quandary with my BT homehub broadband service I was reduced to angrily pacing around my flat shouting and swearing like a Milwall supporter with tourettes syndrome.

To provide a bit of background as to how out of character this is, I’d like to regale a short story to you. A couple of years back, in the height of a particularly clement British summertime, I was unexpectedly stung by a bee whilst dancing around my room to some mild commercial reggae. Chaka Demus and Pliers, if memory serves.

After the initial shock, I was hit with surge of anger which left me wanting to smash the offending bee into a sticky twitching clump with a nearby copy of the metro, but having picked up the paper, I was suddenly hit with a pang of conscience. I recalled the fact that once a bee has administered its sting, its entrails and vital organs are torn away from their housing and the bee is left to die. Despite the pain I was suffering, I didn’t want to deprive the bee of a respectful death and consequently guided it out of the window with a glass and a piece of cardboard to afford this sentient creature the chance of a peaceful death in its chosen surroundings.

I’ve since discovered via the quiz show QI that only one species of the several indigenous to the UK actually die after administering the sting. It probably wasn’t dying and so perhaps I should have killed it. But, even so, I’m still quietly glad that I didn’t. I don’t know if insects bleed, as such, but there is no bee plasma on my hands.

The only reason I told you that story is to explain that I am not the kind of person to lose my temper at the drop of a hat. So for BT to reduce me to an obscene screeching gargoyle, the circumstances must have been rather severe.

I’ll give you some background. After idle research into broadband providers, my flatmate ordered the BT homehub service on somewhat of an arbitrary whim. Of all broadband providers, BT’s name, arguably alongside Sky and perhaps Virgin (i’ve no time for Murdoch or Branson), seemed the standout provider so she felt in the heat of the moment that it would be a safe bet.

And thus our hub arrived. Having spent the previous few months desperately trying to beg, steal or borrow any form of connectivity in an age so dependent on the internet, I was delighted to have finally cast our flat free of our Luddite existence and into the 21st century.

The dizzy world of the internet was suddenly at my excited fingertips. Whether my desire was to view videos of a fat Korean boy breakdancing on YouTube, or the rather more murky worlds of Brazilian cake-farting or Japanese Bukkake porn, I could finally surf the net as I pleased.

Suddenly, I received a bill for my first month’s usage; £42. For one month. As it transpires, the tariff we’d been placed upon meant that we had a download limit of 20GB, and were charged £1 for every GB thereafter. I’ve discussed this with my flatmate and I’m not going to debate whether the BT sales department had communicated this at the point of sale, but I suspect not.

I looked online and realised for just over half of what I was paying with you, I could have unlimited broadband with a faster speed complete with Sky TV. Nevertheless, I thought, it may cost a lot, but at least I have the internet. Plus we were contracted anyway.

A few months elapsed without incident. Costly, but without incident.

Then, I was unfortunate enough to be the subject of debit card fraud, with some pilfering scoundrel snaffling every penny from my account the day after pay day before any of my direct debits were due to come out. Naturally, all payments bounced yet I solved the problem with my rent, utility bills and mobile phone without any problem as they all empathised with my situation. BT disconnected my line and demanded I paid a reconnection fee once the outstanding fees were settled.

I finally managed to get this fee quashed after a series of heated and expensive phonecalls. Yet I seem to recall the tone of the supervisor I’d spoken to being very much that they had afforded me a philanthropic olive branch of such magnitude, that any future payment indiscretions would result in me being brought before an omnipotent panel of BT directors to explain why I’d had the gall to treat British Telecom in such a manner.

Additionally, I must also point out that the process of both disconnecting my line, and contacting me to demand monies was extremely efficiently and quickly administered.

Fast forward to 17th January 2011. ‘Blue Monday’, as it was dubbed by the British media as the most depressing day on the calendar. I’d had rather a frustrating day at work, not to mention the raging hangover I was suffering from a weekend of drinking cheap supermarket cider, I arrived home looking forward to laying in bed and browsing internet pornography at my leisure.

It’s important to note that for the month preceding, the performance of my homehub had begun to resemble a wheezing, emphasemic child with rickets competing in the 110m hurdles, cutting out every fifteen minutes.

But this night, on Blue Monday, it finally collapsed.

