Hummer! Welshman! Abuse! Sussed!
I have never really warmed to Rob Earnshaw. He's a cocky little bastard, and he played for Derby (Boooooo) and Norwich (where I live). I always thought he was over-rated, and had heard many tales about his superior attitude in local bars and clubs. When I met him therefore, I was ready to be unimpressed. And, surprisingly, he lived down to my expectations.

I was sitting outside a city centre tapas bar late on a weekday afternoon with a friend (well, a former friend, we fell out over work, he acted the twat and so I kidnapped his James Brown and set him up with a thousand free ad calls). We were sipping our San Miguels, snacking, when a Hummer pulled up, directly onto a double yellow and cutting off the corner of the pavement.

"Look at that twat!" I said to my friend, as we watched the shiny spinners on is wheels gradually glide to a halt. "Flash motor, but no regard for others. The pillock!"

Out of the car climbed perhaps the smallest man I've ever seen. Rob Earnshaw, no less. Dressed as the archetypal hp-hop twat, hat on sideways, and accompanied by the standard Tango-Girl. He swaggered over to us, legs akimbo, demonstrating his wealth and bling, revelling in the attention but not being quite self-aware enough to realise it was not adulation he was experiencing but a cross between wonder and repulsion.

"Right", I thought, "it's time to take you down a peg or two". So, a plan was hatched. At the time, Earnshaw wasn't really justifying the transfer fee that had been paid for him by Norwich, so I wrote a brief note. It read something like

"My name is Rob Earnshaw. I earn a fortune and own a Hummer (although cannot park in a registered bay like a normal person). I cost Norwich a lot of money and have so far failed to justify my wages or transfer fee. I promise to try harder to succeed. I will also stop dressing like a twat. I also apologise to the sheep I shagged while at Derby County"

The intention was to fold the paper over and trick him into signing it, before scanning it and sending it to the paper, some footy sites and so on. All pretty juvenile stuff (as you might expect).

I slipped my jeans don to below bum level, loosened my belt, put my shades on and swaggered into the restaurant.

"Yo" I called out. "Earnshaw, ma man" I threw some gangsta hand signals.

"Can I have your autograph please, bredren?"

He looked at me, and you could see him wondering if someone was taking the piss. He took the paper...

Opened it, Read it, Said I was a Sucker. Well, actually, an expression of baffled rage flitted across his chipmunk like face and he told me to fuck off. He may even have called me a fat cunt. I couldn't argue. I laughed, and left.

He is now a striker for my club (Forest), and I still hate the little sod (although I regret to say I have a grudging admiration for him).

On the other hand, I've met Darren Huckerby loads of times (he refereed our footy match on Friday) and he's a lovely chap.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:47, 4 replies)

maybe you should have
got the autograph, you know, first? and then written the note?
(surlygirl spanked your monkey on, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:52, closed)

This is a great idea...
and one to bear in mind for the future.

*belms*
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:55, closed)

Tay-pas
I think youll find it's pronounced Tay-pas.
(kitescreech still here, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 17:45, closed)

Darren Huckerby
Nice bloke!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 4 Feb 2010, 22:13, closed)