|
 |
ROARY VERSUS ... FRED THE RED
Pundit’s prediction: The pedigree of Fred the Red goes without saying and, along with every other pundit in the country, my uncontrollable condition of getting wet every time I think about him will almost definitely bias me in his favour. Indeed it is this dampness, from whichever orifice it emanates, that could be Roary's undoing too so he must keep his nerve for the duration of the match to prevent any embarrassing, not to mention distracting, spillages.
However, the atmosphere at Old Trafford is to the lion's favour as it is not overly intimidating due to many of the fans being too preoccupied with the eating of prawn sandwiches to be interested in the match. Indeed it appears to be more glory than support in certain areas of the ground and if Roary can get anywhere near the catering department to taint said seafood then it will make for an even quieter atmosphere, which of course, would be to his advantage. The best way to do this would be for Roary to abduct Luke Chadwick from the Man Utd dressing room as Chadwick could sour anything merely by looking at it. However Chadwick could also be Fred's big weapon against the lion as like Medusa, every time you look at it you turn to stone in fear. And, as he's a devil, there are no depths to which he won't plumb.
Beyond the seafood, it is not uncommon for some of the more rabid fans to eat the meat of whoever Fred is pitted against, so expect some distressing scenes when Roary finds out his mother has been turned into a sandwich for some Shropshire numpty. Again Roary must keep his synthetic nerve to overcome this setback as well as the devil himself. Indeed the fans, although quiet, could be Fred's major weapon against Roary as this form of diabolism is like a religion to some of these people. This is unnerving as Roary's hedonistic lifestyle fits in with the Satanist drive although the carrying of a large wooden cross or a statue of the Virgin Mary may be enough to ward off the evil spirit. Indeed it worked for Southampton in the late-90's and there can be little coincidence that it was the Saints who overcame the Devils on numerous occasions. It was like Judgement Day meted out on a football pitch and it is this angelic nature that Roary must adopt if he is to defeat the Prince of Wales, erm, sorry Darkness.
This can be aided when we consider that in recent seasons Fred's ruthlessness has started to wane. Indeed he appears to have swapped the butchery of Fred West for that of Fred Elliot in recent years, mellowing out like a socialist hippie on crack. Indeed how anyone can be taken seriously when they share a name with Wetherfield's favourite roly-poly butcher is beyond me but on reflection they do share some similarities as both have a penchant for butchery and pie-eating. And of course both are fictitious characters. However in recent weeks this mastication of the pies has been somewhat curtailed due to the stalking of Fred by an itinerant 18-year old striker who favours nothing more than a steak and kidney or seven for a light snack. This has made Fred more frustrated and prone to attack in recent weeks but like an old woman who's lost her dentures, this ageing monster has lost a fair deal of bite in recent years. This in itself is worrying for the sperm of Beelzebub as it is commonly known that the erotic olfactory sensation of Fixodent arouses said striker into scoring, and it's not into the back of the net that he intends to shoot towards. Thus Fred must be very careful that he doesn't dress up like a worn tart or get out the Pedigree Chum whenever said scally is near. Indeed this withering of his powers has led many to believe that he should have been put out to stud two or three years ago although many others still feel obliged to the devil who has done so much to raise the profile of the club. Indeed as far as tricky, evil, double-dealing creatures go, no one can beat this object of Satan although Arsenal's Gunnersaurus has come close on recent occasions. Indeed it is this possession of supernatural, almost godly powers that often leaves many in awe of him, providing him with easy access to scoring yet another victory. Yet if you challenge him you often find that good does overcome evil despite it being a lie on a day to day basis.
