Insider Information

I have it on good authority that if Arsenal's bid for Arshavin does fall through Wenger is going to take a gamble on a player from the lower leagues.

My sauces tell me that the player in question is Ebbsfleet United goal machine Michael Gash. Wenger has been quoted as saying "I am very interested in Gash. He has all the attributes I require. He can go narrow or go wide or even drop deep."

Arsenal's lower league scout Guy Nacologist has admitted "Wenger has asked me to look into Gash on more than one occasion. And I must say I like what I've seen."

The Real David Beckham

Throughout his career David Beckham has suffered accusations of being a footballer of very little brain, however recent documents have come to light proving that this is a myth created by the PR people at Manchester United who realised that a loveable buffoon was a much more saleable commodity than an intellectually superior who could possibly alienate himself from the common man. The following is an extract from the draft copy of Beckham's autobiography. It is a fascinating insight into a man whose brain genuinely is as cultured as his right foot.

"Many people have asked me what I think of pithy epithet by which my wife and I are known in the tabloid press, Posh and Becks. Well as a professional sportsman I would have preferred a more gentrified moniker such as Beckers, something you could imagine being preceeded by 'well bowled' and succeeded with 'old sport', however as football is classified as more of, shall we say, a sport of the people I am happy to settle for the uncomplicated contraction of my name.

As for my wife's little nickname of Posh I presume many people think it is ironic due to her less than salubrious upbringing, however even the most casual genealogist could dip into her family tree and find out that Victoria, as her regal name suggests, is, in fact, 27th in line for the throne. This combined with the fact that her father is good chums with the Prince of Monaco suggests that the only irony in my wife's given title is that it is a gross understatement!

In fact on the eve of the England versus Brazil game in 2002 both myself and Rio Ferdinand were discussing this very point in length over a rather wonderful glass of tawny port. He revealed to me that he is in fact a distant relative of the usurped Russian Tsars. We talked long into the night and, if I may be brutally honest, I believe it affected our performance the next day. What a pair of ninnies we are.Rio and I often enjoy long in-depth chats. Only the other day we discussed the relative merits of modernist film-maker Jean-Luc Goddard. I am a huge fan of his masterpiece Weekend, Rio on the other hand prefers the realism of the earlier French films such as Le Regle de Jeu. We phoned Wayne Rooney to see if he could mediate on our dilemma and he said "Jean-Luc Goddard? I ain't a fan. But I'd give the captain off Voyager one." Philistine."

Our Next Signing...

While watching the football in The Dog (that's my local pub by the way, I wasn't molesting the family pet during Super Sunday or anything) one of the other regulars shouted "My granny could've scored that!"

Now at first I doubted the verity of his claims. For starters he was about 50 looking so his grandmother would have to be at least in her 80's. Don't get me wrong, I reckon in her day she might well have been a fabulous striker but very few players maintain their eye for goal as an octagenarian. Arjen Robben being the only notable exception.

However as a dedicated football fan I decided to check out this fat drunk's claims. I popped along to the local old folk's home and watched with interest the 5-a-side tournament thay had on. Lo and behold there was the old boy's gran doing her magic on the pitch.

She was like Pele, Maradona and Zidane all wrapped into one. Her sexual organs didn't work, she needed drugs to keep her going and her hairline was receeding rapidly. However she was also a bit nifty in front of goal.

Instantly I filmed her on my camera phone and then uploaded the footage onto YouTube. I forwarded the link to Arsene Wenger and he got back to me the next day.

Now I know what your thinking, Wenger doesn't sign people over 20 and especially not English players over 20, there was no way he'd go for this 80+ year old granny but I got in touch with Obafemi Martins and he put me in touch with a good friend of his and we sorted out a French passport for the old dear.

So look out for our next signing Le Old Drunks Grand-mère, Mrs Blenkinsopp. You heard it here first.

Redknapp's Laboratory

Harry: Mwa ha ha ha haaaa! I have done it Jamie, I have worked out how to create the perfect player. Come, Jamie, to the laboratory.

Jamie: Yes dad.

Harry: How many times have I told you, when I'm in mad scientist mode refer to me as master. And lisp more.

Jamie: Yeth marthter.

Harry: That's better. You could try hunching your back more though. Now to create the perfect footballer I have had to scavenge graveyards to get the perfect body parts. I warn you the resulting player will be a grotesque, hideous beast.

Jamie: You're creating him in your own image then, marthter?

Harry: Yes. No, wait. Don't be so cheeky.

