Could festive cheer touch Toon Scrooge?
IT’S nearly Christmas. The Toon takeover talk has reached the level of ludicrous whispers and speculation usually reserved for when a cop car is spotted parked outside Cliff Richard’s house.
We are officially supposed to up the goodwill levels (Mrs ‘walking dead’ May, how about 20p off a litre of diesel and a live charity TV wrestling smackdown between you and Jezza the wood gnome?)
I would definitely show some cheer if my Christmas wish list could be made reality.
Nowt grand like world peace or the end of disease; that’s beyond the scope of this little radgie gadgie, just some stuff to make us ordinary canny Chron readers chuckle.
Maybe there could be a 1914type, pre-Checktrade Trophy, Christmas truce between Toon fans and Mackems?
They could climb out of their trenches at Boldon and swap relegation odds, overpriced replica tops and interchangeable Premier League/Championship badges!
Meanwhile, the decent and brave commanding generals Rafa and Jack could convince each other that their respective clubs’ decades of neglect and short-termism were merely steps in a plan of such genius that only the owners themselves could see it.
A Christmas Carol would have chunky Scrooge Ashley refusing to buy a striker in January because it would make a dent in his untouched profit from years of Premier League TV revenues.
Like Scrooge, chunky Mike would stagger back to his icy lair (I imagine it as being like the ‘Schloss Adler’ from the film Where Eagles Dare, complete with cable cars with specially strengthened cables).
There he would be visited by the ghost of Christmas past; Supermac in a flared outfit from his shop from the 70s.
After an initial shock, he would whiningly offer to sign him and invite him to join the board, or even take on the job of chief executive.
Pure of heart, our Supermac would refuse and silently grab Mike’s chunky cherubic hand.
As he was flown through the inky northern night sky (narrowly avoiding the copper chopper as it shone its light on three blokes on a church roof in the west end), Mike would be shown the rich heritage of the club he owns and frequently renames with all the dignity and imagination of a Soviet-era Communist Party hack.
He’d see the 1969 Fairs’ Cup-winning squad riding tall through jubilant crowds, the emphatic 5-0 thrashing of the Cockney Reds and the magical night of Tino’s hat-trick against Barcelona.
The next ghost is the spectre of Christmas present; but Mike sees him off as a time-waster as his offer of personal redemption and saving his soul from damnation falls well short of his £300million evaluation. He then announces this on Sky News.
Then the final spectre appears – the ghost of Christmas Yet to come!
They take to the skies again, then ominously – as a warning – down below, a dark swirling murk of glowing poisonous clouds would part.
The gap reveals a skeletal figure in a tattered red top – Bernie Slaven!
He would be addressing both the members of crowd at the Riverside: “If you’re no careful you’ll end up like us!”
Our Mike is horrified by this glimpse into the abyss and embarks on a spending spree like it was giro day at Booze Busters.
“What day is this, Sir?”. “Why it’s Christmas, Mr Ashley.” “Well Rafa, here’s a shiny half crown; purchase two of the finest strikers money can buy and keep double your new 10-year contract too!”
Have a good one readers: and especially you too, Mr Ashley!