Despite this however Fred does have other weaknesses, weaknesses that Roary can choose to exploit. It is a common known fact that Fred is powered by the hypnotic rolling of his own mastications, hence why he needs the power inherent in chewing gum to perform. Indeed without his daily dose of Nutrasweet he often fails to function so if Roary can somehow steal his vital life fluid and replace it with something like Bonjela or contraceptive jelly then victory is almost guaranteed. The latter indeed may also be used to exploit one of Fred's other weaknesses, his voracious desire for 48-year old slappers dressed in stockings and suspenders. Thus Roary can handily use his contacts in the world of prostitution to summon up a variety of tempting minxes which should do the trick in distracting the horny little devil long enough for Roary to perform a few moves to defeat him. Another major weakness of Fred is his inability to make appointments, so much so that it would be a major surprise if he turns up for this bout. If he doesn't then expect the pathetic claim that he just 'forgot' about such an important commitment. This bout of forgetfulness is both a curse and a blessing for Roary as Fred is somewhat out of practice, having just come back from a lengthy suspension for missing a fur test. Thus Fred is somewhat fresher than Roary for this bout but of course he is out of practice, which could be to the lion's advantage. However he has been on the receiving end of a variety of blows from his manager which has enhanced his drive, determination and fitness although it could be psychologically damaging as he really is a big softie at heart.
The claims that he sits in the corner and cries in the dressing room after such incidences are as yet unfounded but are probably true. Indeed this pillorying at the hands of his manager has often resulted in Fred going AWOL, which could explain his chronic sunburn and his skin peeling away quicker than his team's defence. Either that or the reflections from brimstone can cause problems that not even Oil of Olay could fix. This too Roary could exploit as any contact will hurt twice as much as it would normally do for the devil so a bit of sunburn slapping may be in order. However Fred, with his dangerous pitchfork (which incidentally Roary could nullify with his giant knife) and complicated tactics pose a serious threat to the lion and thus he must be on his guard if he is to win this bout.
The match:
Act I
And as the mascots run out to the unsettling sound of communal mastication, the air is rife with the smell of slightly gone-off prawns as Wayne Rooney's latest conquest sits crumpled on the floor, legs drunkenly splayed, tired and weary through the last two hours intensive training session that she has just been put through.
Roary looks around in bemusement at the 'Theatre of Dreams' and laughs to himself quietly. A few thousand plastic seats and the Mancunian equivalent of a businessman's circle-jerk. What kind of impotent dreams were these? It's certainly not three sweaty writhing lionesses bathed in the warm moist blood of a dying wildebeest, and if it's not that then quite frankly it's not worth getting out of bed for. Which is just as well in many cases come to think of it.
No, these weren't the sort of dreams he had ever had in his lifetime. For a start the stadium didn't even look like a cinema and the last time he entered a place that was billed the 'theatre of dreams' it was one of those late night ones showing 'special' movies where you get a free Kleenex with your regular popcorn. And that was in the Seventies when he was a younger wilder lion than his present soppy self. Still, he smiled wryly to himself, those lionesses were something else, particularly Whimper, Scamper and Leonine. What she could do with a bison was nobody's business...
Misty-eyed and Ron Atkinsonesque, i.e. continually wallowing in a life passed that cannot be reclaimed he drunkenly surveys the crowd, trying to find the token working class person in the stadium. His eyes carry him to the top of one of the stands where he spies his following, drunken on their insanity and insane on their drink. They start chanting 'Roary Lion' and clapping inanely, like penguins being thrown fish or Manchester United supporters being thrown prawns. He claps back accepting their appreciation before striding confidently towards the centre of the ring, determined to prove that the last two defeats were not diagnostic of some mythical weakening or downfall.
Yet some of the crowd still laugh patronisingly, particularly those in the media gallery. But then it's always difficult to take a man dressed in a lion costume seriously...
Meanwhile the sound of the home fans' indifference is palpable as Sir Alex strides purposefully towards the dugout, causing dogs - and Rooney's girlfriend - to howl due to the scowl on his Martian face. He is followed hurriedly by Fred, sporting a bruise atop his left eye. No doubt another Fergie special. He cowers as the crowd applaud sporadically, diligently trying to avoid getting mayonnaise on their precious courdurouy whilst they sip their slightly over-chilled Bollenger '68 from the bottle.
Fred meekly accepts their applause whilst simultaneously talking himself up to the vast array of journalists who are waiting in line for their next bite of the sweetest effluence to come emanating from the mouth and bowels of Old Trafford.
