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.

“I’M BACK, BABY!” I yelled as I walked down the arrivals ramp of LGW London Gatwick. As a crowd of women recoiled from my announcement I came to a sudden realization. I missed the Premier League! I had spent the last week tanning my bod (body) on the sunny beaches of Cancun, Mexico. Little did I know, the Premier League stops for no man, not even I.

“MOVE OUT THE WAY!” I screamed, pushing passed the same crowd of women, who were at this point crying. I later learned that one of the women had just returned from her honeymoon and that her husband ran away with one of the housekeeping staff at the resort.

I bolted like a cheetah to the local pub, The Coppingham Arms, just over a kilometre away. I stored my luggage in a toilet at the airport for safekeeping. Don’t worry- I know what you’re thinking. I left a note on it that said, quite clearly, “NOT A BOMB!”

I kicked open the door to The Coppingham Arms, much to the displeasure of the landlord of the local (I think he was just intimidated, as the door opened a whopping 62 degrees (approximately)). I was dripping with sweat at this point as well, making me look even more grotesque.

“Quick, Skip, what are the scores?” I asked smoothly. I try an avoid speaking to the working class, but I’m cultured enough to adopt their vocabulary when needed. It’s an important part of being a media personnel.

“Excuse me?” said the landlord.

I then explained my situation to him. After a lengthy debate over the ‘so-called’ etiquettes of pub patronism, and me agreeing to pay for the next two rounds of everyone in the pub, he agreed to share the scores with me. I quickly hurried him along as he tried to explain the happenings of Southampton vs Manchester United and Chelsea vs Sheffield United.

“NEXT!” I yelled boldly into his face, “How’d MY team do?”

“Who do you support?” he asked.

“Well, isn’t in obvious? Have you never heard of me? It’s very much on the record!” I rambled, using all of my will power not to give him a real attitude adjustment. “NORWICH MATE!” I said, once again channelling the voice of a working-class male.

After Sam (his name wasn’t Skip after all) told me that Norwich had lost (to Newcastle of all teams) I wanted to punch a hole through something. I looked around for things to hit. A stool? Too firm. A serviette? It can’t be done. A person? Best not. I decided to reserve my anger (as I learned to do in last week’s Pear Tree Roundup) and let it out in short bursts.

I walked back to the airport, occasionally stomping on the ground or kicking a rock. I was just 100 meters away from the arrivals gate when I was tackled to the ground by a police officer. They had found my bag, and obviously didn’t read the note.

The brought me into a room with a light hanging in the middle. I was fighting back tears.

“Please, not the gloves,” I whimpered. The confused officer calmed me down with a glass of water, then explained to me why leaving a bag hidden in an airport isn’t allowed, and that if you sprint away after, it’s even more suspicious. I disagreed with almost everything he said, but I played along. I was free. I was back. I am [name redacted].