Hel Bent For Leather

No man is an island, with the possible exception of Frank Lampard.

We all crave companionship, but I crossed the line in my pursuit of Helen Chamberlain. I sneaked in to the Soccer AM studios and took a few unauthorised photos to publish on my website. I’ve now been charged with intent to distribute obscene material.

I definitely wouldn’t have been so obsessed with the dilapidated presenter if the wife had dished out a little more pie. In her defence, she has picked up a nasty rash in an area that makes such behaviour problematic—it’s the most irritating twat since Michel Platini.

Thankfully, the Sporting Chance clinic cured me of my desire to pursue antique television personalities. I was initially wary about following the twelve-step recovery program, as it meant embracing religious doctrine. I’m all for loving your fellow man—as long as it doesn’t stray into Joey Barton territory.

The ninth-step was undoubtedly the most embarrassing: I had to make amends for previous misdemeanours. I emailed Helen to apologise for leaving a steaming turd in her dressing room—although he did go on to present his own cookery programme.

During my stay at the Sporting Chance clinic, I met up with a number of other tortured souls. Footballers often turn to alcohol or drugs to break the monotony, but the losers I met were not among those fortunate few. 

John Terry seeked professional help to come to terms with that dramatic day last summer, when he cried like a slapped baby. He’ll probably never recover from that announcement of increased immigration.

Rio Ferdinand also popped in for a short stay, to receive treatment for his increasingly rabid temper tantrums. The staff tried to give him a little something to help mellow him out—but his body has built up a tolerance.

Rio’s apoplectic, discombobulated rage at Stamford Bridge last week led to a number of Chelsea fans raining missiles upon the United team coach. Rio remained unusually cool under fire though—it’s not the first time he’s been stoned.

I also met Mike Ashley during my stay, as he tried to recover from losing £300m through poor investments.  The poor sod has had a level £10 on Tottenham each week.

Mad Mike should have left Spurs out of potential wagers until Pavlyuchenko settles down.  The Russian is still unnerved after being warned about "dark-skinned" people who live in the area—John Terry should never have got involved. 

If Pavlyuchenko proves a flop, Spurs should make a move for Michael Owen. The wee hitman can be bought for £4m in January—that’s just one fifth of a Keane or an eighth of a Berbatov. I think it’s slightly more than an eighth actually, I’ll email Rio Ferdinand for confirmation. 

Frank Lampard is the latest big name to seek help in his ongoing battle against obesity.  I’d advise Frank to throw up after every large meal—I’ve got a few pictures of Helen Chamberlain that could help him out.

I’ll have my head between two knees when my one point investment on Wigan to beat Manchester City at 12/5 proves fruitful.