by Roddy Doyle
— Sophia Loren.
— She wasn’t playin’ last night, I don’t think. I didn’t see her on the pitch.
— She was on the bench.
— Grand. You’re Suarez.
— Okay.
— You feel the irresistible fuckin’ urge to bite an opponent.
— Okay.
— You go down through the Italian team sheet.
— Like a menu.
— Exactly.
— Pirlo an’ chips.
— There now – good man. You’ve put your fuckin’ finger on it. You wouldn’t go for Chiellini an’ chips, sure yeh wouldn’t?
— Too skinny.
— Too fuckin’ hard. He’d knock the livin’ fuck out of yeh. Pirlo wouldn’t even notice if yeh bit him. He’s too laid back.
— An’ hairy.
— Movin’ on. He – Suarez, like – he was the same when he was decidin’ which o’ the Chelsea squad he was goin’ to sample. He didn’t go for one o’ the little lads. Oscar or Hazard. He bit a fuckin’ Serb.
— A fuckin’ warlord.
— I’m tellin’ yeh. Suarez should have his own programme – on the telly, like.
— Eat With Luis.
— A football celebrity cannibalism quiz.
— With Robbie Savage.
— An’ the other cunt.
— Jamie Redknapp.
— He’ll do.
