I realize, having just seen the story below on the BBC website, that I made a mistake in my previous post. Rather than an Italian footballer, I should have stated that Leona Lewis weeps like a 12 year old Bolivian footballer.
What was his father thinking? Something Pythonesque perhaps?
[SCENE. A Bolivian football stadium. The manager of the losing team paces up and down the touchline.]
MANAGER: It's about time that bloody layabout son of mine got off the bench and earned himself a proper living like I did when I were 'is age! Mauricio! Get over 'ere!
[A small boy runs towards him. The manager gives a piece of paper to the linesman, who holds up two numbers. A player exits the field, and the small boy runs onto the pitch. The ball rolls his way, and he traps it. He is immediately scythed to the ground by a hulking opposition centre half and bursts into tears.]
MANAGER: Get up you great pansy, stop rollin' about on t'floor!
[At this point the boy's mother runs onto the pitch and starts hitting her son's assailant with her handbag.]
MOTHER: You brute! Why don't you pick on someone your own size?
CENTRE-HALF: Madam, it's a professional football match. If he can't deal with the rough and tumble he should probably go back to playing for the under-13s.
MOTHER: How dare you talk about my precious Mauricio like that!
[She thumps him again with her handbag, at which point the referee intervenes.]
REFEREE [to the centre-half]: It's a booking for you, my lad. [Then, turning to the lady] Madam, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the pitch, otherwise I'm going to have to report your conduct to FIFA.
CENTRE-HALF [sotto voce]: Shouldn't that be UNICEF?
MOTHER: I heard that!
I fell off me chair, Brian
What was his father thinking? Something Pythonesque perhaps?
[SCENE. A Bolivian football stadium. The manager of the losing team paces up and down the touchline.]
MANAGER: It's about time that bloody layabout son of mine got off the bench and earned himself a proper living like I did when I were 'is age! Mauricio! Get over 'ere!
[A small boy runs towards him. The manager gives a piece of paper to the linesman, who holds up two numbers. A player exits the field, and the small boy runs onto the pitch. The ball rolls his way, and he traps it. He is immediately scythed to the ground by a hulking opposition centre half and bursts into tears.]
MANAGER: Get up you great pansy, stop rollin' about on t'floor!
[At this point the boy's mother runs onto the pitch and starts hitting her son's assailant with her handbag.]
MOTHER: You brute! Why don't you pick on someone your own size?
CENTRE-HALF: Madam, it's a professional football match. If he can't deal with the rough and tumble he should probably go back to playing for the under-13s.
MOTHER: How dare you talk about my precious Mauricio like that!
[She thumps him again with her handbag, at which point the referee intervenes.]
REFEREE [to the centre-half]: It's a booking for you, my lad. [Then, turning to the lady] Madam, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the pitch, otherwise I'm going to have to report your conduct to FIFA.
CENTRE-HALF [sotto voce]: Shouldn't that be UNICEF?
MOTHER: I heard that!
I fell off me chair, Brian
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