Exclusive - World Cup Squad Selection

Nancy swished into the breakfast bar in her sheer black silk dressing
gown, neatly cut to the thigh and dropped a brochure in front of Sven.
"The Old Walled Cottage", it said.

"Vat is this?" asked Sven, peering at it.

"It is the perfect geddaway for after the World Cup. Verra, verra high
walls so no sneakin paparazzi canna see us makin' wild passionate
love", she said, "Hey, Sven, whaddaya doin' wiv the breakfast tings?"


"I am finalising ze squad fer the Werld Cup", said Sven, neatly tricked
out in his paisley dressing gown, sipping fresh orange juice.

"Wassat, then?" asked Nancy, pointing to a row of neatly lined up
boiled eggs.

"That is a defensive wall, Nancy", replied Sven, primly, before
shouting, "Hey Tord, more boiled eggs".

Tord Grip bustled into the room, in waiter's outfit, carrying more
boiled eggs and toast. "Here you go boss". He stopped, startled. "Hey
she's just bashed in Ledley King's head! And now she's a eatin' his brains."

Sven looked sadly at the hole in his wall and then at Nancy poking at
the broken egg with a toast soldier. "It's a sign, Tord", he said.
"We'll take Campbell". He moved a large pepperpot into the wall.

"Now whatsa this?" asked Nancy, pointing at an array of knives and
forks, spread over much of the table top.

"Those, Nancy, are my offensive tactics," he pointed to a knife, "This
is Shaun Wright-Phillips and this is Darren Bent. I intend to use them
in combination to spread fear and alarm ..."

"Faria Alam!" screeched Nancy, lurching forward to grab the unfortunate
offensive duo and hurling them at Sven's head. Sven coolly ducked just
in time, and the knives embedded themselves in a picture of the FA
management team, circa 2002. "Don't a you mention the name of that woman to me!"

Sven peered at the quivering knives and nodded his head slightly.
"Tord, we will not take Bent or Wright-Phillips, the omens are not
good. And can you get me some more strikers."

"OK", said Tord. "Steve!".

Steve Maclaren stuck his head out of the serving hatch, looking flushed
with his chef's hat awry. "Yes?"

"More strikers for the boss."

"Ah, Nancy at it again?"

"Yep".

"Who do you want?"

"Who you got left".

"I'll go check", Steve, ducked back into the kitchen.

Meanwhile Sven had calmed the quivering Nancy. "OK", she said,
"Whaddabout the toast?"

"The toast lays out my formation for the first round," he looked at
Nancy sadly. "Nancy, you hav eaten Jermaine Defoe's left leg. 'Ow can I
take a striker wiv no left leg?"

Nancy shrugged, and munched on the unfortunate striker's other lower limb.
"P'raps you need to change your formation." She indicated a marmite
covered soldier. "Why not push Cole forward, ee's a goal scorer
no?"

Sven threw his hands in the air in excitement.

"Eureka!" he exclaimed.


Nancy shreaked. "Don't a you mention the name of that Swedish trollop
to me," and grabbing hold of Andy Johnson by the handle started chasing
Sven around the table, pausing only to hurl a bottle of HP sauce across
the room.

Eventually Sven managed to calm the irate Italian: "So you see Nancy, I
was calling you a genius".

Nancy's eye's narrowed - "You asure you not going after some Greek
floozy now?"

"No, Nancy, but now I need another striker".

Tord re-entered the room and set down a tray of bacon and eggs. Looking
down he gasped.


"Boss, look".

Sven walked over to look down at the table to where his assistant was
staring. It was Nancy's advertisement for their post-Cup hidaway. But
where before it had said:

THE OLD WALLED COTTAGE

It was now stained with HP sauce from Nancy's attack and what was left
revealed:

THE O** WAL*** COTT***

Sven looked at Tord. Tord looked at Sven. In unison they chimed:

"It's a sign!"

**********

Go on then, you find a better explanation