Frustrated, I contacted BT and after 15 minutes of holding, I was put through to the contact centre in where I suspect to be India. Now, I have been party to several arguments about overseas call centres in the past as I’ve always seen it as an excuse for people to vent snobbery and casual racism. I’m pleased to say that your counterparts in India were charming and, unfortunately, shackled by the ineptitude and bureaucracy of British Telecom. Their dealing with my complaint, obsequious as it was, showed genuine altruism and I could sense the embarrassment that they were as pissed off with BT as I was.

I got extremely angered during the call, not through the dealings of the operator, but through BT’s casual stance of ‘there may be some sort of problem with the line so we’ll probably have to have a look into it and come back to you’. I explained that due to a number of commitments for which I am bound (not porn, this time), I desperately need internet access every evening. He said they would call me back at 12.30 the next day once remote diagnostics had been done. I was called at 1.30 saying that the problem had been fixed and they’d call me at a convenient time when I was at home to confirm so we agreed 6pm.

At 7pm, with the broadband still not working I called and, after being on hold for 25 minutes, (I’d also suggest a more uplifting hold music to be interspersed with hollow apologies and assurances of my importance, maybe ‘No Letting Go by Wayne Wonder. It’s a shit song but its the one I feel best incorporates the scenario in hand), I was given assurances that BT will endeavour to perhaps get an engineer out to me tomorrow, if it’s convenient. Which it isn’t as, surprisingly, I’ll be at work. I asked if we could predetermine a time so I can ensure that I could come back on my lunch hour to let the engineer in. “(sigh), I’m sorry sir, but the best we can offer is some time between 1pm-6pm” replied your Indian counterpart.

Deciding to seize the ‘bull by the horns’, I respectfully requested to speak to the supervisor. In a surreal turn of circumstance, the operator informed me that there is a strict BT protocol for which someone can be put through to a line manager, and my situation was “not severe enough to warrant a manager” as I’d only reported the problem 24 hours earlier.

This was the point that I suffered a flashback like that lad from the Bourne trilogy, albeit less dramatic, and was cast back to the moment that stripy-arsed bastard stung me those years before and with a surge of adrenaline, I unleashed a tirade of fury befitting of Gordon Ramsey trying to manage the kitchen at your average Little Chef. And for this, I am not proud, but I found it interesting that my circumstance suddenly transformed to being severe enough for a supervisor to issue me the divine honour of His presence.

Perhaps, my unabated and deep-seeded subconscious vengeance of letting that bee, masquerading as a kamikaze attacker, out of my window manifested in my angry outburst toward your operator and emotion got the better of me.

Still, despite our 20 minute conversation reiterating my discontent, an engineer may be here tomorrow, perhaps between 1pm-6pm, probably GMT.

I don’t know what I’m expecting by writing this correspondence to you, but I look forward to receiving the thoughts of BT, should my circumstance be deemed ‘severe’ enough to warrant a response of course.

Please bear in mind that my contract is shortly up for renewal, so it would take a gesture of astounding proportion for me to renew with BT for the next year, so I implore you to consider your response diligently.

Hysterical regards,

Mark Jorgensen

Rap translation – Slick Rick – La Di Da Di

Rick begins proceedings by addressing his fellow party goers, advising them that the following ditty is going to be something of a new listening experience. He goes on to introduce his associate, the most celebrated Doug E Fresh and then himself Ricky D, known in some circles as The Grand Wizard MC. He proudly proclaims that he is dedicating the following exchanges to the year 1985 and implores the listener to confirm that he is ok to continue.

Rick is fed up of many of his rival rappers and he certainly doesn’t mind letting us know about it, suggesting that their ‘crap’ rhymes are the result of them being out of tune with the modern age and, consequently, he has no problem biting their rhymes.
He advises that he and Doug face little threat from these outdated foes due to the fact that they themselves are undoubtedly the most talented ambassadors of their chosen field of spitting fire over beats. Not only that, Rick confirms that they most certainly don’t rest on their laurels in this knowledge and constantly seek to improve their output so the listener must listen close to gage this for themselves.

He then introduces the main body of the story with a precursory La Di Da Di (which is a loosely assembled form of Jazz scat singing).
Rick and Doug love to attend a party or two but it is important to emphasise that they would never dream of being the purveyors of any form of confrontation when enjoying themselves at a soiree. He suggests that they are simply a couple of chaps who enjoy taking to the microphone to perform and when they do so, they perform with requisite gusto.

