Good morning, peasants of Wiggum. I, the Superior One, demand your undivided attention for a brief moment.
My agent has ordered me to address you, the good residents of Hell, Lancashire. I am under strict instruction to pass on his- no sorry, *my* gratitude for your role in my personal travelling show.
Without the bed and breakfast cooks of Pemberton, I could not have provided Juan Mata with the medicinal morning croissant he is contractually obliged to receive.
Without the hairdressers of Ince-in-Makerfield, Phil Jones could not have received the daily blond bleaching he requires to sustain his super strength.
And without the fine fish and chip establishments of Wallgate, Daley Blind would never have had enough grease to keep the hair out of his eyes for 90 minutes.
If these parameters were not satisfied, I never could have beaten your town’s football team into complete and utter submission. Thank you, Vegan Aesthetic, for helping me destroy the collective will of your squad, and hence any chance of success in your forthcoming season.
However, I would *not* like to thank Liverpool, who so ungraciously chose to schedule a game for the day after my showpiece friendly. I am aware this was a blatant attempt at reducing the competitiveness of my match, robbing my players of the chance to play against Jason Piers-Morgan, the Real Slim Morsley and Tonic Wildshot III.
To my arch-nemesis Jurgen Klopp, I say: “hah, screw you and your rabble of lobscouse-munching, coast-dwelling chickens. I squawk to mock you now. Squawk, squawk. Mr Klopp, that’s you – a clucking chicken. Haha.”
And that is all I have to say. If anybody has any questions, please forward them to my agent, who will shred them into 1,298 tiny pieces to be used as tickertape water in Marouane ‘Ronald McDonaldinho’ Fellaini’s Cavalcade of Comedy Capers, coming this Saturday to the National Indoor Arena in Birmingham.
You will never hear from me again. Superior Man away…
