[SVEN-GÖRAN ERIKSSON’s BEDROOM. The former England coach lies cradled in one arm of NANCY DELL’OLIO. As she bends her face over his shiny pate, he adds another tick to his “To Do” list next to the words “have sex” and below the phrases “polish glasses” and “Portuguese lesson”.]
SVEN: Nancy, my love-bagel, it iss now time for me to mess with the beetroot-like head of Little Lord Fergusson.
NANCY: Of course, darling.
[SVEN picks up one of five Sony-Ericsson™ mobiles holstered in a row on his bedside table and dials.]
MOBILE: brr brr…brr brr…brr brr…brr brr…brr brr…CLICK…
FERGIE: Hae theas Alx Fnaesn wear ples learf ynear meshnea afear toon. [BEEEEP]
SVEN: One-nil, One-nil. One-nil, one-nil. You are my Manchester beeyotch now. Make no misstake. Can you hear that sound, kilt boy? It iss the sound of my olive-skinned temptress licking my brow and complimenting me on my performance. My forehead is so bik because my footballing brain is so bik. Your face iss red because you have much to be red-faced about. Oh yess. You will be seeink Micah Richardss running at you in your nightmaress for monthss…monthss…
[SVEN hangs up, chuckling to himself, ticks “Mess with Fergusson’s head”, and picks up a book of Sudoku puzzles.]
SVEN: A little further forward now, Nancy…