Excluding those suffering from ailments, Rick addresses the healthy listener and rather sweetly suggests that he and Doug like nothing more than seeing people smiling and being in good spirits. Rick says that his main motivation is to be the cause of the happiness emanating from the partygoers and listeners, commenting that he finds this kind of atmosphere to be cool.

Like a grandfather regaling stories to the children beside a fireplace, he implores us to be careful to listen intently to the following story because the events within are extremely commonplace in daily life.

Rick’s day begins with a bit of a lay in, until roughly 10am whereby he enjoys a yawn and a good stretch before managing to haul himself out of bed and head for the bathroom to freshen up. Whilst exfoliating his face with soap, Rick addresses the mirror in pantomime fashion by asking his reflection who is the greatest MC in the land. There begins a strange rumbling sound from behind the mirror which lasts for some 5 minutes or so before he receives a rather curt response to his question. The mirror is somewhat nonplussed that Rick has asked who the greatest is, knowing full well that it is he, and it feels that he has been rather arrogant in fishing for such a compliment.

Hardly shaken by the revelation, Rick agrees by noting that he is indeed the greatest and this is the reason why he gets very little trouble going about his business. He continues to wash the soap from his face and brush his expensive gold gnashers. Rick allows us into a little secret of his beautifying process that he uses Oil of Olay moisturiser to counteract any dermatological frailties and to avoid his skin becoming pale.

After a quick file of his nails, Rick runs himself a lovely bath and after a nice soak in the tub, he feels clean, fresh and ready to take on the world.

He begins getting dressed, brand new Gucci briefs straight from the packet and expecting that he may engage in some form of congress with a young lady at some juncture today he ensures to apply some baby powder to his delicate area and splash on some Ralph Lauren aftershave.

Putting the final touches to his sartorial get-up, he puts on some fly green socks and some trendy Basketball boots and he’s ready to roll.

Rick leaves the house and no sooner is he half way down the road when he realises he’s forgotten an integral part of the outfit, his Kangol hat, so back he trundles.

Finally ready he meanders, somewhat aimlessly, down a local alleyway where he encounters a girl he knows from the valley, entertainingly named Sally. Now, Rick briefly eludes to the fact that he and Sally have had some previous.

This time, however, Sally seems extremely upset so Rick asks her what’s wrong to which she replies with a blubbersome tirade that since Rick left her, she’s been struggling to cope emotionally and that he has no idea just how much love she still holds for him even despite the fact he left her.

Forever the gent, Rick consoles poor Sally and out the corner of his (good) eye, he spots Sallys mother approaching with her two children. Her mother says hello to Rick rather abruptly, turns to Sally and without saying a word, punches her to the ground. Once on the ground, Rick watches Sally being repeatedly punched and kicked by her own mother in what is a brutal assault causing the terrified children to run away.

Rick struggles to compute the events taking place before his very eye, but he can’t help but appreciate and acknowledge the unfathomable strength being displayed by Sally’s bitch mother. Finally jumping to action, Rick wades in to break up the conflict and Sally’s mother turns to Rick and explains that she is beating up her daughter because if she can’t have sex with Rick, then Sally certainly can’t either. Seemingly not knowing that Rick had broken up with Sally anyway.

In a fight or flight moment, Rick courageously opts for the latter and makes a break to run away but the mother gives chase and her speed is seemingly as good as her brute strength and she soon catches him.
She rather desperately suggests that they have a nice day out, driving around in his expensive vintage Jaguar before going back to her place to fornicate. She reveals that so impressed by Ricks abilities as a wordsmith she is, that she will love him for the considerable future.

Rather uncomfortable in this revelation, Rick analyses that the lady is probably older than his own mother whilst she continues to confess her undying love.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation, Rick offers her a courtesy kiss but advises that she is simply not his type due to her age. Sally’s mother becomes hysterical and Rick, clutching at straws, tells her that he is only 19, a claim she stubbornly refutes. After failing to placate the woman by offering to get his own mother to confirm his age, Rick loses control of his tact and reveals the real reason that couldn’t possibly make love to her because her elderly vagina must be leathery and wrinkled.

