From
Pozvanete Novini, translated by Babelfish
Waiting exhausted itself this morning in continuing fable of promotion from Tottenham Hotspur, a collective at London, to again Manchester of his first asset, Dimitar Berbatov. Since two years, he went in same direction the North-traveling man Carrick, and even this empty season has extracted Robbie Keane, Irish son of that once of Manchester Keane now inspecting his saddle at Sunderland. Yet necessary rapid articulation of signatory przilsky has been circumcised by anger at Manchester from Daniel Levy, president of the Tottenham collective, which was smiling sporadically in the 1960’s.
All Bulgaria, including Manchester, lusts for prompt Berbatovian resettlement, for three causes. First, in Manchester are superior comrades, by example Ronald the Christian, who again is Annual Global Footballer, Wayne Rooney, the River Ferdinand, and Nemanja Vidic, metallic Serbian rapist. At most least, Dimitar will certainly cheer a lack of Michael Dawson.
Second, there is shame in heroic genius screaming pointlessly for the League of Champions. If Jermaine Pennant is running at Milan and Madrid, while Dimi at home eats squashed potato without pork, this is stupid.
Thirdly, in Manchester he can win suitcase over suitcase of pound sterling. In negotiations, an exact price of labour has not yet made it so that both sides hold each the other man’s hand and, smiling, jiggle. However, because Micha’s agent, Emil Dantchev, is friend of my uncle Lyubomir, who shoots horses with his father, I sometimes loosely push him with my telephone’s mouth. Emil poured onto the ground for me some approximate prices of labour of £75-85,000 per week. Queen Elizabeth will steal some of this from tax, but, Emil insists me, not much, because officially his client lives in the sea. And above money, Manchester will treat Michko with mercy: he is able to go away back in Bulgaria in summer, he will build a castle with garden on an island called Cheshire, and he is permitted to breed.
We will find after this season what flavour of honour our Mitichevsky inhales. In Manchester already they are anticipating parties. On the internet, slow people repeat the phrase “Time for removal of my penis!” This signifies that they are happy. But still supporters of Tottenham collective roar into a deaf night. Levy writes a poem from his wounds for FA, English football politburo. But by a proverb this is only throwing salt between steeples to make watery slujka. By now, Dmitichichka’s promotion is a gutted fish.
Berbatov is beautiful, with sly eyes like demon.
Made me giggle