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...

Micky’s crime fighting has taken him from the desolation on the streets of Liverpool, to the destitution on the streets of Newcastle, via the underworld of Spanish gambling cartels.  Now Micky with the help of his trusty sidekick Hargo and spirit guide Eric (A quantum leap of faith created that character) now sharpens his investigative tools on behalf of Manchester United without having football as a distraction.

It wasn’t your typical week.  Me and Hargo had been on a team bonding session. I met with him on Monday. Took him for a drink on Tuesday. We were making spider diagrams by Wednesday and on Thursday and Friday and Saturday, it was now Sunday and we were just chilling. Hargo had still not managed to free himself from the suitcase I’d left him in last month, but he had managed to burrow holes for his legs and head and was still insisting on proving he could remove himself from it. Suit case, NUT case, I thought, forgetting Hargo could read my inner monologue in the FUB magazine. “So, Like, thanks, Buddy”, he answered sarcastically with that annoying American inflection, the high rising terminal. “I’M LIKE SO CANADIAN, A-HOLE” he shouted.

We had been ordered by SAF to go round Phelan’s shed and pick up some important information regarding our next mission. SAF had been so disturbed by the news regarding this case that he himself had fallen ill. Being an expert on little sore throats and an ambassador for the international man-flu institute, I had sent him some of the remedies and treatments I myself use when feeling a little under the weather. Unfortunately, the side effects of which had brought on in SAF a slight back problem,  a niggly groin strain and a sprain to his ankle. Fancy that.

Phelan’s shed was deep in the grounds of SAF’s Cheshire mansion and after we dragged ourselves through the undergrowth were greeted by the sight of Phelan gorging on some waste he’d scavenged from SAF’s bin area. As he saw us approaching he turned and wide eyed ran towards us with his tongue out…”Aaaaah!” he yelped as his chain snapped back and yanked him to the ground. “What’s the news Phelan?” I asked as he shook himself off and got back to his feet and beckoned us to come inside his shed. Once inside he kicked his straw bed to one side and in amongst all the paper cuttings of SAF that ‘decorated’ the walls he pointed to one that we could barely make out. He grabbed at it and pushed it towards us. It was drenched in vomit. “PHELAN! I’m like so not going there, girlfriend” said Hargo, holding his nose and shielding his face. “Why is it covered in sick Phelan?” I asked, maintaining my professional detective air. “SAF!” replied Phelan. This is his standard answer to most questions however with my nose for these things I instinctively knew he was suggesting SAF had been so incensed by the article that he’d covered it. Phelan wiped some of the sick away and I read the article which was proposing Joey Barton may be a considered target for some top Premier League clubs. I agreed with the sentiment of the article when it mentioned such teams as Arsenal and Spurs, but … STOP THE PRESS! The article then went on to suggest a link with Barton to Manchester United!!  My gag reflex could not hold out any longer and the bile that filled my mouth was soon rolling down Phelan’s chin. Something would have to be done and fast…

This was a lot more simple than previous investigations down to the simple fact that Joey Barton is infact simple. On the way back to the all-terrain wheelchair I had a little look to the sky as I’d noticed Eric had been anxiously pacing around the stratosphere above “Micky…” he whispered. “If only the oiseaus, or birds to you English pigs, who tweeted the best were allowed to be heard the woodland would soon become very quiet” and with that he jumped in his Renault Laguna shaped cloud and sped off. I had it! With my expert knowledge of Twitter I could manipulate the public in to thinking that even a pillock of epic proportions could appear to have a bit of nounce about him.

It took as around three weeks to make it up to the cave in Newcastle we’d been tipped off about. This was due in part to the fact that Hargo insisted on pushing the wheelchair all the way there without any help. Like a true Premier League footballer we found Joey Barton clubbing and spit roasting. He was sat beside a fire spit roasting a seal he’d clubbed to death for his dinner. “UGG” he said. “UGG, UGG” he added. I took a shiny piece of tin foil from my pocket and showed it to him. “OOOH”, he was enamoured by it. I threw it into a dark corner of the cave and he bounded after it. While he was distracted I quickly booted up his computer changed the password on his Twitter account and removed the link from his favourites and cache. When he returned he grabbed the computer from me. I asked him if he’d logged on to Twitter recently and he attempted find it. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t find the links and he soon became very angry and began to bash the computer over his head. Hargo threw him a cardboard box in to the corner which he bounded after and we made our escape.

Hargo now controls Joey Barton’s twitter account, he insisted on being the one to do it of course, quoting philosophy and that to make the public believe he’s not that bad, so if he’s ever mentioned in the same breath of this great club at least we’ve softened the blow.

Case closed! 

To protect this very sensitive information especially in light of the previous failed attempts I have been studying a DVD of Derren Brown and have placed key words within this text that after a trigger will cause a synapse in your brain to flood. This in turn will cause you to forget everything you’ve just read. All I have to do is print these trigger words thusly…BROWN PANTHER! Thank you.

I will not rest until the integrity of Manchester United is upheld.

Keep ‘em Peeled!