Match

The thing about alien abductions is that they have a growing tendency to deposit you many, many miles (fuck the metric system - Britain didn't forge an Empire just so some borderline-autistic little continental cretin with a calculator and post on the EU Commission could dictate how one is to measure one's manhood) from your point of departure. This is particularly inconvenient if one has imprisoned an interloper in one's cupboard for research purposes and taken the time and consideration to render their holding cell airtight. Went through five blenders and four bottles of bleach trying to dispose of the last one (Mental Note - do not wear white when conducting disposal operations in future).

Nevertheless there appears to be something indefinably appealing about yours truly that keeps our friendly visitors from Subspace or wherever the fuck these Shivans hail from coming back for more. It may have something to do with recent experiments that have widened one's personal Suez Canal so that its diameter compares favourably with the width of the M25 London Orbital Motorway. Imagine yours truly's surprise, then, at waking up to find oneself naked, malnourished, bothered and quite perturbed in Milan, of all places, on the eve of a local association football match featuring two teams from the city.

Wandering into the stadium proved easy enough. Wandering in with a flaming scooter - that was tricky. Managed it by convincing the guard that an individual in the queue for the gentleman's facilities was Romanian at which point, for some bizarre reason, several dozen of the guard's colleagues arrived seemingly from out of the ether and hastily initiated vigorous physical relations with the young fellow of the kind rarely seen outside of Glasgow. The distraction provided ample opportunity for one to park oneself in the upper stand and, graciously, relinquish one's grasp on the scooter, allowing it to fall, gracefully, over the tier onto the seats below. There was no explosion, unfortunately, but one's nakedness was undoubtedly relieved to be free of the burden of a flaming hunk of metal. There was even the bonus of a boner once the screams from the lower stand became audible. Although, given these were Italians, it was entirely possible that they had failed even to notice the uninvited object that had been lowered onto them from forty feet above and that their screams were merely the result of their sudden realisation that there was a black man within two miles of the stadium. God bless Mario Ballotelli.

Decided to pop downstairs after an announcement indicated that kick-off had been delayed. Apprarently a violent altercation in the supporters tunnel near the gentlemen's facilities earlier had left some unknown individual clinging desperately to life and who urgently needed to be evacuated via helicopter to the nearest hospital. Which was doubly unfortunate seeing as yours truly had, on a previous visit to the city, taken the time to install anti-aircraft artillery with an automated targeting system on the rooftops of the larger buildings. Well, you can never be certain where Islamist militants are going to strike next. One wonders how far he got.

Wandered downstairs smiling and curiously enough found the door to the referee's room ajar. Killing the referee proved easy enough. Killing the referee in such a way that it looked like he had been murdered by members of a dissident Republican group - that was tricky. Managed it by carving "Go d'eirigh an Fhear an Phoist leat" into his buxom chest with the red card (colours - one learns from one's mistakes) which surprisingly turned out to be made from condensed iron filings. With little else to do, thought it best to don the referee's bloodless uniform, rouse the linesmen from their slumber (brought about by swift blows to the back of the heads with a fire extinguisher - always knew that Fire Safety course would come in useful) and take to the field in the absence of any outstandingly qualified personnel to arbitrate what would no doubt prove to be an effervescent encounter.

Teams took to the field. The poor design of their jerseys became immediately apparent - they weren't bullet proof. What one assumes was the goalkeeper found this out to his great dismay after an unknown individual in the crowd opened fire with what, judging by the sound, was an M40 assault rifle. Poor choice. Muzzle flash gave him away. Massimo Moratti has grown increasingly trigger happy in his dotage, it must be said.

After insisting on a swift redesign of both team's jerseys (now augmented by body paint an ammunition belts, inspired by Mad Max), one lined the teams up for inspection. In a pressure situation such as this, it's best to let the players know early on who's in charge. Decided to establish a disciplinary yardstick. Shot Estaban Cambiasso at point-blank range. Little protest was heard though that may have been due to the tinnitis caused by twenty seconds concentrated firing of an M60 machine gun. Having heard previous reports of the tendency of players in the Italian league to rather overstate the case after incurring an injury, one was prepared for a certain degree of theatricality in their approach to the game. What was not anticipated was for Cambiasso to lie prostrate, blood seeping from several orifices and to emit an intermittent, low moaning. Such professionalism is unbecoming. However one's heart truly sank when one noticed that, no doubt egged on by Cambiasso's vile example, two other players, some match officials and even select members of the crowd had taken to mimicing his behaviour by lying flat on their backs or face down, moaning incessantly.

New Inter recruit Thierry Henry began remonstrating. Apparently there exists some form of legislation that prevents players being fired upon by a match official, he claimed. Not in the Serie A, there doesn't. Henry has evidently never heard of UEFA Rule #22536 - "Any player giving dissent over the officials' right to carry a weapon must be injected with smallpox." Produced a sample of said disease and administered it in a civilised manner to the dissenter. Who did not approve, it must be noted.

Game kicked off. Insisted that play be brought back due to an offside. New Inter recruit Craig Bellamy began remonstrating. Apparently one cannot be offside from a kick-off. Bellamy has never heard of UEFA Rule #456787 - "You can be offside from a kick-off." Shot him in the leg for dissent. Appeared not to notice. Bless.

Game progressed without incident until the 37th minute when Theirry Henry collapsed, completely unprompted, bleeding profusely in the penalty area. Clear penalty kick to Inter. New Milan recruit John Terry took exception. A penalty can only be given if an opposition player makes physical contact without connecting fairly with the ball in the penalty area, or so he claimed. John Terry has never heard of UEFA Rule #572380 - "In case of French: award penalty." Insisted Henry take the kick once he came to, but his sudden decomposition rendered this difficult. Ordered Bellamy to take the kick in his place. Lined up to shoot, made contact with ball. And was consequently blown twenty feet in the air. Bellamy was unfortunately unaware of UEFA Ruling #689114 - "All penalty spots must now include a landmine." After laughter had subsided, shot Terry for dissent.

Match finished soon after. Unqualified skill in arbitrating such a contest brought yours truly to the attention of the Afghan Football Association, where the position of National Team Manager is available after a recent NATO mishap. May take it on. Benefits include summary executions in the stadium of adulterous women before each home game. You usually don't get that at most grounds apart from Ibrox.

Thoughts for the day:

#1 Countdown should feature a bomb that will detonate in the event of failure to solve the conundrum. De-duh, de-duh, de-duh-de-dah indeed.

#2 May be able to get off that murder charge as a result of killing that Japanese individual last week if one can classify the killing as "Scientific Research".