Date: 13th July 2011 at 7:29am
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wants out. Late last night the defender set fire to his team shirt at in protest during an impassioned plea for a pay rise to & Co turned into what experts are calling a ‘pyrotechnic palaver’.

Eyewitnesses are claiming that heated negotiations became literally combustible when the player, unable to cope with the Chairman’s hard ball iced tea tactics, lost his head and ignited his squad shirt in the North London Club’s boardroom.

Obviously this is cobblers. Made up. Untrue. But you have to ask yourself, ‘What’s next?’ There are two issues here. The players and the media. I’ll address the last one first.

I refuse to blame the media. Whilst we want the conventional press and us online wallahs to report in a reputable manner and not ‘make things up’ we cannot expect them not to report at all. It doesn’t like that. Nor can you sit there in a huff acting all hurt that the news reported doesn’t suit you.

So then to the players. Guess what? Here’s where your problem is. The bulk of these¬† guys have nothing to do and all day to do it in. The bulk of them aren’t burdened academically. When their brains aren’t being pounded with choons via Jazzy Beats headphones they are either being tattooed or ordering bottles of Champagne that cost more than a small car.

So faced with a Chairman who runs a tight ship, knows he only has 36,000 seats to sell every other week and only so much in the bank they have to become inventive. Low animal cunning inventive. Jerry distracting Tom inventive and consequently the results are as cartoon like.

‘We had agreement!’ bleated Modders as security fecked him out a side door. No, schmuko. You have a contract.

Now we have the boy Dawson nervously approaching the venerable Bede, bowl in hand wanting more gruel. ‘Please sir, I want … I want m m m more, sir.’ Except the Little Levy doesn’t suddenly morph into Harry Secombe. He simply takes off his glasses, smiles faintly and asks, ‘Why?

A source close to the player has told that Mickey feels undervalued. Well guess what. So do we, son.

Yesterday I wrote that it was always the way that players came and went and it us – the mugs – clunking through the turnstiles, the mugs ordering polyester shirts with a little badge sewn into it, the mugs who leap about like madmen when a goal goes in on the radio … us mugs who stay forever.

So Michael,¬† if this ‘source close to the player’ is fictional tell us. If it is true then join the queue of slouches and also rans who in the final analysis never quite cut it with the people that count.

Us.