Blitzkreig Looms

Andrew sat back and admired the way he had ordered the jars of his urine into a perfect matrix of age versus tang. There were over 100 now, lined up in fierce symmetry, like the terracotta warriors of Xi'an, as if those wonders of the Qin She era were in fact old Vegemite jars filled with pastry-scented piss.

He heard Gillon's trembling knock at his door.

"Enter imbecile," Andrew said.

Gillon grovelled into the room wearing the homosexual hobbit fancy dress outfit Andrew had ordered him to don for the next fortnight after the fool had put headed paper in the normal A4 draw of the photocopier.

"Speak"

Most people would find it difficult to maintain the tone and sentence structure of a tiny hairy-footed bummer from Middle Earth, but it came almost naturally to Gillon.

"Mr Andrew! Oh Mr Andrew! The French victualler Sir Gabriel of the Twice Rising Souffle speaks on Sauron's enchanted talking box!"

Lazily extending a stubby finger, Andrew indicated Gillon should turn the radio from Classic FM to the sqwuaking commercial channel.

The dulcet Gallic tones of Gate pleased Andrew enormously. He was a man of European tastes also, a civilised being, unlike these sunburned beer-swilling dolts he was surrounded by.

Gategategate was a godsend for the power crazed football administrator. He had already carefully leaked a line to a tame journalist expressing limited support for the Frenchman's stand in support of the right for footballers to undergo sex-change operations. That would keep the story going for a few days yet.

This pathetic imbroglio would provide the perfect cover for the decisive stage of Operation Sauvingnon Blanc.

"Gillon," he said as his underling brushed the hair on his fet, "Call that fat lobster-addicted retard running the Wombats. Ein blitzkreig looms."