Segunda “So,” I say, sitting at desk, and looking deep into my own brown eyes. “You want me.” “Yes,” says a voice.
“You want me,” I say, and I lick my perfect teeth of white, “for Real Madrid.”
“Indeed,” says the man from Real Madrid, and he stands up, and looks at me over the huge mirror balanced on his penpot.
“Can we get rid of this?” he adds. “I’m finding it rather distracting.”
“I am prefering,” I explain, “to look at beauty. And you are ugly. Like a Rooney.”
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The man from Real Madrid sits down again. Then he says that, naturalmente, they want me in Madrid. My look, my style, the fans I will attract, the shirts I will sell.
For this, they are prepared to offer £70 million. “Although we are unsure,” he adds, “about your other conditions.”
I do the shrugging. What do I require? The insignia of Real Madrid only to feature my beautiful face. The name of the club to change, only to Ronaldo Madrid. Or Real Ronaldo. I am not fussy. Also, I want a crisp contract, like Gary Lineker. Little things.”
The unseen man from Real Madrid sighs. “Is it not enough,” he asks, “that you get to play football for one of the greatest clubs in the world?”
“Hold on,” I say. “Also I must play football?”
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Terça They say that I am vain and egotistical. They say that, on the pitch, I am all hair-gel, caring for nobody else, and not even realising I am in a team. This ees rubbish. Within my team, I am adored.
Today, for the example, I am visited by my fellow players, who have heard I may be for the vamoose to Ronaldo Madrid, and are begging me that it ees not so.
“It ees an honour,” I say, to Gary Neville, Rio Ferdinand and Ugly Wayne Rooney, “that the whole team should come to my door!” “But there are only three of us,” says Ugly Rooney.
“A team is 11,” adds Gary.
How we are laughing! “I had never noticed,” I explain.
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Quarta Ugly Rooney, anyway, he does not like me. Although the blankface missus, she likes me a lot. This ees true of all women, because I am so very beautiful.
Even the wife of Beckham. Although her, I would not, if even I had the pole from the barge.
“Why,” Coleen Rooney once ask me, “is your fashion label called CR7?” “CR,” I explain, “ees initials. Cristiano Ronaldo. And 7 ees the number of points I give myself for being so beautiful. Out of 7.”
“But I also want to launch a fashion label!” she say.
“And my initials are also CR! I could do the same!”
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“CR2,” I suggest, being kind.
Quinta And now I am in Los Angeles. Mainly, this ees for avoiding the indecipherable Scotch shouting of Sir Alex Ferguson. “Fekkinweedaygo-panzi,” he will often say, or “gran- standinprittyboyshyte”. Always have I meant to learn Scotch. His English ees even worse than mine.
Too late now. For the man from Real Madrid calls.
He say undecided on name change and badge change, but offer upped to £80 million. Ees good enough for me.
Alas, no progress on crisp contract, like Gary Lineker. But, am only 24. Ees good to have some ambition.
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Sexta And so, the whole world today speaks the name of Cristiano Ronaldo! And no wonder. More than half a million pounds a week! And on top, last night, in nightclub, I met Paris Hilton.
This morning, we have breakfast and watch television, which ees all about me. Of course. Full of love, I look with great tenderness across the table.
“This,” I say, “ees greatest morning of my life! Crisp debacle aside!
Never will I forget first time I laid eyes on you!
“Never will I forget how beautiful you look this morning!”
Paris Hilton stands up, and peers over mirror I have balanced with such loving care against the cornflakes packet.
“Are you talking to me?” she says.
“No,” I say.
*According to Hugo Rifkind