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Dear Diary,

This morning I woke up in the shower and my wings had been shaved. My memory was blank, but from the destruction around me, it looked like Splat had thrown another one of his parties. This isn’t the first time that I’ve been caught up in Splat-inspired carnage, but I will leave those stories for another time.

I sat up. My head was pounding to the rhythm of its own drum. Seriously, it was like I had a second heartbeat. Every movement was an ache, every inch was a struggle. Trembling, I crawled from the shower. It was then that I realised the true scale of the damage. On the bathroom floor there was a used condom. Codeine tablets were scattered about and empty cans of Fosters were stacked on the toilet.  The mere smell nearly forced an involuntary wretch but I held my stomach down.

With all the grace of Gary Doherty, I rose to my feet. I held onto the walls while everything spun, and slowly opened the door. Outside, half his face crusty with his own dried sick, was Splat. I stepped over him and stumbled into the living room. The lemur was there. That fucking lemur. He was also asleep, surrounded by empty cans and fag ends. On the table in front of him was a bong fashioned from a large potato. Splat’s work. On the other sofa was a girl I’ve never seen before, but from the amount of blue fur on her face, I guessed she was pretty close to Splat. I gazed upon her with a mix of revulsion and envy.

Someone had looped the TV. It was showing Ruddy’s haymaker on Drogba on an infinite repeat. On the table in front was a goalkeeper glove with a scribbled signature. The players had been here. Wait… what if they were still here?

I went off to the bedrooms, and my fears were confirmed. In my bed was a triple spoon: Ruddy, Elliott Bennett and Super Chris. At the foot of the bed, curled up like a family dog, was Lappin. I glanced at the clock; it was 8:30. I went to the spare bedroom and held my breath as I opened the door.

Inside was Leon Barnett and Steve Morison, sleeping top and tail in the single bed. On the walls someone had written ‘red card wanker’. These boys go too far when they’re drunk. I remember when young Henri was down last season, some of the things he would get up to would make you blush. He would do anything for a Nando’s. That old-lady had a night to remember.

I surveyed the damage. I was the only one awake, in my own flat, with a bunch of pro footballers, drugs, a random woman and a fucking lemur. I do not remember how it happened. I do not know why my wings have been plucked, I do not know why I ended up in the shower. My last memory was of popping a painkiller and being handed a ‘special drink’ by Splat down at Delaney’s.

I need to find out what happened. And whoever plucked my wings is going to feel my wrath.

To be continued, diary. To be continued.

C.C xx

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