Meanwhile Roary is largely ignored by these illiterate pen-pushers as he's not sellable material. And neither is his club come to think about it. The crowd pretend to care as the interview is performed, with Fred drunkenly pitching back and forth in unease whilst his bulbous rubescent nose, like Pinnochio on heat, begins to glow ever brighter as the questions keep coming.
Two minutes in and his confidence is starting to return as he smiles smugly to himself through the metaphorical rimming he was now undergoing. He stares glassy eyed in pleasure as one of the journalists beckons him over and points towards his crotch. Looking tentatively around Fred starts to slowly unzip the hack's flies and start to bend down. The whole world is aware of what's going on but pretends not to notice. Another thirty seconds and the interview is over.
Roary meanwhile is ignored, shunned to the back in the hope no one will notice or care. It's called the Match of the Day rule in the business. It's around this time that a voice booms across the PA system, waking everyone from their stupor.
'Attention please, we have reports of a lion on the loose in the Salford region, if you see one then please can you report to your nearest steward (who will inevitably tell you to sit down and to stop being so vocal). Thank you'.
Roary looks up to the sky and rolls his eyes - well as much as you can roll your eyes when they are made out of plastic and are stuck to your face by a concoction that Neil Buchanan would be most proud - as memories of his fateful trip to Longleat Safari Park come back to haunt him. He looks around gingerly, half hoping that there was another snarling rabid creature with an excess of neck hair on the loose.
But for the want of Roy Keane who is still comfortably caged in the United dressing room, the realisation soon hits him that he was the very lion in question. Slowly he surveys the scene, hoping Rolf Harris is not being employed by Manchester United to capture his own kind i.e. stray animals that have moved away from their homeland and which are causing havoc and pain to all those they come into contact with. Thankfully he and his sodding paintbrush fail to materialise. A bit like Fred the Red for the first seventy minutes of the bout then.
A minute of confused contemplation later, it was the slight raising of voice from the home fans that alerted Roary to the danger behind him. Turning around quickly, he was confronted to the sight of a skulking Fred with his pitchfork drawn, wielding it like a West Country farmer who had just caught you trying to milk his prize cow with your face would do, trying to sneak up silently behind him.
He saw amidst the floodlights the blinding glint of the prongs as they jabbed and thrust in his general direction, threatening to flay his fur like fangs to a wildebeest. He bolted in fear, ashamedly he knew but he wasn't stupid- Fred had a weapon and what did he have. A stupid dance and big feet.
There was no chance and he knew it. Newcastle United were more likely to win the title than he was of winning this. So he ran. And continued running.
Yet it was the worst thing he could have done for in presenting his backside at the Devil he gave him the perfect target, pre-formed and ready made- like a Tesco value meal but with less gristle. And Fred took advantage of this, taking aim and firing. Roary looked round to see the titanium tips glinting their malice devouring the air to implode. Roary shifted his arse just in time as he felt one of the arrows breeze past his fur. He continued running, stumbling and alone as he went to scratch the itch now created. It was a disaster as he stumbled like George Best leaving a pub and fell towards the cold ground beneath him.
Somehow he got to his feet and continued as Fred gave chase, the crowd starting to roar its approval at the impromptu slapstick that was being played out in front of them. Fred fired two more shots, yet his aim was more like that of David Bellion than Ruud van Nistelrooy, and he missed again, hitting an old dear in the crowd through her variable bifocals. That will sort her eyesight out Fred thought as he continued chase, they certainly won't be variable now.
Roary continued running, his eyes darting round in desperation, looking for escape. He glimpsed the tunnel in the distance and ran towards it, hoping the nightmare would stop, hoping the officials would recognise what a bloke in a costume looked like, hoping that he wouldn't be transported back to Africa to eat yet more wildebeest devoid of a knife and fork. God was he sick of wildebeest. For a start they didn't come breadcrumbed and deep-fried, with cheese and garlic sauce on top. And where can you buy all that in Tanzania? Exactly. No, he had to run. For the sake of the parmos. For the sake of the grease.
