A well-known media personnel from North Norfolk had agreed to correspond on Premier League games for Ronnie Dog Media. In fear that it may tarnish his ‘prestigious’ name in the world of British media, he wishes to remain unnamed. Here are his ramblings.
Last week I opted out of my obligation to write for this ridiculous publication. I mean, it’s hardly the BBC (British Broadcasting Company), is it? Does anyone actually read this thing? I wouldn’t. I imagine someone like Danny Dyer would try and read this blog, assuming he could understand words longer than four letters.
I digress. But, uh, hello, is anyone going to say anything about Norwich City? Am I right? Aren’t they just the greatest team in the world? Aren’t they just so damn good? WRONG! They are nothing more than a dung beetles sh*t sack. I have cheered this club on ever since their promotion. I deserve more. We all do. Last week they lost out to Brighton, and this week it was Watford. Has anyone ever heard of Watford? I mean, I have, but that’s not really my point. I went down to my local establishment for their finest bitter after the game to take my mind off of the result.
“Pour me a cold one matey,” I said to the barman as I slapped down a five-pound note. “There’s more where that came from,” I followed with a suggestive wink.
I guzzled down my pint in a record 15 minutes. I like to drink my beverages quickly so they don’t get too warm, but on this occasion, I was getting a bit carried away. Two pints later and I was absolutely off the walls. I was quite close to calling it a night as well, but as fate would have it my night was only just getting started. As I walked towards the door, who should walk in but Hugh Grant.
“HUGH!” I screamed with excitement.
“Well hello good fellow,” said Hugh. “Good heavens, you look like you’ve been through the wringer. I’d better call you a taxi my good chap.”
“Forget it,” I slurred. Although I said it with the utmost clarity.
Hugh and I spent the rest of the night drinking and laughing. Eventually, we got up on the stage and started singing Elton John together on the karaoke. We ordered shot after shot, and soon we had moved on from Elton John to U2. Soon we were both slurring our words and stumbling across the pub floor.
We had gone from two composed well-dressed men with wisdom beyond our years to a couple of boozed-up karaoke maniacs in a matter of hours. We had lost our rational thought, but not our dignity.
“Oh, gosh,” said Hugh. “I seem to be feeling a bit funny. Perhaps it’s time to call it a night, eh chap?”
Then it dawned on me. While Hugh Grant and I had fallen from riches to rags in a matter of hours, a few aspirins and a Lucozade in the morning would bring us back to our regular selves. Norwich were flying at the beginning of the season, but have been stumbling for a few weeks now. Perhaps a bit of rest during the international break is all they need to sober up?
