DUP TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY: THE 10 MPS WORTH MORE THAN RONALDO

DUP Transfer Deadline Day: The 10 MPs Worth More Than Ronaldo
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DUP TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY: THE 10 MPS WORTH MORE THAN RONALDO



Written by Jake Moss
29 Thursday 29th June 2017

The SNP’s Alison Thewliss has pointed out that the Tories’ £1 billion deal with the DUP means that each of their 10 MPs are technically worth more than glinting, oiled-up Portu-geezer, Cristiano Ronaldo. Today’s the deadline for the Conservative-DUP deal to be signed - but what if it falls through? Surely a bunch of the Premier League’s top footballers would be an excellent last-ditch choice for Theresa May’s “magic money tree” cash splurge? Think of the squad you could assemble for a billion quid! The deadline’s at 4pm - what if these footballers are May’s only chance of forming a government? Stranger things have happened… Welcome to parliament’s transfer deadline day.

29th June 2017, 6:53am - A Mansion Outside Manchester

An iPhone buzzes. Zlatan Ibrahimovic reaches over and grabs it. He’s hanging upside down in his lair. He flips over, landing on his feet like a lithe Swedish panther, his exploded cruciate knee ligaments already completely healed in record time - a superhuman knee with tendons like guy-ropes, and the most beautiful patella the world has ever seen. He reads the text message:

“Zlat, the gov needs you. DUP are pussyo’s - we don’t need them anyway. We wanna sign you and the lads instead. P.S. Last night was hot ;) Yours always, Theresa”

Zlatan smiles to himself. It’s all going exactly to plan.

7:46am - Parliament

A flustered Michael Gove slams down the phone, his round, glossy face all crimson with rage.

“Chris Smalling’s playing hardball with us again. We offered him Secretary of Haphazard Defence, but even that didn’t sway him… And what are we going to do about Jermain Defoe? He’s our best bet for Minister of Knowing Where the Goal Is, but he’s still demanding more!”

“How much did we offer him?” May replies. “A tin of Ambrosia custard,” mutters Gove.

May pauses. “Double it.”

Michael Gove’s googly eyes widen to their maximum googliness. A solitary bead of hot, brothy Michael Gove sweat drips down his plump Michael Gove cheek. Why did they embark on this ridiculous plan based on an incredibly tenuous link? Gove doesn’t know. But now it’s too late and they have to form a government. They have no choice - these Premier League footballers are their only hope.

9:03am

 

Zlatan pulls up at the Houses of Parliament in his souped-up jet-black Bentley, AKA the Zlatmobile. As security approach him, he rolls the window down and shoots them a look - they immediately back down, falling to their knees in reverence. Theresa May meets him and escorts him inside, as he removes his shades.

 

“We’ve gathered the finest men we could find to secure a government,” Theresa asserts. They enter a darkened room. Sat around an immense oak table are a host of Premier League players. Virgil van Dijk, Alexis Sanchez, big Eric Dier, even Hal Robson-Kanu - the whole transfer gossip gang, plus numerous others. At the end of the table sits Jermain Defoe. “Good to see they met your demands, Jermain,” says Zlatan. Jermain nods silently, sat beside his two tins of Ambrosia custard.

 

“Can negotiations now begin?” Zlatan asks Theresa. “Not yet. We need one more big signing...”

 

10:35am - Manchester Hotel Room

 

A haggard Jose Mourinho is sat in the lonely hotel room he permanently lives in, watching the deadline day carnage unfold on the rolling news. He runs his hand through his grey hair. A bevy of dead prostitutes lay on the bed behind him.

 

There’s a knock at the door. Mourinho opens it slightly. “Ah good, Chris... You’re here.” He opens the door to let in Chris Smalling, who chirpily begins, “Alright gaffer, you sounded worried on the phone. What’s all this about digging and hoes? You don’t have a garden-”

 

He sees the scene before him and stops in his tracks. “Oh. I see.”

 

11:26am - Outside Parliament

 

New Minister of Communication, Harry Kane, tries to make a statement to the gathered press. It goes very badly. The front row of journalists is completely soaked in saliva. Two men drown.

 

11:28am

 

Harry Kane resigns from his position as Minister of Communication, taking up a new role as Deputy Minister of Knowing Where the Goal Is.

 

12:56pm

 

At the gates of parliament, Harry Redknapp is now giving a statement from his car window. Apparently, there’s no truth to the rumours that Niko Krancjar is being drafted in as part of a last-minute deal to complete the Tory government. Krancjar pokes his head out from underneath a pile of coats on the back-seat, as Redknapp quickly rolls up his window and the car screeches away.

 

1:37pm

 

Photos surface on Twitter showing Benjani sat alone at East Midlands airport, checking his watch and phoning Redknapp. There’s no reply.

 

2:54pm

 

Nick Robinson dramatically reports on the goings-on inside Parliament from outside Westminster Abbey. A banterous Charlton Athletic fan sticks a dildo in his ear. Everyone goes “wheeeey”.

 
 

3:32pm

 

Harry Redknapp and Niko Krancjar are spotted banging on the door of the Commons, but nobody answers.

 

3:46pm

 

On his way down to London, Paul Pogba’s helicopter has crashed into a Wild Bean Cafe at a service station on the M1. Police are claiming that the pilot’s vision was obscured and that the incident may have been “dab-related”. Jesse Lingard releases a video of himself wearing a black veil and weeping on Snapchat.

 

It’s fourteen minutes until the deadline.

 

3:57pm

 

Inside parliament, Theresa May is pacing up and down and Zlatan has his head in his hands. A deal with Kylian Mbappe has fallen through - he’s gone to prop up the Spanish government in Madrid instead. Paul Pogba was their last hope, but his charred body is now on a gurney somewhere outside Bletchley.

 

Zlatan mumbles, “We’re finished.” Big Eric Dier starts to sob, his mighty shoulders heaving up and down. “Fuck it!” shouts Jermain Defoe, as he cracks open a tin of custard and downs it in one. Theresa May stops pacing and looks to the heavens: “We couldn’t even sign Gareth fucking McAuley…”

 

The grand double doors swing open. Everyone looks round. Their jaws drop. Standing there, biro in hand, is Chris Smalling. “Sorry I’m late, lads. Where do I sign?” he utters in his gentle, slightly effeminate tone, “I was just helping the gaffer with some… gardening.”

 

Zlatan smiles: “Looks like we might be able to form a government after all.” Salomon Rondon punches the air.

 

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