The rain is throwing itself at the parched world outside my bedroom window. I can hear it. It’s woken me. Fat, fast-falling drops flash down as the time between each impact disappears to nothing. The sound is like a gale force wind but as I peer through the glass the trees are untroubled; their only movement in catching the water they’ve waited all summer to drink.
With no fresh Zokora slaggings from any footballing factions, The Bagel can at last concentrate on those transfer rumours and indeed signings that I’ve been so looking forward to bringing to the gaze of my favourite and most learned eyeballs out there. That’s yours in case you hadn’t guessed.
Well, I don’t remember when it happened but I must have moved to Sharm el Sheikh because suddenly everyone’s talking about diving. Here The Bagel is, reduced to the humiliation of an internet cafe complete with the letter…well, the one next to ‘W’ and ‘A’ not working and full blown argument going on behind my head about the correct dialing tone for Jamaica and I thought I’d moved to East London?
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Bit of a filthy dive really, wasn’t it? I’ve always liked the facts that we’ve a) never had players that take dives and b) that our MJ is right and proper and always tells the truth but yesterday’s incident has thrown both of these into as much question as Arsene Wenger caught in a boys’ school dormitory with nothing but some peep-hole lederhosen and a jar of lemon curd to hide his shame. When asked what twelve year old Wallace ‘Porky’ Holden is doing at his feet, grey flannel shorts and stripy games socks around his ankles and covered in the sticky conserve he replies,
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