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| <-Page | <-Team | Sat 23 Dec 2006 Dundee United 0 Hearts 1 | Team-> | Page-> |
| <-Srce | <-Type | Herald ------ Humour | Type-> | Srce-> |
| Valdas Ivanauskas | <-auth | HUGH MacDONALD | auth-> | Charlie Richmond |
| 40 | of 066 | Paul Hartley pen 54 ----- | L SPL | A |
Government elf warning: Christmas story aheadHUGH MacDONALD December 23 2006 A satellite twinkled in the sky and three wiseguys from the East fired up their Camel GTis, placed their Dire Straits CD in the slot and headed off along the tortuous and dangerous road, known in the ancient world as the Emate, in search of redemption. The wiseguys –Elvisius, Hartlejius, and Gordonor– had narrowly escaped the wrath of King Herodov, the gorgon of Gorgie, the titan of Tynecastle, the mover to Murrayfield. His inquisition, known in those days as the negotianes contractum super wagius largus, had been brutal. The wiseguys had been told to take a wage cut, keep their mouths shut and sacrifice their first born. The Archargent Grabrials was having none of it. In a vision induced by too much exposure to a particularly strong brand of liniment, the wiseguys saw him and were moved. Along the Emate. They were seeking the Wonderful Counsellor, the King of Kings, the Paragon of Paradise . . . but he was in Manchester after having signed for the gladiatorial squad of United. Instead, wrapped in swaddling Nike, they came upon the Ginger Nut, the Cherubic Chesney who promised them the calm of spiritual serenity, the power of love and vasts wads of cash, plus a title medal. The wiseguys had their own gifts to profer first. Elvisius offered the small chap a bloodied headband and a tooth extracted from a stricken opponent. It was gold. Hartlejius offered the Girning Gordy a minder who wiffed a little. It was Frank Incense. And Gordonor told the Carrot-headed Caliph that he had already given Celtic his gift in the last league match by punching the ball into his own net. The Baby Strachan laughed. It was mirth. Then three shepherds and their sheep entered the stable only to be told that they were off the beaten track. "Aberdeen are at home today," said Lawwell, the carpenter, as he busily went about constructing an extra stand for the visit of AC Milanius by combining the Meccano and Lego sets he had received for Christmas. Out in the fields, angels sang as members of Strathclyde's anti-sectarian squad carefully listened for any breaches of the order passed down by Caesar Jackius whose idea of an orgy was wearing a dodgy kilt in New York and eating three bagels on sausage. Back in the manager's manger, the Red-topped Regent surveyed the three wiseguys and said to them: "Join me in my kingdom of Paradise." The players were prostrate. Gordonor had made a lunge for an emission from the donkey and made a mess of it, and the other two had dived after minimal contact from a cud-chewing cow. His Highest Hibee continued: "There are many rooms in my father's house. And a decent kennel for you, Elvisius." The wiseguys were gratified. The flight from Herodov had exhausted them. They had left many of their belongings behind. In Hartlejius's case, an unused razor and a comb still in its box. Gordonor had sacrificed a small armband for which he held an unusual affection. Elvisius left his best years behind him. And a blood-stained letter which read somewhat poignantly: Dear King Herodov, Could you see your way clear to doing the business in the giving us a break department, ken. The boys don't mind a' the managers, ken. But whit's the Hampden with they names? Could you no just rotate a bunch of Jimmies. Ken. Aye that would be a good name for wur managers. Ken. Yours in hope and in a dodgy coat that looks twa sizes too small, Elvisius. This erroneously had become known as the shortest suicide note in football history. That title, of course, was held by the Phil Bardsley missive to King Le Guenius, of the Gauls. It simply read: "Vous etes un vainqueur." A reference, of course, to Le Guenius' consuming desire for victory in the field against the Celts. But read out by Coistius, the court jester, it assumed an entirely different meaning and it did for Phil. But back at the stable, the wiseguys were anointed into a new house where they need not fear the wrath of Herodov and the difficulty of trying to serve many masters. They gave thanks and the world rejoiced. Well, some of it. The Ginger Grate moved from the manger, declaring: "My work here is done." But the carpenter, Lawwell, gasped: "But Your Imperial Irritant, there is another seeker after grace." The Wee Wonder replied: "Who is it? And let's leave Grace out of it, she's got enough on her plate with that man of hers." Lawwell said: "It's Beckhamius, he's wondering if there is room at the inn." "Aye," said the Carnaptious Curmudgeneous Carrotus, "gie him a tutu and put him at the top of that Christmas tree."  Taken from the Herald |
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