Leeds United v Chelsea. I've been waiting for tonight for a very, very long time. I always knew that I'd get at least one opportunity to show them all; football “Men”, bleeding heart politicians, the FA, Bolsheviks, thugs – or as I know them Bolshevik Thugs HA HA HA HA – that I deserved their respect, in some cases their bloody AWE at the kind of miracles I've done here in this land that time forgot. It's been a difficult road at times,but like those twins from that Manchester beat combo always say, when it comes on top, you gotta make it happen, and believe me tonight, the fat lady is loving a bit with the dirty pigeons.
I enter through the doors of the newly renovated East Stand, little more than a pile of stinking debris with all the appeal of Stonehenge when I arrived a few years ago, now thanks to me blessed with the best corporate facilities anywhere in Leeds 11. I get nods and winks of acknowledgement as I make my way to my dinner table, even from that weirdo from Cornwall and his odd looking mates from Qatar, or Kuwait or wherever they're from. Bloody bankers, every one of 'em. HA HA HA HA. The Russkis seem to have not taken up my generous offer of tonight's hospitality £129 per head – 10% off the normal rate, includes ticket, programme, seat and the opportunity to to talk to Peter Lorimer before wine is served – but everywhere else is packed.
Our guests dine at a margin of 72%, and corporate ARPC is up by more than half this season , a position that nearly covers the interest on the loan we took out to refurbish these luxurious surroundings. Of course I say that like any of the cretins who paid for it – the season ticket holders – would be able to understand things like average revenue, profit margin or racking up large debts in secret. They probably wouldn't even appreciate that we've squeezed our catering suppliers to include extra brain stem and skin in their pie fillings, boosting the amount of money the club gets from them. As a result we didn't have to lay any staff off this Christmas.
I'm amazed these corporate guys turn up in their numbers, given the shit product we put out there on the pitch, but you what they say, a lawyer and his money are easily parted HA HA HA HA. As I sit down I see to my great delight that there are a number of cards in front of me from old friends. I smile as I open one from “JT” and another from “Lamps”. It's a bit odd that they look like they're written by the same person, but it just goes to show how much affection there is for me in pastures old. I bet they hate that diet of potatoes and vodka.
After dinner – Chicken Burger A La Mode, served with Sniffer Chips and a Bremner side salad – cost to produce £2, punters charged £40 – it's time for the game. The ground is full, which makes me feel even more vindicated than ever. Why these people (Dole bothering Yorkshire men in the street – or scum as I like to call them) can't just turn up every week and just bloody well get on with it I'll never know, but like I told those guys in Ireland in the 70's “What goes around comes around” HA HA HA HA. The atmosphere's rocking, the Cornish guy keeps trying to catch my eye and mouths the word “Keys please” to me, but I pretend I can't hear him and he gets a bit lairy. I have him filmed. My lawyers will like that. Come to think of it, my lawyers love everything about me. Mine's somehow been able to afford a new yacht in the last couple of years – bloody shysters! HA HA HA HA. I squeeze my brief's arm as he goes past, but he just smiles and tells me he's still on the clock.
The game kicks off and deep down I'm not really sure who to cheer for, I can't decide which customers love me the most. Chelsea are just back from Japan – I love the emerging markets – and they look a bit knackered. Leeds United are holding their own, contrary to that big conked idiot of a manager predicted, even though they have Paddy Ashdown in goal HA HA HA HA. Just before half time the moment arrives, Jerome Jerome gets free down the left, crosses it in and then the Argie, going down like the Belgrano, nods it in. Everyone goes mad. I overdo it, wind milling over to the visiting delegation and telling them that's what a real revolution looks like, asking them if they glow in the dark. We make it to half time at 1-0 and I have a celebratory carafe of the good stuff whilst no-ones looking.
First minute of the second half Chelsea score. Ashdown, no longer fronting some limp wristed Commie party lets an easy shot slip through him. I tell everyone around me that it doesn't MATA. HA HA HA HA. I get a squeeze of the hand of the missus. Then the bloody wheels come off. Some Yugoslavian thief heads in from a corner. Two more fly in in quick succession, and Leeds United are getting murdered all over the pitch. I can't hear what the Chelsea fans are singing but it's probably some affectionate ribbing about the score intended just for me. Although I can see that years of selling Leeds' best players has left Pinocchio over there with a near impossible job, I'm still delighted to see Headhunters celebrate victory the good old fashioned Kings Road way, throwing pool balls at the home fans. God love 'em.
4-1 is probably not what we deserve, but I need to speak to Warnock because I reckon Micky Hazard is taking the piss still playing at his age. I also wander if he's on a free at the end of the season. Insult to injury sees Jamie Carragher's ex-wife score a tap in, and it's time to go back inside for a quick glass of Chablis. Warmly refreshed, I think of my own motto whilst I look at my reflection in the bottle: “Win or lose, let's sink some booze”. HA HA HA HA.
Game over then and that fella from Cornwall is waiting by the door for me. He's making a “Keys” gesture towards me again. I tell you, from the British Virgin Islands to the building trade, there's not a lot I don't know about business. Or about other people's business, even when so they claim it has nothing to do with me. I've got to say Owl Boy looks like what he is – just another sucker, another snake oil punter waiting to be fleeced, flummoxed and relieved of every penny. Because nobody knows except me that keys or not – and I of course have no idea who REALLY owns Elland Road or that lovely plot of land underneath the training ground near Wetherby – the last laugh is going to be mine friends. How many outfits would you find where you can treat your customers like a piggy bank and keep coming back for more? It's a sweet, sweet deal. And I cut it. So jog on Rasputin, you might have won the battle, but the war is mine. See you Gelendzhik, suckers.