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Things really slowed down today after the whirlwind that was yesterday's writing. The boys went out to celebrate at Newz Bar in Liverpool (it really exists) but not much else happened. The bartender was dressed as a vampire (but don't worry- Gordon will make his glorious return in a much bigger way), Olga pondered why so many footballers cheat on their wives and the homoeroticism of the sport, and Olga ripped her dress and had to ask Sam which dance moves didn't show her underwear. There was some dialogue which was frankly embarrassing on my part. I can't write any character that isn't me to save my life. Fernando is such a loser.
I did, however, set it up that Fernando is going to play in Liverpool's game against Ipswich. It is an away game. Hilarity will ensue.

This was one of the only parts I could really think to put in, since everything else included dialogue which I don't want to share with you. Here it is:

Fernando has never really been one to imbibe in excess, but tonight, he really did himself in. That’s the only way to explain why he tried to steal a giant, inflatable lollipop (don’t even ask me how or why this was in the bar, I don’t have an answer to that.) Or maybe it could explain why he did an extremely involved dance to ‘Sexyback.’ You could tell that he had danced like this before, despite the fact that he would never have admitted it. Maybe he danced to Sexyback in the shower before ‘Let It Rock’ was released. Note to self: find out by any means possible.

Not only was he drinking champagne, but also almost everyone in the bar wanted to buy him a drink. I think that athletes are the only people that can accept drinks from other men, and no one would think it was weird. In fact, there are a lot of things that football players can pull off without being called a “fag” that other men couldn’t dream of. Like ass-slapping. Or groin hitting. Or even those hugs and not-so-subtle hair sniffs after goals. Don’t think the irony is lost on them; they combat this by being extremely homophobic and hyper-masculine most of the time.

Girls were drawn to Antonio Mourinho (do you think he would hate me if I called him Tony? What about Tonay?) like me to a pile full of sweaty jock straps. Mull that one over for a while. I think he had two girls around each arm at one point; that probably is the reason that his arms are so freakishly long. He was clearly loving it, since he had that same damned cocky grin pasted on his face all night. The cocky grin wasn’t the only thing that made him look like an asshole; I think the finishing touch was really his outfit. He was wearing extremely tight white pants with a silver button-up silk shirt with a pattern on it that I just don’t care to describe. By the end of the night I don’t think that a single button was done up, which revealed his perfectly hairless chest. I think my chest has more hair than that.

Fernando, on the other hand, was looking pretty fine, if I do say so myself. Let’s just say that he was wearing the shit of the jeans that I had picked out for him, along with a black blazer and white-collared shirt. It is my goal that he never takes a single fashion tip from Tony.

Here is a description of the team from when she met them a few days before. Scott wanted more Tim O'Shea, so here he is:

Most of them were pretty polite, but a few really stood out. Like the infamous Antonio, who was wearing silver metallic short shorts, and a pink t-shirt with a pink flower tucked into his pink baseball cap. He could have put Fernando to shame with his smarmy disposition. Strangely enough, Antonio wasn’t the only one in the room sporting metallic short shorts. If only with that this was the case. His awful outfit was only rivaled by Sergio Ramos’ gold shorts. You can’t make this stuff up. To top it all off, ‘The Ramos,’ as he is often referred to, was carrying a Louis Vuitton clutch and seemed to have a feathered mullet that would make Journey jealous (Please, please, please click on this hyperlink. It's fucking hilarious.) It even appeared that Antonio and the Ramos were in competition with each other or something. Timitar Berbatov looked like a sexual predator. He held on to my hand for just a little too long. And that widow’s peak, oh god, that widow’s peak. The goalkeeper of the squad, Julio Iglesias, just seemed weird. He was colouring in a colouring book, and doing a terrible job at that. My eyes lingered a little too long on the colouring book, and I thought that I noticed a drawing of what appeared to be Emilio Estevez in profile. No one really seemed to notice, and if they did, they didn’t seem all that concerned.
Then there was Tim O’Shea, whom I had met last year in my Liverpool travels. Three things you need to know about Tim O’Shea: One, I’m convinced that he is a borderline alcoholic. And by borderline, I mean he can’t even see the line, let alone walk in a straight line. Two, he has long greasy hair that it appears he never washes. This is odd, however, because if I remember correctly, he takes to the group showers with a never-before-seen verve. And three, he is extremely lecherous. He seems like the kind of guy that wouldn’t find anything wrong with filming up girls’ skirts at the mall escalator. Seriously, he’s perverted.
“Céline! You don’t call me anymore!” he shouted as he jumped up from his brown leather La-Z-Boy hugged me.
“It’s nice to see you too, Tim,” I said as I awkwardly patted him on the head. Note to self: learn how to be around people, you dumbass.
“Congratulations on the engagement, part two! You crazy kids,” he said as he playfully punched me in the arm.
“Well thanks, Tim. It’s nice to see that not much has changed with you.”
“Why would you want to change this?” he asked cockily as he did what I can only describe as a dance with excessive booty shaking and roof-raising.
“Right…” I responded, even more uncomfortably than I had been during ridiculous head patting that had taken place earlier.





And here is proof that a) you can't make this stuff up, and b) I read too many soccer blogs.