They say it cannot be a coincidence that I am getting into troubles with each club I play. I say too right is not coincidence: English football is full of people who fail to do what I want.
First the hack Ferguson fails to appreciate me. Since I leave his team, they are of course in a right big mess. In years to come, when they speak of Manchester will they say: "Oh, the angry red-faced man, yes he brought some modest success - although he did make the fatal mistake of letting go Tevez, the greatest forward who ever played the game"?
Or will they just say: "Red Face who? Never mind about this whisky-drinking idiot, let's talk about the brilliant and handsome Tevez some more. Tell me more about his exploits, for they make my bosoms heave and quiver like a traditional Argentine blamancha - a sort of firm soufflé with pieces of steak in it - and I, like all gorgeous young women, do not think he looks remotely like a dog; and if only people were willing to pay Tevez what he was worth, then they would still be basking in the warm glow of his splendid goalscoring and 125percentness and running about all day. Not running like a dog in the park. Running like a man."
Enough of Red Face; he is dead to me and I never think of him at all. Hate hate shout shout money whisky cruel. Life moves on. And now I am to leave Manchester City, please God. Why? Because they make promises to me that they break.
I have quite clearly written down in contract that I and I alone is allowed to wear head or neckwear on a matchday. Did I invent the snood to see the idiot Mancini make a mockery of it with his so-called scarf?
I tell my handler Mr Jooraboomboom that I have grown too big for City. I say it is time to move, I am a big fish in a small pond. He say: "You are not a big fish. You are not even a fish." He tell me concentrate on running around a lot and choosing nice colour snood, he take care of the business stuff.
I say if I cannot take my snood empire to the next level than I shall take the only other course of action to me: I go on strikes like the heroic Argentine labour leader Eva Peron, and they get no more running around out of me until Mancini has scarf taken off him by the owner Mr Omar Sharif. One out, all out, my brothers. Viva the snood!
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