in a darkened back room

[Jammy89]

of a dingy Cheshire pub, Steve Agnew knocks tentatively on a closed door,

'Er, Boss...that bloke who got Bournemouth relegated, he's only gone and....'

'SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP..i know, alright, I KNOW!'

*sounds of diarrhoea quacking and splattering the cracked, stained porcelain bowl

Ok, Boss, I'll leave you to it.

Agnew turns and leaves.

The sound of a lightbulb popping, a muffled curse from inside the toilet, followed by the unmistakable sound of an empty toilet roll holder spinning, mocking the fingers desperately scrabbling for any last scrap.

'Steve, there's no bog roll...Steve, STEVE!!!....

I'm sure he'll somehow try and claim credit.

[Zippity]

I'm sure he'll somehow try and claim credit.

The story of the sad decline of Stephen Bruce continues...

Tucked in the straining waistband of his faded shell suit trousers is a grubby Nokia 3210. He struggles to pull it past the heaving mass of his stomach which cascades in folds of jelly-like flab over his makeshift string belt and, with his grubby, piggy fingers, brushes away the greasy flakes of pasty; tongue protruding from his lips in concentration, he begins to type

'That was MY team, those were MY players...'

[ex_pat_magpie]

The story of the sad decline of Stephen Bruce continues...

Tucked in the straining waistband of his faded shell suit trousers is a grubby Nokia 3210. He struggles to pull it past the heaving mass of his stomach which cascades in folds of jelly-like flab over his makeshift string belt and, with his grubby, piggy fingers, brushes away the greasy flakes of pasty; tongue protruding from his lips in concentration, he begins to type

'That was MY team, those were MY players...'

And both he and Fatso could have done a huge deal more with them had they both had the foresight and inclination needed instead of their own basics of stupidity and greed.