Rick doesn’t go on to explain whether or not this frank admission diffused the situation and rather cryprically closes with..

“To the heart tick tock you don’t stop
To the heart tick tock you don’t quit, hit it!”
The listener is hereby implored to draw their own conclusions.

Next England Footballer Scandal

According to my sources close to his agent, Emile Heskey has reportedly failed in a super-injunction amid claims that he often engaged in the demented masturbatory practise of ‘The Angry Trumpeteer’. During which he frantically smeared his crotch with preserved Dizzy Gillespie  trumpet ‘run-off’ while a prostitue shouted crazed insults about his International scoring record through a trumpet shaped like a cock.

Paddy Power have aleady paid out on the story being headline news in the tabloids by the weekend.

England job application

My current achievements

Dear FA,

I appreciate that this may be a pre-emptive enquiry as Mr Capello still holds the post of England manager, however, I would like to tender both my interest and availability for the post.

3 Lions. This is our national football emblem said to embody the fiery passion and dominance of a Tripartite of regal Moggies. In viewing our exploits in the competitive arena over the last few years I fear Ligers are a more apt symbol of ‘our lads’ and this is exactly the root of the problem.

If you’re not aware, the liger is a hybrid cross between a male lion (Panthera leo) and a tigress (Panthera tigris). On paper, this would seem a formidable duality of 2 of nature’s most dominant and powerful mammals. Right? Wrong. The problem with these lads is that the genetic splicing of these 2 creatures leaves some semblance of each, but at the expense of a multitude of crippling somatic inefficiencies. On paper, they should be an unstoppable force of some of mother nature’s more conquering genus and lineage.

However, ‘on paper’ surmounts to little more than a collection of squiggles of mock squid ejaculate on pulped trees. ‘On paper’ is a wonderful example of the clichéd nomenclature of England fans as a precursory excuse to inevitable underachievement and collectively mourned failure. ‘On paper’ the collection of players we have should place us firmly at the forefront of football brilliance and achievement. In reality, during the latest World Cup debacle, we limply observed these brilliant individual footballers incompetently shuffling around like cumbersome middle-aged pornographers.

This is not the action of a ‘Pride of Lions’, it is the ineffectual splicing of positive attributes together to create a decrepit and bumbling collective. Much like the poor old Liger.

It is time for a change, a change of both regime and ethos. So, here is a brief outline of my plans –

–          Method. I will attempt to infuse the self-effacing plucky ol’ England spirit with mysterious Eastern teaching methods. Imagine, if you will, if Sir Alf Ramsay were to adopt the guise of a Mr Miyagi style sensei to craft these rough diamonds into a sleek footballing necklace of success.

–          Ego. It has been much (over) publicised that the England dressing room is a medieval battle of self-induced powerful erections fencing each other as they jock for position. This ‘culture’ as the news would call it, stems from the constant stream of hot air being blown up the collective golden apertures of our squad based upon their club form and achievements. No more, under my management the players will be treated like detainees. They will stay in Travel Taverns. There will be only 11 beds available and will be attained on reward based upon performance in training. The remaining players will be forced to sleep standing up in the yard. Want a bed do you Wayne? Well pull your non-opposable thumb out in training then.

–          Training. Aside from the usual technical training methods, there will be a number of new initiatives I will bring to the table. i.e. cognitive behavioural therapy to redress maladaptive thought patterns, neutering, squad fishing trips and mild torture.

–          Man Management. Any big cat handler will attest that the dominant/submissive dynamic  is key to the rearing process and I will adopt this method in my management. No team talks, no collective messages; each player will be personally man-managed on a personal and rotational basis to ensure maximum effectiveness of individual respect and quash the irreverent pack mentality currently exhibited. 

I hope this brief overview provides requisite credence to highlight the overhaul in culture I can bring to the role.

This brings me nicely onto my experience and achievements. I accept that I am perhaps a little ill-equipped for the role off first glance, but if there is a lesson to be learnt from World Cup 2010 it is again that we cannot read too much in to idle perception. Off first glance England could have easily won this Trophy, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, Ssshteve Van McLaren was appointed England manager despite his inability to manage a buggery at a barn dance.

