I read the news of the world today. Oh boy!
“There is only one signing left and you know who that is.”
Panic on the streets of London. Panic on the streets of Birmingham. Authorities scrambled to restore safety while the Beeb rushed to judgement. Was it consumerism? Opportunism? Or even … Social Network-ism? But your dogged BFBlogette always checks her sources.
“There is no news,” Arséne Wenger sighed. “If there is news, I promise I will give it.”
“If there is, you’ll have egg-custard on your face,” I said. “Word is you’ll be replaceable.”
“All the cemeteries are full of replaceable people,” he replied dourly.
An Amazonian Trophi Wife grabbed me by the scuff of my neck. “So your low-class blog continues its low-class behaviour right to the very end!” she screeched. As my arms flailed, I clutched her thousand-pound weave. “Stop touching what you can’t afford,” she snapped. “And learn some manners.” Then she tossed me out on my arsenal.
As I slipped down a Leeds-side street, a grey van pulled to a screeching halt. The door flung open. Her hair was crazie. “Get in,” she said. “And put these on.” She handed me a pair of old-movie spy-style headphones.
“Becky!” I cried. “Wiretapping up clubs? You’re flouting all decorum!” But she was fussing with cranks and dials.
“It’s all static anyway,” I said.
“You know what they said?” she muttered. “Well, some of it was true.”
I listened hard.
“Today moc moc might be a great day”
“I can’t imagine this Barça without phschshhh moc moc moc”
“Welcome moc moc home! We’re moc to have you”
I threw the headphones on the dash. Pep, that lucky man, had made the trade.
But London was calling – again – at the top of the dial. The press was all a-twitter: Le Professeur was teaching class to Míster P. Apparently, it was an Introduction to Social Media seminar, and the day’s topic was “Electronic Mail Messaging”.
Meanwhile, thousands thronged the Plaça Cataluyna (yeah, I was there, too). They were young, they were culé, and they were indignados. “There’s no future for him in England’s dreamland!” they cried. “We have money in the strongbox! We will fight to the end!”
Him? I stopped dead in my tracks.
I thought we were getting Pippa.