Hello … Me? It’s weird to refer to yourself in the third person, but how do you do it in the first? And now I’m doing it in the second? Strange.
Anyhoo, since I am very famous for being rich and handsome as well as a great football player, my agent thinks it’s time for me to become even more rich and famous by writing my memoirs about my great footballing, and he says we can put my face on the cover so no one forgets how handsome I am either. Great idea, Me!
I have so much insight into the fascinating world of football that I hope I can remember how to spell it all. I hope I have enough ink in my pens to sign all of my hard-cover copies. I hope there is enough Internets to publish my memoirs on Kindle, and I hope that my agent has enough legal clout to keep them out of public libraries, and maybe second-hand bookstores available through amazon.com, too.
My agent says readers are “rapacious for the salacious”, whatever that means. (Note to self: Google “salacious”. Probably “fat salary plus per-fee publicity junkets”.) He says I ought to say everything I know about people I can’t stand. Like a certain Mr. Míster who says that when he walks into his locker room, he sees icons. It’s true! He sees them everywhere, actually. In the locker room, in the dugout, on the pitch … it got to the point where he’d send me to the showers first, just to make sure there were no icons waiting for him in there. I know, nuts, right?
And did you know about his star striker? He’s not as famous as me, but he hasn’t gotten an Arabic tattoo yet (Chinese is so done already.) Well, he’s got a balls problem. They’re all over his house! He says he doesn’t have room for any more, and is he ever right. I visited him once and almost broke my *&%$# neck just walking through the foyer. I’m thinking about sending him to that “Hoarders” show on basic cable, because I think he really has a problem with his balls.
But some teams are really off the deep end. You know that another certain Mr. Míster doesn’t see his team at all? He doesn’t even look at his players. We used to slap high-fives if we saw his back. He’d just wander around backwards all the time. If he got too close to a wall or a flight of stairs, someone would reach out and re-route him. I was always tempted to punch him in the face, but I never saw his face.
He was kind of a jerk, if you want to know the truth. He even got on my case about driving my Ferrari or my Beemer or my Porsche to practice. You had to be careful about where you parked, though. One time a fellow rode in on his old Vespa and Gerard Piqué i Bernabeu (born February 2, 1987 in Barcelona) and someone else (I don’t remember who, he wasn’t very memorable) set it on fire. After that I just started having Jeeves drop me off in the Phantom.
We all get along o.k., though. I mean, no one can say that we don’t invite each other to our birthday parties or anything. There are pictures of us coming out of each other’s houses and stuff. So even though we all hate each other’s guts, you know, we’re all friends. Pretty much.