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.

It was 3:15 PM on Saturday, September 23rd. My phone began vibrating violently in my jacket pocket. I can only thank God that he gave me a heart as strong as a Gaur (a distant and stronger cousin to the domestic cattle), for the oscillating pulse of the phone could have done more damage to a normal man’s (or woman’s) heart than a well-place defibrillator.

“Hello. This is Alan P-”

Before I could enunciate my full name, the voice on the other end of the phone cut me off abruptly.

“Ave’ some of that you dumpy twat.”

I’d have recognized that voice anywhere. The subtle Manc twang of Liam Gallagher’s voice cut through the phone line like a razor-sharp knife. I knew it would be coming. After Norwich went down 2-0 to Burnely, I expected the worst.

“Hi. Liam? Hey. Hope you’re doing w-”

He cut me off again. It was like Muhammad Ali versus Stevie Wonder. I was swinging blindly. And with every hook I threw, he evaded my attack, only to swing a thunderous blow to my ear hole.

“Hope you’ve learned your lesson, man. Your tin pot club is nothing. If you lot ever have a chance at beating us again, better make sure you win the next game, man.”

He was right. The arrogant joy that I ejaculated last week was premature. But like most premature ejaculations, I couldn’t take it back. Not now. Not ever. There was only one thing I could do. Play the victim.

“You know, Liam, I don’t quite like your tone. You think you can just call me up an-”

An interruption again. This guy was good. Really good.

“GET IN YOU ARGENTINIAN TITAN!”

I was confused, for I wasn’t Argentinian (unless I was adopted). What did this Rock n’ Roll enigma know that I didn’t? Could he know something about my own past that even I didn’t? I enquired.

“Liam, what ever do you mean?”

He replied hastily. Our conversation, which once resembled that of a boxing match between a warrior and a blind man, had turned into a dance choreographed by Jennifer Lopez (J. Lo) and Shakira (Shakira).

“That’s right! Get in! Two Argentines linking up to pop it in! That makes it five! Have some of that, Alan, you twat!”

Click…

He had hung up the phone. His message was cryptic. I felt like I was on BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are? What did he mean by two Argentines? Could it be that my mother and father were not my mother and father at all?

“Pop it in?” I queried to myself out loud. How could a Rock n’ Roll star from Manchester know such intimate details of my conception? And what did he mean when he said, ‘That makes it five’? Five what? Children? Am I the youngest of five Argentinian siblings?

It was sorted. I was going to Argentina to find out who I really was, or rather, who yo (‘I’ in Spanish) really was.