He may no longer play for United,

but we have managed to get our grubby

little hands on the archived, top-secret,

investigations he undertook while he was

still under our employment...

At Manchester United, without even a sniff of football as a distraction, Micky Owen had now held the position as SAF’s own personal detective for a whole year. He performs his monthly investigations along with spirit guide Eric and lackadaisical partner Berba. We think we’ve finally worked out what he provides the club but we’re too embarrassed to make it public knowledge.

It was a typical Wednesday morning. Berba had fetched me the morning paper and was now relaxing with his Etch-a-sketch in his basket. I’d got him one, like SAF has for Phelan. I was going to get him the slightly more expensive one, like the one Roberto Mancini has for Carlos Tevez, but these are times of austerity – besides, horses don’t look after themselves. Well, I suppose they do when they’re not in captivity, supplementing the whims of the capatilist tyranny that the gambling fraternity propagates (stop making me say those things. I don’t even know what I’m saying, let alone care).

Berba didn’t even flinch as the fax machine blinked into life. “Berba, could you pass me that please? TODAY!” A few hours later, after he’d reached across, I skimmed over the details of the message: it was from SAF. He’d sent a broadsheet article, highlighting the issue of wage-slavery in world football. It was a bit boring if I’m honest and I had a nap before returning to it, I mean who gives one if someone isn’t smart enough to have a mega-bucks contract. I awoke to Berba pointing furiously at the paragraph ringed with Phelan’s blood. STOP THE PRESS!! The article had gone on to mention the recent comments from Tomasz Kuz … Kusc … Kuszca … Kuszczak. Jeez, that surname is a mess isn’t it? It’s all over the place. I need a little sit down. Oh, I’m already sat down. Oh well, I’ll stand up, so I can sit down to make the point. Aaaahhh, I needed that sit down after that. Where’s this going … oh, yeah. He was making out he was a slave. This wouldn’t do. We could not allow a third, possibly fourth-rate goalkeeper besmirch the good name of our club. Peter Schmeichel would be doing those annoying cartwheels in his grave – if he were toast.  “Come on Berba!!”… Something would have to be done and fast!

My main contact at the club was Berba. He finally got round to telling me he didn’t have a clue where Tomasz Kuz … Kusc … Tom was. To be honest he’s not really part of the club, so I didn’t really expect much and I reminded him of that fact. My other main contact was myself. I obviously couldn’t call myself on my own phone, so I yoinked Berba’s phone off him while he was sobbing. There was no answer and annoyingly I was missing a call while trying. “Berba what are you calling me for? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Eric popped his head out from behind a cloud, “Sometimes Micky the slave you seek maybe inside your own mind!” WTF! “Have you been skipping your medication again, Eric?” He disappeared with a *Harrumph*.

I decided to just go to Old Trafford myself and have a poke around. The last time I saw Tom he was heaving coal into the incinerator, for the under-soil heating system, in the basement – so I followed my instincts and headed there. Sometimes the last place you see something is where it might still be, or something like that. “SOCCER GUY!” it was Malcolm Glazer. “Hello, erm, sir?!” He was shovelling fifty pound notes, from a bag marked ‘Season Ticket funds’ into the thing. “Have you seen a soccer guy with an ornament for a head down here recently?” I asked. “NO! Can’t help you there, soccer guy. They stopped using soccer guys for this when we redirected the flue to our office and away from the under-soil heating system. Why don’t you try the cotton fields?” That was a ruddy good idea.

The cotton field was a hive of activity. Our kit makers Nike were fighting the economic downturn by offering voluntary positions to unskilled workers, providing them with a cardboard box and a bread roll for a days work. The team leaders were so proud of their jobs and constantly repeating the slogan,“Just do it!!” I asked if anyone had seen Tom recently and they informed me he had dropped down the picking order after dropping baskets left, right and centre, but I could find him in ‘solitary’.

As I opened the heavy metal door, Tom cowered and shielded his eyes from the light. “There you are!” I exclaimed. I took the Duct tape from my back pocket, tore off a strip and pressed it across his mouth. “No more talking from you from now on. There’s a good boy!” I said, whilst giving him an affectionate double slap across the cheek.

Case Closed.

So, Berba has visited all the homes of everyone who has read this over the last few weeks and fitted the self-destruct device to all the hardware with downloadable capabilities for the safe disposal of these very sensitive files. So, here goes…. 3,2,1 …

Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh!!! My house is on fire. I can’t see. Can someone call an ambulance for Christ’s sake … !!!!!!!!