Alan Shearer

In my football dreams I am Greta Scacchi's son. I've been a trequartista at Barcelona for four seasons, ousting Iniesta and Xavi from the side. I am married to Jessica Ennis but have grown disillusioned with the training regime and the lonely nights when my other half is performing in precipitation soaked lycra in Crystal Palace. I am knocking off Debbie McGee because she's magic. 
Jessica Ennis has found out about my subterfuge and is imploring my return to the UK, so that we can rebuild our relationship in the windswept delights of a semi at the foot of Kinder Scout. Grimsby is commutable and I've recently bumped into Jack Lester at a barn dance in Bolsover. Using our joint income, we have offered to invest our fortunes in Grimsby Town and want to commission a statue of Jack & I outside of the Osmond Stand. 

I don't know where to go next. Do we use Jack's grotesque, contorted face, in the throes of pain after Chris Coleman's wild lunge. Or do we go for my mid-air, Ballon d'Or inducing, backheel finish to clinch the Copa del Rey in 2009/10? You decide?

Briilliant.

I feel that it is my duty to report the sad loss of the final brave follicle on the anterior scalp of Alan Shearer. 

A post mortem (#) revealed that the cause of depilation was a build up of the stress hormone Corticotropin, brought on when Alan was asked to name any footballer who has never played football in England.

The final follicle leaves behind a forehead, a splintered lip and a complete and utter c***.

Our thoughts are with Ugo Ehiogu. 


#comes out as mitten on an iPhone spellcheck.