Down at the PFA

Imagine the scene. Somewhere in a Surrey 'gated community' (we can discuss the contradictory nature of that phrase some other time). The house is littered with Xboxes, Bentley keys, modelling agency directories (some entries ticked off and marked with ungallant comments), diamond-encrusted watches, cufflinks and belt buckles, hair products and decorative women.

Welcome to the headquarters of the Professional Footballers' Association.

Seated at the table facing a conference phone are several aristocrats of the game: Luis Suarez, John Terry, Wayne Rooney, Carlos Tevez and several other gentlemen of impeccable reputation. They are gathered together to address a disgraceful episode in the game's history.

The telephone is answered. A deep, graceful voice reverberates around the room.

'Good morning. Reginald D Hunter at your service. How may I help you?'
'Hola, Reg. Is Luis here. Luis Suarez. I've got John, Carlos and Wayne here too'
'Hey Luis! What can I do for you guys?
'Well, Reg, we're, well, a little bit upset about your act last night at the PFA dinner.
'Oh yeah? You folks objected to my gags about your taxes and failure to operate the channels in the final third of the game?'
'Not really, Mr Hunter. It's just that all those uses of the 'n-word' really offended me as a modern cosmopolitan role model. I know John here agrees with me 110%'.
'Facking right I do! You should have seen the expression on my Chevy when I heard that stuff. There's no place for filth like that in the modern game, me old China'.
'Yeah, an' all that language la' - bang out of order. Me mam and Colleen might have been watchin' We've gorra reputation to protect la' '.
'An Reg-in-ald. We are muy unhappy about your fee for last night. That much dinero for 45 minutes. We want the money back and the phone number of your agent. Comprende?
'Luis?'
'¿Si, Reg?
'Bite me'.

And with that, the phone goes dead.