with hilarious consequences?  Well, I never actually got round to throwing
the old bugging devices away, as it happens, and this week a reliable source
informed me that a _very_ interesting conversation was about to take place
between Roy Keane and Alex Ferguson, in Fergie's Old Trafford office.

So I had the office bugged, and the source wasn't wrong.  Check this out....

=================================================

#sound of knocking on a door#

Fergie:  Aye?

#sound of door opening#

Keane:  You wanted to see me, boss?
F:  Aye, come in Roy.  Take a seat.

#sound of door closing, sound of Roy Keane taking a seat#

K:  So what's up?
F:  Well, I was hoping you could tell me that, ye know?
K:  I don't follow you, boss.
F:  Prefuckingcisely, Roy, prefuckingcisely.
K:  What?
F:  Ye want a drink, Roy?
K:  Err... yeah, thanks boss.  Usual.

#sound of buzzer being pressed on intercom#

F:  Sandra, can ye bring me in a Scotch, make it a triple actually, and a
watermelon Bacardi Breezer for Roy here?  Thanks love.
K:  Can I have a straw, boss?
F:  Ye what?
K:  A straw.  I like it with a straw, if that's okay.
F:  Jesus fucking Christ.

#sound of buzzer being pressed again#

F:  Sandra, a straw as well love. Thanks.
K:  Thanks boss.
F:  Nay fucking bother, lad.  Now, ye'v no been happy this last few weeks,
am I right, Roy?
K:  No boss.
F:  I'm no right?
K:  Err...no, I mean yes boss...
F:  Yes ye've been happy?
K:  No boss.
F:  Make your fucking mind up, laddie.
K:  Err..

#sound of door opening#

F:  Ah, thanks Sandra.  Just leave them on the desk there.  Here you go,
Roy, one fucking girl's drink and child's bendy straw.
R:  Thanks boss

#sound of door closing#

F:  Right, now where were we?
K:  You were saying that I was unhappy.
F:  Aye, aye.  So, what exactly is the problem?
K:  I don't know where to start really, boss.
F:  Try the fucking beginning.
K:  Well, it's just...  everything, really.  I just don't feel things are
like they used to be.
F:  In what sense?
K:  Oh, come on.  You know, wasn't that long ago we were the best team in
the universe, we won the European Cup, we dominated the league, and everyone
loved us.  Now, it's all...  I dunno...
F:  Chelsea?
K:  Yeah, kind of.  That's part of it.  But it's us as well, though, you
know what I mean boss?
F:  No, not really Roy.  What do you mean?
K:  Well, like, take Rio Ferdinand for instance.
F:  I did, for twenty three million pounds if you remember.
K:  Yeah, and he was great for a while.  Now, though, it's like he's not
even trying.
F:  Of course he's no fucking trying, Roy, he's on drugs.  You know that.
K:  Why can't he just come off the drugs?
F:  It's no as simple as that, Roy.  The lads a fucking addict, ye canne
just quit overnight.
K:  Yeah, but it's been two years now.
F:  Babysteps, Roy. Rome wasne built in a day.  Please don't tell me all
this is just because of Rio fucking Ferdinand?
K:  No, it's not just that.  There's others as well.  Ronaldo, there's
another one.  I fucking hate him.
F:  What's the problem with Ronaldo?
K:  He's got stupid hair.  It drives me mental, everytime I see it I just
want to cut it all off.  I can't concentrate when he's playing.
F:  Roy, you know as well as I do that Ronaldo's hair is his mojo.  All his
trickery is contained in those girly locks, and everytime he gets a new
hairstyle there's a new trick he can do on the ball.  Cut off his hair and
he'd be just another workhorse like yourself.
K:  You say that like it's a bad thing.
F:  It is a bad thing.
K:  Oh.

<silence for a few seconds>

K:  Boss, can I have another Breezer?
F:  Sure, Roy.

#buzzer#

F:  Sandra, another Breezer please.  Thanks.

<silence for a few more seconds>

#door opens#

F:  Thanks Sandra.

<silence for a few more seconds>

#door closes#

<silence for a few more seconds>

F:  There's more, isn't there Roy.
K:  More Breezers?
F:  NO!  Well, of course there's more Breezers, but I didne bring you here
to talk about fucking alcopops, did I?
K:  No, I guess not.  Can I have another one anyway?
F:  What?  But I just gave...  fucking hell.  Yeah, hang on a second.

#buzzer#

F:  Sandra?  More Breezers love.  Just bring the fucking case.  Now, Roy,
why don't you get to the bottom of this and tell me what the fuck this is
really all about, eh?
K:  It's hard to say.
F:  And you're a hard man, Roy, so that should be fucking easy for you.
Just come right out with it.

#door opens#

F: Thanks Sandra, just leave them on the floor there.  Roy, knock yersen
out.