Jamie: Thorry marthter.

Harry: Now before I can bring my composite footballer to life first I must brew the essence of footballing genius. Pass me the contents of that jar marked 'perfect player juice'.

Jamie: I can't get the perfect player juith out, Marthter.

Harry: Tap it up, Jamie. Tap it up.

Jamie: It'th coming now, Marthter. Where do you want it?

Harry: Pour it in to this test tube. Now all I need is to shake it up. Where's one of those stopper things you put in the top of the tube?

Jamie: Do you mean a bu-

Harry: Don't say that word!

Jamie: What? Bun-

Harry: Shh! You know we don't use the b word here Jamie, now where are those stoppers?

Jamie: Over in thith nondescript brown paper bag marthter.

Harry: Thank you Jamie. Now to pour it in to the player's mouth. Mwa ha haa haaa haaaa! It's working, it's alive!

Jamie: It lookth like Darren Bent, marthter.

Harry: Bother. I'll just go and buy Robbie Keane back.

Ronaldo's Kebab Shop

Hello peeps! I am Cristianopolus Ronaldopolus and I run the finest kebabery in the whole of the world. Yes is true.

Some people say Messiopolus in Spain run a better kebaby shop. But when he cooks I think there is flash in the pan.

The problem is people do not respect my kebabs because I make them in Manchester. But every week I have thousands of people travel from Guilford and Staines and Suffolk and Home Counties to eat my Kebab. But no one from Manchester eat my kebab. They all prefer Elanopolus Kebabs across town.

But people in Europe do not like my kebabs. So I is thinking I will move to Spain and set up my kebab shop across the road from Messiopolus and prove I am best kebaby maker.

But what about all the people in England who love my kebabs? Who have made my kebabs famous? I do not care about them. I only care about my kebabs. In Spain I can charge much more for my kebabs and everyone will acknowledge that I am world's best kebaby. Silly people who eat my kebabs now are like nothing to me. Anyway I hear they used to eat Beckham's Prawny Sandwiches before I came and once I've gone they'll probably try out Nani's Falafels. But trust me they are inferior products.

But if I cannot set up a kebab shop in Spain I will tell those funny southerners that appear to be made of plastic who love my shop that I was never going to make kebabs in Spain. Oh no I tell them I only make kebabs for Englishers.

But behind doors which are closed I will weep tears of kebab-related woe into my mummy's pinafore. She knows that it has always been my dream to make kebabs in Spain. Oh mother! Why I choose to make kebabs in England? No one will ever believe I is best kebaby man in world while I make kebabs for people who think Darren Fletcher's Haggis is edible.

Big Phil's Holiday

Arsenal's permanently worried looking polymath, Phillipe Senderos, is as we all know a serial diarist. The following is an excerpt from his time on a caravaning holiday with Alexander Hleb.

28th June: Today was the first day of our holiday to Devon. Just me, Alex and Clarabel my trusty caravan. Alex arrived at my house at 6 o'clock this morning so we could get an early start. I wanted to get out the road before there was too much traffic. It's been a while since I took Clarabel out so I was a little nervous. I was fine after a while though it just took me a bit of time to get my confidence up.

29th June: The problem with Clarabel is that she is only a 2 berth so Alex and I have to sleep rather close to each other. Boy does Alex dribble! Dribble, dribble, dribble. I'm beginning to think that's all he does.

30th June: There's not a lot to do on the caravan site so me and Alex went for a walk along the coast. Alex kept on going up these winding paths that led nowhere. Whereas I was all at sea for prolonged periods and without Kolo or William to rescue me. Then I lost Alex. I thought he'd gone to get ice cream but he insists he didn't.

1st July: Pinch, punch, first of the month. I decided not to pinch or punch Alex, I once did that to Robin Van Persie and he was in hospital for 6 weeks. Getting a bit bored in the caravan now. I tried to have a chat with Alex by asking him what his goals in life are. "Goals?" He replied. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

2nd July: We went to Torquay today. But Alex didn't like it. He said all the arcades and surf shops were to noisy for him. I found an old arcade game called Outrun. Alex told me that it was a good choice as I was always getting out run. I didn't get it.

3rd July: Had an argument with Alex. He said he never wanted to come to Devon in the first place. He thought we should have gone to Barcelona. I told him to sod off there if thats how he feels. And now he's gone off in a sulk. I don't know where he's gone. I can't make up my mind if I'd prefer him to come back or just go to Spain. Maybe I should phone Emmanuel Adebayor he's a man who can always make up his mind.