On second thoughts, I’ll respond with details of dream I had last night, on the theme of Van Gall’s announcement that he “gets a twitch in his ass":
Last night as I lay dreaming,
I”d slipped through Heavens Gate,
There to hear the great Shakespeare,
And Robert Burns debate;
Shakespeare: Burns old chap
I’m writing a play on Van Gall, a football rogue,
And I want you to rhyme the dialogue,
Around the theme of my Macbeth,
Complete with witches, intrigue and death!
Burns:
Aye Willie laddie, and I’m you’re man,
There’s none to rhyme it like I can,
So set you’re scene and let it run,
and with Van Gall we’ll have some fun!
Shakespeare:
Ok then here we go;
Act one,
Scene one;
A secluded area in Alexandra Park Manchester.
Burns:
Enter three witches, first witch:
When Red Devils fail and wail in vain,
In thunder, lightening and in rain,
Then shall we three meet again,
On Old Trafford’s sodden grass,
And hear the hilarious Van Gall complain,
Of a twitch in his ass!
Second witch:
Hee, hee, Red Devil fan’s are really rum,
For years they embraced Old Squeaky Bum,
Till they were mired in a mighty hum,
And now more gas!
The great Van Gall has finally come,
With a twitch in his ass!
Third witch:
Turn coaching and nurture on it’s head,
Rule your team with fear and dread,
till growth and creativity’s fled,
And they feel like gnat’s!
And play as if they are brain dead,
Or lazy [oops]’s
Enter Avram Glazer, Bobby Charlton, Alex Ferguson And Van Gall.
Glazer:
Hear me Van Gall for I have great devotion,
And crossed three thousand miles of ocean,
Because of all this twitching commotion,
To correct some,
And I’ve brought a jar of healing lotion,
to fix your rectum!
So perhaps you shall to me explain,
Why your ass sings it’s own refrain,
And your team plays like a spreading stain,
On an army blanket!
For that would ease my financial pain,
And I’d be thank it!
Van Gall:
When my megabuck players are playing crass,
And can’t cut out a simple pass,
I get this twitching in my ass,
The like of which;
Makes 'squeaky bum time’ seem alas,
But a weak gaseous glitch!
Glazer:
Hear me Van Gall, though I may be gruff,
For I have to say I’ve had enough,
of all this itchy, twitchy, squeaky stuff,
And Alas and alack!
If your ass continues to huff and puff,
You’ll get the sack!
Charlton:
Further to which I would also say;
When I was playing in my heyday,
no glitch or itch nor twitch could sway,
or even tweak,
How we managed our back passage way,
With neither leak nor squeak!
Van Gall:
Well when first I felt this anal twitch,
I was very worried whether or which,
It was some vile venereal itch,
From Old Trafford benches!
For I hear they’re prone to swap and switch,
Their Wag’s and Wenches!
Glazer:
Great God’s! I cannot believe mine ears!
To think that after all these years,
Such words would bring me close to tears,
With such a farce,
Two managers fraught with leaking rears,
And a squeaky, twitching arse!
Van Gall:
This twitch punctuates my prematch speeches,
and grows and grows in my nether reaches,
It prowls and growls the more I preaches,
And It howls away,
Like a raging bull in my baggy breaches,
Or a beast of prey!
Ferguson:
For Christ sake Van, If I thus may speak,
For although, my own bum oft did squeak,
I could always keep my team at peak,
Of good conditioning,
With an occasional smart formation tweak,
and fine positioning!
Van Gall:
Ferguson can boast in his billowing kilt.
But I’ve had many a managerial tilt,
And never felt such embarrassing guilt,
Nor so inferior,
As when that twitch struck to the hilt,
Up my Posterior!
All three witches:
Hee, hee, hee, ho, ho, ho,
Round the bubbling cauldron go,
Leg of striker in we throw,
Oh! what gas,
An arm of keeper, a wingers toe,
And Van Gall’s twitching ass!