#door closes#

F:  Now, what's the fucking problem here?
K:  It's..  well, it's Darren Fletcher.
F:  Yes, I thought it might be.  And what's your beef with young Darren,
Roy?
K:  Do I have to spell it out?
F:  Dinne patronise me, laddie, or I'll kick your fucking arse the same as I
did that silly wee ponce Beckham!  I want you to say it.  Say it like you
did in that fucking interview, say it like you did when you thought you were
talking to the world.  After all, anything you can say to the every fucking
cunt with a SkyBox and a Man Utd mug, you can say the fuck to me, right?  So
fucking say it.
K:  Well, he's fucking shit.
F:  You think so, do you?
K:  Honestly speaking, yes.  I think he's fucking useless.  I think he's the
worst player ever to pull on the Man Utd shirt, and that includes wee
kiddies in the park who got their mums to buy them one.  I think he's a
disgrace to the side, and furthermore I suspect that you think so as well.
I think you're embarrassed that you signed him, but can't let him go because
no fucker will buy him from you and if you release him on a free it's like
admitting you fucked up, so you have to keep playing him until he somehow
flukes a couple of average performances and you can offload him to someone
like fucking Charlton or something.  That's what I think.
F:  Have ye finished?
K:  No, actually, I haven't.  Boss, you know you've always been like a
Father to me, and I like to think I've been like a son to you.  I was always
your favourite.  Recently, though, it's like you've been spending more time
with that useless little prick than you have with me, like he's the new
favourite or something.  What the fuck has he ever done for the club?  Has
he single-handedly turned a European Champion's League semi-final against
Juventus around?  Has he captained your side to consecutive Premiership
titles?  Has he even scored a winning fucking goal yet?  No, of course he
hasn't.  Not on purpose anyway.  And if you think I don't know what this is
about, then you're wrong, because I do.  It's because he's Scottish, isn't
it.  I could never really be the son you never had, because I'm from the
wrong fucking country so now he's here I'm out of the picture.  It's all
wrong, and I'm not fucking happy about any of it.

<few seconds silence>

F:  <sighing>  Roy, let me tell you a little story.  May 1983, I was manager
of Aberdeen, and we were the greatest team in Scotland.  We'd just won our
first ever European trophy, and the Scottish Cup, and I was out having a
celebratory drink with the lads.  Now, one of our PR girls at the time,
Sarah, quite a looker she was and she'd been giving me the eyes all night.
I'm not normally one to jump into bed with any old slapper, but you know,
we'd all been drinking and one thing led to another.  Next thing you know
I'm in a hotel room with me fucking keks down, and this lassie's bouncing up
and down on me shaft like a woman possessed.  Weeks later she left the club,
for 'family reasons', and I never heard from her again.  Until a couple of
years ago.  Ye see, Roy, sometimes you make a mistake and get away with it,
and sometimes it comes back to haunt you.  And when it does, you have to
take responsibility for that mistake.  Do you follow me now, Roy?
K:  Err..  I think so, Boss.  Did you make a baby?
F:  Yes, Roy, yes I made a fucking baby.  A baby footballer no less, and one
not without some playing ability.
K:  Hang on, surely you don't mean...
F:  Yes, Roy, I do mean.  Want to meet the Brother you never had?
K:  I don't fucking believe this.
F:  Believe it, laddie.

#buzzer#

F:  Sandra, send in the boy!!1one11

#door opens#

F:  Darren, come in son.   Roy here's got something he wants to say to you.
K:  I do?
F:  Yes, ye fucking do, Roy.  See, when you insult my family, you insult me,
and when you insult me, you insult Man Utd.  And when you insult Man Utd,
your position here becomes untenable.  You're out the fucking door.
K:  You can't do that!
F:  Oh, but I can.
K:  You wouldn't!
F:  Just fucking try me, pal.
K:  I'll tell everyone he's your son.
F:  No ye fucking won't, Roy, because then I'll tell everyone that we sacked
you for being shit.  So, here's what's going to happen.  You're going to
walk out that door, and away from Manchester United forever.  You're going
to release a press statement saying it was by mutual consent, as will we,
and we'll all wish each other the best of luck for the future etc etc.  Just
like when you got sacked from Ireland.
K:  You're serious about this, aren't you.
F:  Do I look like I'm joking?
K:  But, you're not even from Manchester, you fucking Scottish cunt!  Stick
it up your bollocks!
F:  Ah, the old 'up your bollocks' retort, the last refuge of a discredited
midfielder.  Goodbye, Roy, and thanks for everything.
K:  I...  but...
F:  GOODBYE, Roy!  And you can take those fucking alcopops with you, no
other fucker here drinks them.
K:  I bet Ronaldo does.
F:  Roy, just fuck off.

<silence>

F:  That'll be all now Roy.  Time to leave.

<silence>

F:  Jesus, are ye going te cry, Roy?

<silence>

F:  Fucking hell, I've seen it all now.

#buzzer#

F:  Sandra, can you send security in here, please?  Thanks love.  Oh, and
another Scotch.  Hey, what are you drinking, Darren?
D:  Scotch, Dad.  Just like yourself.
F:  Good lad.

#buzzer#

F:  Sandra, make that two triple Scotches please, and tell those fucking
goons to hurry up.  I've a broken man greeting like a baby here, it's no a
pretty sight.

================================================


So there you have it.  Didn't I tell you that would be interesting?


--
Joe

"Gravity can do that vertical thing you want" - Robert Poleson