–          Attached to this mail is a screen shot of my last management campaign with Blackburn Rovers on Championship manager. As you can see, my record is inconceivably good. 10 points clear, +80 goal difference from 29 games, unbeaten league season; despite the shoestring-budget I was afforded by the Lancashire minnows. I also achieved FA Cup success in the same season and can send you a screen shot to ratify this should you desire.

–          I guided Rainford Rangers under 11’s football team to, again, league and cup gory in my first season in change, even despite the fact that my stalwart captain had a tendency to cry and wet himself during important matches.

–          At Plattfields Park in Manchester one day this very summer, I managed a collection of my friends for a game we were challenged to by some local youths. Despite the appalling fitness and evident hangovers displayed my troops, I presided over a magnificent 23-20 victory. Spritely youthfulness and ability is no match for ruthless tactical nous and unbridled psychobattery.

I believe these facts and statistics speak for themselves and I would be delighted for the opportunity to discuss more at interview. If you do need further persuasion, please find below a couple of references.

There has been much said that we must now revert to having an English manager at the helm and I would like to allay any concerns of my suitability on this front. I know you are no slouches down there at FA HQ so you will have noticed that my surname is Jorgensen and, consequently, am no thoroughbred Englishman. My Danish heritage (along with a dash of Irish, a touch of Scottish and a sprig of Latvian), should not discount me from the running as I can confirm that I was born and bred of these Isles and although I may have a innate propensity to seek bacon or pillage a homeland or two, I am as English as Greg Rusedski ever was.

I look forward to the opportunity restoring national pride and transforming these ‘3 Ligers’ back into the ‘3 Lions’ we long them to be. I am the Madcap Football scientist to reverse the effects of the football centric splicing which has caused so many to shed upsetting water from their faces for so long.

Thank you for considering my application and your feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Ambitious regards,

Mark Jorgensen

Manchester Confidential

Advertising, football and sandwich Attaché

“I’ve only known Mark for 4 weeks but in that time I have seen evidence enough to confirm that he would be the ideal candidate to really shake things up”

Jonathan Schofield

Editor. Manchester Confidential

“He doesn’t play by the rules my boy, but he gets results God damn it”

Steve Jorgensen. Father.

Oh Shit-zerland

Swiss enter Administration as Global Crisis Deepens

Report by Freddy terror

With the financial capitulation of Portsmouth FC still disturbingly fresh in the memory, the Global recession was plunged further into chaos last night after it was announced that Switzerland is to enter administration following a period of dramatic financial decline.

Once the millionaire’s playground due to its ‘Tax Haven’ status, it has been revealed that the country has been wracking up monumental debts for decades in order to compete with other opulent European rivals such as San Tropez and Montecarlo. Global Economic specialist for Reuters Barry Manlove guffawed “turns out there are as many holes in their economy as there is in their cheese” in a transparently rehearsed interview.

Administrators were called into parliament in Geneva last night and began the process of selling assets to address the payment of overdue debts. The Swiss Armed Forces were immediately sold to Belgium for a cut price of €1.5m. In addition, the Intellectual property to many of Switzerland’s most revered assets, including Cuckoo Clocks and novelty ‘combat’ knives have been referenced on the administrators asset register for sale to appease creditors.

“Catastrophic Blow”

To further compound the nation’s woes, the process of administration leaves the Swiss facing a 9 point deduction in 2010 Eurovision Song Contest, a spokeswoman for Terry Wogan confirmed. Swiss Culture Secretary Manfred Fringl said of the decision “It’s a catastrophic blow. It’s one thing to strip a country of their financial assets and armed forces but to place our Eurovision entries success in jeopardy before they’ve even stepped on stage is an inconceivably inhumane ruling and we shall be appealing to the European Court of Human Rights immediately.”

Following the announcement, riot police were drafted in to Geneva as a precautionary measure after thousands of protesters gathered in the city displaying placards and melting waxwork effigies of Wogan with industrial strength acid.

The true extent of the debts are yet to be revealed but it is being widely reported that the leaders of the Swiss economy have been using funds held in high interest accounts of many high profile names to plug the gaps over their overspending. Saviour of the Universe Bob Geldoff has already appeared live on Jonathan Ross’ talk show and directed a piece to camera addressing the Swiss authorities demanding “give me the fuckin’ money!! I er..need it for all the hungry children and that.”

The administrators are due to release a statement early next week to reveal the true extent of the crisis.