Monday
That's it, I've had it up to here with the tabloids (I'm pointing at my forehead). Vermin, the lot of 'em. I opened the Daily Stunner this morning expecting to see `Merto for England' headlines, after I hit the post on Saturday, but instead they had an exclusive quoting an `insider' at the club saying the lads thought I was a plonker. "Doesn't know his rear from his elbow," said the worm. AND he called me "a complete waste of money" and "a fat b***ard".
Gutted. Ring Stevo, my agent, and cry down the phone. "Any ideas who this `insider' might be?" he asks. "Well, it could be Hartie, or Mattie, or Griffie, or Jimenezie really. Or it could be that snotty nosed apprentice who I reported last week for not cleaning my car proper."
"Or the players' car park attendant! Yeah, could be him."
"Why, what'd you do to him?"
"Nutted him, didn't I? He called me a `flash git' and an `overpaid toe-rag' for having a `Stan 1' reg plate on my Lamborghini. And a `Stan 2' plate on my Porsche."
"And a `Stan 3' plate on your Ferrari?"
"Yeah. No respect."
"Fall out with anyone else Stan?"
"Well, there was that scene with the schoolboy and his father at the gates of the ground last week."
"What happened?"
"The lad asked me for my autograph and I said `no problem son, that'll be a tenner'."
"You didn't."
"I did - it's a short career, innit?"
"Mmm, talk to ya soon Stan."
Tuesday
Tossed and turned on my leopard skin water bed all night, trying to think who'd done me in the Daily Stunner. By morning I knew. Ring Stevo, my agent. "Stevo? It was the gaffer, I know it."
"Why?"
"Let's just say we're not seeing eye to eye at the moment. Thursday was the last straw, when he asked me to do an extra half hour's training. Keeps rattling on about me being a stone and a half overweight. I said `no chance' 'cos I had to be at the launch of Ladz magazine at 1.0. He threatened to fine me half a week's wages but I just said `no problem, I can survive on 10 grand if I cut back a little', and with that I was gone."
"Probably him so Stan. I wouldn't worry about it - you're on a five-year contract so there's not much he can do. If you could just manage to score a goal some time before the end of the season it would help your cause."
"Did you see me hitting the post on Saturday?"
"Yeah, very good. Lucky deflection - it was heading for the corner flag, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but the more you practice the luckier you get."
"Bye Stan."
"Cheerio Stevo."
Wednesday
Charlie rings from the Daily Stunner. He's a good lad, always lets me know what's gonna appear in my `Stan's Soap Box' column, which he writes.
"What do I say this week," I ask, excitedly.
"Not much Stan, just that Glynn Doddle will be a tosspot if he doesn't pick you for England."
"Brilliant! How do you always manage to read my mind Charlie?"
"It's easy Stan, easy."
Thursday
More aggro at the ground. Some Paddy over from Dublin starts giving me grief about how much I earn so I put him in his place.
"Listen loser," I say, "I have three houses to run - one in London, one in Birmingham and one in Ibiza. I have to pay for housekeepers and all that. You should try it some time."
"Now where have I heard that before?", he says.
Dunno what he meant but it seemed to work, he called me a `class act' as he walked away, which was nice. Go to see the gaffer about an improved contract and a loyalty bonus. "But you've only been at the club three months, Stan," he says.
"What's that got to with anything," I ask, as he shows me the door.
Friday
Ring Stevo, my agent, and tell him about the breakdown in contract negotiations.
"Funny," he says, "Barcelona have just been on and asked if you'd fancy a move."
"Have they!?"
"Course they haven't, you plonker, but that's the story I'll give the Stunner for tomorrow."
"Cool."
Travel down to London for my appointment with Irene Jewellery. I'm not much in to this hocus-pocus lark meself but the England gaffer is and I'm prepared to do anything to get in to the next squad (my boot suppliers have promised a £100,000 bonus if I win a cap this season). She gives me some energy crystals and tells me to put them in my boots.
"Will they help me score," I ask.
"Certainly will mate," she says, "certainly will".
Saturday
Up to Manchester on the team coach - playing United tomorrow. All the lads are laughing at the `Merto for Barca' headline in the Stunner.
"Got yerself a waiter's job then Merto," says Hartie. Physio patches him up. Staying in Huntington Manor. Gaffer signs me in under another name because I'm barred from the place (after incident with fire hose last season when I was here with Rovers). Bloody foreigners, sick of 'em - Gazza's right: they're ruining our game. Invite my room-mate Francisco to come with me to Jingo's night club in Manchester but he says "no, I must sleep, vee have big game tomorrow". Plonker. Climb out bedroom window and made my way in to town.
Couldn't believe it. Walked in to Jingo's and who was lying on the floor near the luminous yellow dancing rubber plant? Belinda Harbinger! Whooooah! Class A babe. Picked her up and said: "Hi, I'm Stan Merton, Premiership footballer." Barman helped me remove Belinda's lunch from my lilac Armani suit. Luckily I'd remembered to put Irene Jewellery's energy crystals in me boots. Let's just say I `scored' with Belinda (you can read all about it in The Daily Stunner next week). Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Sunday
Super Sunday. We're live on Sky Sports. Not sure if it was the creme de menthe or Belinda's Gladiator boyfriend but me head's throbbing. He didn't have to hit me so hard, it was a misunderstanding. I'm not feeling the Mae West. By the time I get back to the hotel Francisco's gone on his fivemile morning jog. Bloody foreigners. Did I mention they're ruining our game? Ring the gaffer from my bed and tell him I'm not mentally fit to play.
"Stan? You just ain't mentally fit - full stop," he says. Sunday Stunner delivered to room. Cool: that's me on the front page, with the luminous yellow dancing rubber plant wrapped around my neck. Ring Stevo, my agent, but he's changed his number. What am I gonna do? Stevo? STEVO?