He looked ahead of him and focused on the warming glow of the darkest black of the tunnel, hoping he could make it. Hoping beyond hope. He heard the fiery breath of his adversary behind him as the sweat started to trickle down his back, matting his fur into one homogeneous mess, sweet, sticky but fundamentally unpleasant. A bit like that video of bondage mascots he was watching the previous night.
His eyes blistered, his body ached as he aimed towards the darkness. Amidst the last few yards that seemed like miles Roary dived, paws outstretched towards the portal in front of him. Yearning for his salvation as another arrow skimmed between his legs and was harmlessly cast aside, hitting a little boy in the face. Roary hoped this would end the melodrama.
Roary turned around to view his nemesis and turned back. It was at this moment that his heart sank as he saw that the ethereal darkness had been replaced by a spiritual one, dour, petulant, Scottish. He twisted to try and avoid a collision whilst the figure's leg rose sharply, aiming for his stomach. He avoided it as he thudded to the floor beneath his master's feet.
He turned around just in time to see Alex's leg sharply connect with Fred's crotch, whilst the world looked on in a mixture of horror and hilarity. Fred doubled up in pain as he fell atop his manager, crushing his glasses into his face and causing him to swallow his chewing gum.
Alex struggled beneath his weight as Fred rolled ungainly off his manager and crouched in a foetal position exuding the sensation of pain. Roary meanwhile had no sympathy- he was used to it he thought. That sort of thing must happen everyday in training. Plus it was incredibly funny.
Act II
It was amidst this scene of carnage that the referee decided it was probably best to get on with the fight. After Fred received strapping on his balls - from the club's dominatrix they employ for such events - both contenders made their way to the ring. Roary was nursing a few injuries of his own and was relying desperately on youth to fix them, indulging in many medicaments such as Tixylix and Calpol to reinvigorate him.
Fred meanwhile was imitating his general form and limping pretty badly, the tough guy image, like Rio Ferdinand, exposed in an instant once you realise how soft and vulnerable he is. But that isn't Roary's concern now. What is, is his opponent's defeat. And as he pysches himself up by jumping up and down in the ring like a kangaroo on heat he thinks he may just have a chance, despite his injuries. With hope anyway.
The sound of the bell tears through Fred like Alex's boot through his scrotum as Roary is immediately on the offensive, usurping the confidence that Fred was displaying a mere ten minutes earlier. Steady yet competent the lion aims punch after punch towards the novelty distress flare - in a great amount of distress, come to think of it- and this starts to rattle the devil, who is unable to summon up the powers of Hell - or Manchester City Centre as it is more commonly known - against the rampant lion, who is in uncompromising mood.
Roary grins as he feels he is taking the advantage; the longer the match progresses, the bigger the grin becomes. For it's only a matter of time Roary thinks, or at least it is unless Sir Alex distorts it again and summons something like seven years of injury time or something.
Thirty-five minutes in and Roary sees his advantage as the pain for Fred gets too much. This causes the devil to touch his genitals gently, his own sense of self-importance adding to the pain he was already feeling. Meanwhile the hacks in the press gallery copy his move. And start pulling furiously- superlatives out of their brains to describe United that is.
Roary meanwhile has a discharge of his own, one that is to add to Fred's pain. Expect this discharge is in the shape of a fist. For it is in these microseconds of distraction that matches are won or lost - or in the case of United in the referee adding on seven years of injury time - and Roary sees his window.
And now he was going to throw Fred straight through it. Roary formulates a plan as he looks down at Fred gently stroking himself suggestively. Off-putting certainly, but he's seen better porn. But now it's time for Roary to provide the distraction as he calmly jabs a studded boot towards the seat of Fred's pain.
Fred catches the raised studs in the corner of his eye and starts to panic, shaking vigorously, convulsing in terror at the thought of a re-visitation to the agony he was currently in. He looks up, fear virulent in his eyes as if begging Roary for mercy, for clemency, for anything.
All he gets is the floor in his face as Roary pokes a disinterested finger in his general direction and he collapses amidst the emotional baggage. Roary puts his hands up to celebrate, Fred clutches his balls in pain. The hacks watch bemused, their stroke completely disturbed. Yet the superlatives still flow. And flow copiously. And it stays like this until half-time.
