Footy Fan Fiction – Sven vs The Doctor

Spend more than a few minutes on the internet and you’ll probably plough into some of the football fan fiction that is clogging up the webwaves.

Here’s our current favourite – an account of this week’s showdown meeting between Sven Goran Eriksson and Dr Thaksin Shinawatra…


Sven found himself in the Presidential Suite of the London Excellence Hotel. The tension was building, and then…

“Misser Ewiksson!”

Startled by the sudden, echo-laden growl of Shinawatra, Eriksson dropped the priceless black ceramic teacup he was inspecting and hastily ordered his accomplice, the brutish Tord Grip to sweep the pieces under a couch.

At the shuddering sound of a giant gong, a glass wall divided and the former Prime Minister of Thailand strode into the room. Imagine a person, small, fat and feline with long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire meeting of Premiership club owners, accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science past and present. With all the resources, if you will, of a wealthy government – which, however, already has denied all knowledge of his existence. Imagine that awful being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Thaksin Shinawatra, the soccer peril incarnate in one man.

The evil genius brandished a glistening sword.

“I am so pweezed to see you…even though we LOSE cwucial conflict with FURHAM! Ha ha ha!” Shinawatra caressed the edge of his blade with long, ebony painted fingernails. Mr. Eriksson stood his ground.

“But I think you will find I am very happy with the team, yes”, said the Manchester City man of the moment. “And my work is very, very good and we are very much going in the right direction”. Sweat glistened on what is undoubtedly the highest forehead in modern sport.

Clearly offended, the evil Thai warlord clacked his over-sized teeth together; the cue for the appearance of a gang of tiny black-cloaked cronies, some of whom had worked for the Ministry of Cars in Bangkok.

“We do fings diffewently in the Owient!!” scolded the impish Fun Manchu-alike. “Faywyar is not an opshon!!”

“Faywyar?” inquired the Manchester City manager.

“FAWYAR, you sirry irriot! What the matter, you no speak Ingrish?!” With that stern rebuke, the miniature Ninjas surrounded the old Swede with the funny glasses. “YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR INSOWENCE!” Eriksson had never felt such unease, at least not since Ulrika Jonsson had unhooked her bra and let her spaniel’s ears flop into his lap.

“Leave that man alone!” With a speed not encountered since Liverpool’s Fatty Benitez had heard there was free tapas in Alex Ferguson’s office, a mysterious figure swept through the room and plucked Eriksson from the grasp of the pint-sized perps.

It was him! Shimmering in long black cape, a broad fedora adorning his immaculately styled hair, with a mask to disguise his true identity. It was the saviour of British Football…Zourhinno!