Sorry if you missed me. As you would expect of somebody of advancing years, it all got a little too much for Fifty Shades.
To recharge the batteries Fifty Shades had to go and lie down in a Navajo Sweat Lodge, while scantily-clad maidens carried out the mystic healing and rejuvenation process by burning Ponderosa Pine-scented joss sticks, covering Fifty Shades in rendered buffalo fat and playing mournful tunes on a nose flute.
Luckily, Fifty Shades was back in time to take in an end to a Premier League season that was flatter than a Crepe Day Out.
Trying to repeat last season’s loopy final day was always going to be as difficult as following Bruce Springsteen on stage with a kazoo.
With everything buttoned up tighter than a Victorian virgin’s bodice it was left to the Premier League and TV to try and convince us there was still plenty to play for on the final day, that the contest between Arsenal and Spurs for the final Champions League spot was not two bald men fighting over a comb, and that there was plenty riding on Swansea-Fulham, and Southampton-Stoke.
But the flat final day worked out just right, as it didn’t allow football to get in the way of the important business of the day – the high profile retirements.
Fifty Shades is struggling to recall when so many high-profile football personalities decided to bow out at once, a kind of Moonie Wedding in reverse.
Of course, leading the way was David Beckham. The dernier of France’s Ligue 1 season on Saturday meant old Goldenballs had first dibs.
As you would expect of the emotional, weepy French, it was a tear-filled occasion, with Becks welling up and gushing like a geyser at the thought of what retirement holds for him.
No such thing, of course, at The Hawthorns where both Sir Alex and Paul Scholes showed the sort of stiff upper-lip that stood the Brits in good stead as Michael Caine showed in Zulu as we carved out an Empire by bravely gunning down natives armed with little more than spears.
Similarly at Anfield, where Jamie Carragher bowed out in front of the Anfield faithful, prior to his new job confusing the hell out of the nation with a Scouse accent so thick he will need subtitles as he becomes a TV pundit.
Fifty Shades was whistled up by a national newspaper to carry out a Michael Owen watch at St Marys where he made a cameo appearance for Stoke against Southampton.
As a spectacle, Owen Watch was marginally less riveting than a Spring Watch special featuring live coverage on Nest Cam, live from a hibernating dormouse’s domicile in the depths of winter.
He got 20 minutes, possibly touched the ball once, ran about a bit, and produced an air-shot to a cross that might have sent him out on a high, but really only confirmed that based on this display of his touch and timing he is not getting out a moment too soon.
But as these greats bow out, our thoughts must now turn to those who will be most affected by their decision to hand in their Sherrif’s badge and hang up the six-shooter.
Fifty Shades is talking about, of course, about the wives, partners and significant others in the lives of the departing heroes.
Let us consider their lot, at these times, as they must be looking forward to their man’s retirement with dread.
Take Mrs Nicola Carragher, for example. How will her husband cope with the absence of defensive duties to carry out?
As she comes out of the bathroom after completing her morning ablutions, she can expect to be picked up and marked touch-tight and tracked by Jamie as she proceeds to the breakfast nook.
She can expect to have her dressing gown tugged as she seeks to find space to grab the Shreddies, and as she moves around the kitchen, she can expect Jamie to adopt a zonal marking system, and get close as she moves towards the fridge-freezer, easing off as she circles the dishwasher, but getting tight again as she moves into his zone around the central island and hob-cooker.
Pity poor Mrs Claire Scholes. Instead of being allowed to go about her daily essential WAG business of manicures, pedicures, shoe purchasing and nibbling light lunches with other vacuous footballing wives, she can expect to be pestered all day by a little ginger gnat buzzing around her. Even worse, she can occasionally expect to have her legs from the knees downwards, rapped as Scholes lunges into another ill-timed challenge.
On the surface, daily life may not be too different for Mrs Louise Owen. She will continue to get no sense out of her husband until he has toddled off to the loo with the Racing Post but she will now be in the front line of Owen’s constant battle with sinews strung tighter than a violin string, and with hamstrings that twanged like a Slash guitar solo.
Life will be lived on the edge for her, never knowing when she will enter a room and find her husband clutching the back of his thigh, the result of his hammie going while trying to put his socks on.
What of Lady Cathy Ferguson? Will she relish Sir Alex’s promise of spending more time with her after neglecting her for years as he ruthlessly pursued titles?
Up to now, the only Hairdrier Treament she has received is her weekly rinse, colour and cut at Julius Scissors of Alderley Edge. And fluffy slippers kicked in anger from a deep shag-pile carpet in the lounge tend not to produce cuts above the eyebrow.
But she can expect to find her time management skills tested to the max, as Sir Alex hovers over her, pointing to his watch. She’ll also need to brush up her chewing gum cleaning skills as he deposits his gobbets of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit all over the house.
While we’re at it, let’s not forget Mrs Mark Halsey. Her life will now be ruled by sharp blasts on a whistle, and the flourishing of cards for various indiscretions.
A cold cup of tea, failure to buy shaving foam/razor blades, and hogging the TV remote control will produce a yellow card. A burnt dinner carries an instant red.
If it’s the wives of these retiring legends we feel sorry for, we now know the reasons for Beck’s blubbing.
He faces the prospect of spending more time with Victoria.
There are a finite number of hours you can spend each day flogging undercrackers, sunglasses, watches or whatever else he decides to endorse.
He’s then got to find excuses not be around the house where he will be constantly confronted by her trout pout and a face as long as a wet weekend in Dawlish.
Don’t be surprised if it all gets too much, and in a year’s time, he announces a comeback, playing for Dagenham & Redbridge.
Remember, you heard it here first.
By John May
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