Pardew. Starkers in an empty dressing room. His dull eyes, like frogspawn on a cockles stick, survey his slag of cockney skeleton. He glares at his limp bookies pen that hangs from the clump of blunt wire-wool between his legs. “I just want to feel…something” he murmurs. And with that he snatches his Trench from its peg. In a fit of utter rage, he lifts it up and brings it crashing down upon his lifeless Michael Thomas. Barely a pulse is registered in the terrible tendril. He stoops and scoops up the coat, and once more flings it down upon his vanishing and veined arctic roll. “Live gawd damn you! Just breathe!” he screams. But the jellied eel still fails to awaken. And so with one final flourish of desperation, he picks up his coat, lifts it skywards and smashes and smites it down upon his shard like what that God did to Moses that one time. The changing room falls silent. Nothingness………Then……BOOM! True Being! The doorhinges fly off in a rainbow cloud of bursting stars and happy gurning energy positive thought process happy happy lovely warm bed of perfect moments. Jurgen Klopp, with a stonk-on the size of several foamy steins, bustles into the room. The strip lights fizzle and glow brighter. “Hey Alun! Really cool what you did for me today! Really cool openings. Yeah, really cool moments we shared! I wouldn't say I felt it 100% but yeah really boz that!” Pards collapses down onto the slats. He sniffs and gobs on the tiles. He rubs his sockets, and in a low voice says “...wrong fucking changing room mate”. A pause, then. “Oh sorry Alun! See you soon. My place next time would be cool yeah?!”. And with that Alan’s little Pard resolves into a dew.
