Two Boobs Good, Four Boobs Better!

7.51: Hit snooze button, note presence of big breasted woman snoring in the bed, second sleep.

8.01: Wake. Prepare for intercourse. Wake bedding partner. It’s the wife, fully naked but ‘wearing’ her birthday present. New tits. Must tells lads. Have sex.

8.03: Finish sex. Yawn. Morning ablutions and shower using double cocoa mocha-skin super shaving exfoliating man goo. Recommended by Dwight Yorke. In Icon Magazine.

8.15: My breakfast: Fruit. Cereal. Tea. Orange Juice. Wife’s breakfast: Coffee. Cigarette. Cigarette. Slice of tomato.

8.30: Leave for work. “Bentley or Merc?” Choose Bentley.

8.45: Note remnants of bird shit on windscreen of Bentley. “Must buy new Bentley.” Hope Sky Sports News reporters don’t cop it for their five-minutes-before-the-hour gag reel.

9.05: Arrive at training ground. Note presence of young, up and coming striker from non-league club, on trial, drives a Ford, offer encouragement, secretly sneer.

9.15: Start training. Do the starfish, jumps, zig-zags – break for isotonic sports muck – more zig-zags, something with traffic cones (stolen on night out), game of heads and volleys, last man back, boss cops it and blasts defending from set pieces, practice zonal marking (still don’t get it but can’t tell gaffer) – more isotonic sports muck – fuck around with team-mates in front of Sky Sports News cameras (camaraderie, innit!), five-a-side, tweak hamstring, ice.

10.00: Rest of day to kill. Snooker with best mate, innit.

12.00: Scan The Sun, Football 365, The Mirror, Icon Magazine, Four Four Two, Closer and Heat for mentions of me and/or the wife.

12.40: Spot chairman hiding from cameras/players seeking new contracts.

13.00: Leave training ground, head for Children’s Hospital. Inform press.

14.14: Leave Children’s Hospital. Have mostly spent time in nurses’ station passing on phone number for group sex session with new signings from Portugal (show them the English way of life, innit).

15.00: Home. Sky Sports News. Breaking news ticker – FUCK! Caught with pants down. Injunction overturned. Turn around, missus is crying.

15.16: Missus is still crying.

15.46: Missus is still crying. Watch Countdown. Note to self: Fuck Rachel.

16.00: Missus is going to her mum’s.

16.16: Compose statement to the press expressing remorse. “Trying to work things through with the wife – pressures of captaining one of the biggest teams in the country – deeply sorry for what I’ve caused – possible sex addict…” Note to self: Pass on to solicitor to iron out typos.

17.16: Adidas sponsorship deal gone. Tag Heuer sponsorship deal gone. McDonalds deal gone. Must cut down on Bentleys.

18.10: Take dog for walk. Perfect Roy Keane stare. Press just laugh.

19.00: Dinner: Beans. Sausages. Eggs. Bacon. Mushrooms. Mushy peas. Gravy. Yorkshire pudding. Leftover cold pizza. Dessert: Rice pudding. Liquid: Can of Budweiser.

19.30: Purge.

19.45: Wife calls. “How could you (sniffle, couple, splut) to US??? (something else) and your FUCKING SLAAAAGS!” Wife hangs up. Relief.

20.00: Pick up mobile. 87 messages. None from nurses. Fuck.

20.10: Wank.

20.25: Put bins out. Note waiting press. Give them the finger. “In for a penny…”

21.00: Another can of Budweiser. Playstation. Bored. Porn. Bored. Sky Sports News. Not losing captaincy, club’s being supportive, News Of The Screws to REVEAL ALL. Bored.

21.45: Go to ‘secret drawer,’ dress up as Margaret Thatcher in leopard skin thong, fail to cheer self up, sleep.