The Glory Hunters: Pre-Season Friendlies

Previously on The Glory Hunters: When Eric eats a banana an amazing transformation occurs. Eric is Bananaman! No, sorry, what I mean is Clive Chives and Tarquin meet every week at the Slug and Lettuce to discuss their miniscule knowledge of football and letch over the Czech barmaid, Karina.

Clive: Hello Tarquers my old chummeroonie!

Tarquin: Are you ok?

Clive: I got out of work a touch early today so I've already had drinky-poo, I think I'm a bit squiffy to be honest.

Tarquin: What did you have?

Clive: I believe it's called a Magners.

Tarquin: I'll have one of them then.

Clive: So have you decided what team to support yet?

Tarquin: Well I noticed that Arsenal are on TV quite a bit over the summer. The Elements Cup and the Hamster-cam Tournament I think.

Clive: Hamster-cam?

Tarquin: Yep, must be the sponsors. Hamster-cam, CCTV for hamster cages I guess.

Clive: Hmm, I wonder if they'd do one for dog baskets, I'd hate for something to happen to Lord Paw-Paw while I was out. So are you planning on sticking with Arsenal then?

Tarquin: Well only if they win these cups. I mean two trophies, that'd match your lot's achievements wouldn't it.

Clive: It would. Gosh I hope my Manchester United boys play in some tournaments so they can stay ahead of Arsenal. I heard something about the Olimpets, maybe they could enter that.

Tarquin: They may well do, my old chummer, they may well do.

Clive: So what do you think about the Magners then?

Tarquin: Not bad, it's like apple beer or something. I can't believe no one thought of it before. Are you ok chummer?

Clive: I think I'm going to be sick. Don't let the Polish sort see me. Bleeeeeuurrrgghhh.

Tarquin: I think she's Czechoslovakian, Clive. Oh dear. That'll never come out of corduroy chummer.

Arsenal v Spurs: What You May Have Missed

0 mins: After losing the toss Robbie Keane wheels around, arms aloft, to appeal the decision.

5 mins: Ref tells Eboue that the two teams used up their quota of derby goals in the last match and no matter what happens the match will end 0-0.

6 mins: Eboue thinks 'the shops are open 'til 5 on a Sunday, if I get sent off I can still get the missus a Valentine's Day card.'

20 mins: Ledley King staggers onto the pitch holding a rifle and shoots Gael Clichy in the head. Causing him to require treatment from the physio. The Spurs fans chant 'Same old Arsenal, always cheating.'

45 mins: Ref blows for half time. Robbie Keane wheels around, arms aloft, to appeal the decision.

60 mins: Eboue, having been sent off and nipping to the shops, returns with a bag of pick 'n' mix. Wenger is furious, he didn't get any cola bottles.> > 81 mins: Niklas Bendtner does something quite good. Everyone is stunned.

90 mins: Ref blows for full time. Robbie Keane wheels around, arms aloft, to appeal the decision.

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.