Round two and Fred comes out of the traps like a whippet on speed chasing a can of Pedigree Chum. Blow after blow reign in - so a bit like Adrian Mutu's nose in that respect then - with no sign of ever abating, unlike the said Chelsea star's contract.
Left hook, right hook, through the middle, Roary dodges and absorbs his punches in bemused nonchalance, confident in his powers to hold on in a difficult situation. Indeed, sometimes he gathers enough strength to have a counter-offensive of his own although like Blackburn's frontline these tend to be weak pathetic affairs.
But the pressure from Fred increases and becomes even more intense. Fred looks up to the crowd willing him on so they can go home and smiles knowingly to himself as he fumbles behind him for his secret weapon. The crowd of the lion look perturbed, scared as to which trophy he is going to bring out to defeat their hero, before realising that Fred has recently had very little at his disposal when it comes to silverware.
In the end though, they should have the feared the worst. The very worst, as a 14 year old Manchester United supporting chav with blond spiky hair from Basildon emerges and starts tormenting Roary with talk of 'bitches' and how he should give him some 'respec'.
Roary looks on in bewilderment and starts to launch a knock-out offensive, his right hand forming a compact fist and swinging back, ready to launch a bullet straight into the diseased heart of popular culture. He starts his arc but is distracted mid-flow, the warm September sun glinting in painful excoriation off the gold plated 'bling' that this little tosser is wearing.
Then he starts rapping in tuneless abandon, to the annoyance of every sane member of the crowd. It is at this moment that Roary loses concentration and feels the ground slip from beneath him. Fred senses his chance and, with a ceremonial rearing of his heel bows down to waist height and charges at the hapless lion at his most vulnerable hour. The weight of the collision causes Roary to collapse like Ricketts in the penalty area, a humiliation that is made worse when he ends up with a falling angel on top of him, exuding spittle of hatred from his large crimson lips.
The crowd cheer, the Roary fans curse and the chav is immediately farmed out to Crewe to 'gain some experience' before being released for being shit. Either that or get the opportunities that Luke Chadwick bafflingly gets. Which largely amounts to the same thing.
Meanwhile Roary picks himself up and dusts himself down, determined not to let a setback destroy his good work. He tries to rally and aim a few punches but is constantly rebuffed, what with Fred sensing victory. He very nearly gets it towards the end when Roary strays too close to Fred, allowing him to lay a headbutt towards Roary's snout. But he narrowly misses as Roary staggers back in adrenaline intoxication.
Fred is unable to build on this golden opportunity borne out of the lion's mistake and the bout ends in a tie. Yet to Roary it feels like a victory as he walks off the pitch, satisfied and content.
Fred meanwhile stumbles off to worry about his potency and his sperm count. The hacks meanwhile worry about their superlative count and the volumous guff they will spout the next day.
It's going to be one hell of a party, yet one still based on disappointment. After all, no one likes being impotent and at the moment there is nothing more to say. Both the press and Fred are painfully so. And that's why it's so funny.
BACK TO ROARY VERSUS ... INDEX
A GUARANTEED PROFIT OF AT LEAST £45.64 ON STANDARD LIEGE v SAMPDORIA
There's some great Uefa Cup matches this midweek and did you know that it is possible to win money on Wednesday evening's Uefa Cup clash between Standard Liege and Sampdoria, whatever the result?
The game kicks off at 7.45pm UK Time and we can guarantee you a profit of at least £45.64, whatever the result of the match. All you have to do is follow the simple instructions below and then sit back and enjoy the game. At full-time, you will be at least £45.64 better off, whatever the result of the match.
We must point out that if you want to take this bet, you should do it now because if the odds change, then the figures here will be invalidated. If they have changed, let us know and we will rework the bet for you.
You can still do this if you have a Betfair account but your overall profit will be reduced by £25.00 as you won't receive the £25.00 cashback as an existing account holder.
If you are unsure about this bet, you are most welcome to call us on 01642 223229 and we will help you as much as we can.
