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Dear Dan,

I trust this message finds your money safe and warm.

Once again I endured the assets running about the Old Ladyboy. This time it was against Aston Villa, an Italian franchise.

Like the Taffys, the Astons have a long history and are well respected in the profession for their creative accounting and tax evasion. Their manager looks like Count von Count from Sesame Street.

As suggested, before the show I met Jose Moyes, this weeks’ manager. However, except for a few phrases related to food and professional fondling my Mexican is limited (“Dos tacos por favor, Miguel.”) and Jose’s accent is quite thick. I asked Peter Reid to translate for me, but we didn’t get much further than “fuck off”, although he clearly can say this with conviction in several languages. This goes back to Peter’s ambassadorial role when the Evertons played in Europe.

As it was, everyone was happy in Part One, but in Part Two the Astons got a net. Unfortunately, ours are still on back order so no credits for us this week on the rankings, however we had banked the takings by then, so no harm done.

After the show, at the executive pie-bar, their manager got all uppity and smug. Typical Italian, chips on both shoulders and a big conk. Peter Reid followed him into the Bathrooms Of Goodison Suites and sorted that out for us.

In other news, the go-fast stripes you sent look swell – they make the Corolla look like a 1600, but the oil leak persists. I’ll try the mechanic again just as soon as the traveller’s cheques arrive.

Up the Taffys.

YMCA.

Marc Watts-the matter-with-the-clothes-I’m-wearing-can’t-you-tell-that-your-tie’s-too-wide?

on behalf of The Yanks of the Royal Blue Mersey

Postscript:
I’ve just found out that Jose Moyes isn’t Mexican after all but is in fact a Scotisher! I will try my Scotlandish on him when we next meet (“Dos haggis, por favor, Jimuel.”). That should break the ice.
I hope so. He’s a tough nut and famously carries a penknife with him to all the performances.