"Howdy ye'all, ahm a goin to kick yer ugly limey asses today so yuz better be wearin' ya steely breeches, yas knoa what i'ma sayin' to yas?"
CT has certainly changed since his latest book "My life all over the place" got to No 1 and he won the booker prize for most use of the work Human Resources in one memoir. Got quite full of himself now.
Quite a quick journey for me and the lads to CT's ground in America, via a rip in the space time continuum I found in my shed, next to the bike. Quite handy although we had lost some of the last who had become a bit giddy during a hearty rendition of 'Ain't No Black in the Union Jack' and slipped into a singularity. Bit risky breaching a space time vortex. Like the M25.
"Alriiiight punks, let's get this show on the cotton pickin' road and seez how you like a bit of US hospitality of tha field of play duck" continued CT, his dialect roaming around various American states as he moves through his sentences but always trying to hold onto his roots.
My lads who has reassembled atomically kicked off and my new centre forward Nigel Farage was immediately shot in the head by CT who had assembled a veritable truckload of armaments in his dugout, in a tactic that we had not encountered before.
"Yee-haaaa, see how his skull vapped all down his sorry ass sithee lad" howled CT before unleashing a spray of bullets that quite frankly decimated my remaining apes in seconds. Only the fact that he was so intoxicated by his own culture, he unleashed a volley of shells upon his own team saved me from a complete annihilation. He runs a tight ship does CT. Respect.
So, I leave CT to wipe out more locals, and write another chapter and I decend the space time continuum with my tail between my legs. Just when my form was looking consistent, I came across someone madder than I am. Five. And no team left. The title push is over.
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