We're going to lay out a total of £104.00 on the Standard Liege v Sampdoria match and we will collect £149.87 if Standard Liege win, £149.64 if Sampdoria win and £151.50 if it is a draw. That's a minimum profit of over 43%, a much higher interest rate than you will get in any high street bank.
Here's how it's done. Just follow these simple instructions.
1. Open an account with Sky Bet .
Open an account with Betfair. It is really important that you enter the promotional code of FTB125 when prompted. This is to ensure that you receive your bonus.
Open an account with Extrabet .
This shouldn't take you any longer than a few minutes.
2. Make the following deposits into your new accounts.
Deposit £41.00 into your new Sky Bet
account.
Deposit £38.00 into your new Betfair account.
Deposit £25.00 into your Extrabet account.
3. Now make the following bets.
Place £41.00 on Standard Liege at 11/8 with Sky Bet
.
Sky Bet will now add a £20.00 free bet to your account. Place this on Standard Liege as well. You will now have £61.00 riding on Standard Liege.
Back Sampdoria with £38.00 at 3.4 (or higher if available) with Betfair.
Place £25.00 on the draw at 3.03 with Extrabet .
Extrabet match your first bet up to £25 so you will now have £50.00 riding on the draw.
The £25.00 matched bet will not show in your account but you can read all about how it works on the Extrabet site. It's the purple box that says '£25 FREE BET FOR NEW CUSTOMERS' on the top right hand side. Click here to visit the Extrabet site.
If you are unsure about placing these bets, please feel free to mail us or call us on 01642 223229 and we will talk you through it, no problem at all. There is no such thing as a stupid question.
You have temporarily laid out a total of £104.00 on the Standard Liege v Sampdoria match. I stress, temporarily... Now sit back, crack a beer open and enjoy the match.
4. Here's what happens at the end of the game. All winnings are paid out on the ninety minute result.
If Standard Liege win, you collect £149.87. That's £124.87 from Sky Bet plus a £25.00 cashback from Betfair.
If Sampdoria win, you collect £149.64. That's £124.64 from Betfair plus a £25.00 cashback from Betfair.
If it's a draw you collect £151.50. That's £126.50 from Extrabet plus a £25.00 cashback from Betfair.
5. This means that the worst case scenario on the Standard Liege v Sampdoria match is Sampdoria win and you make £45.64 profit. However, if Standard Liege win you make £45.87 profit and if it's a draw you make £47.50. That's a minimum profit of over 43%, a much better rate of interest that you would get at any high street bank or building society.
6. It is absolutely vital that you click on the links on this page to open the accounts with the three bookies and enter the correct bonus codes or you may not qualify for the bonuses.
Also, before you place your bets, you should check that the odds haven't changed. If they have, let us know by mail or phone us on 01642 223229 and we will rework the bet for you.
Please feel free to contact us or phone us on 01642 223229 if you have any questions at all about this bet and we will help you as much as we can.
Please note that the bonuses are valid for new customers only so if you already have an account with one or more of the bookies we are using, you won't be able to do this. If that is the case, mail us or phone us on 01642 223229 and we'll create an alternative bet for you using different bookies.
This method of betting was used very successfully during the 2006 World Cup and you can read all about how it was done right here.
We guarantee this bet
It's understandable that some people will not believe that it is possible to do this. "What's the catch?" I hear you asking. My answer to that question is that this is the fifth season that we have been publishing arbitrage bets and literally hundreds of people have profited from following the advice on these pages.
Only twice has our refund guarantee been triggered and that was when we did all the figures wrong and sent refunds out to those who had followed our advice and made a small loss.
Our refund guarantee works like this. If this bet doesn't work like we say it will and you end up out of pocket, we will refund your losses. Simple as that.
That means that you simply cannot lose on this, whatever happens and even if we messed up the numbers.
The only stipulation here is that you must click on the links on this page to be eligible for the refund guarantee, not that you'll be needing to claim anyway. Just enjoy the profit and stay posted for many more of these throughout the season.
|
|
|
|
