*We join the lads, heads hung low and glum after their heavy defeat against Chelsea, MON jovially enters whistling as he gets to the front of the room*
MON: Great stuff lads, brilliant, that went exactly as we'd planned.
*MON puts his hands on his hips, throws his head back and bursts out laughing maniacally.*
A.Young (whispering): This is terrible, we've sent him mad.
*A number of the lads fearfully nod*
MON: Excellent, I'm just glad you all got the memo.
Collins: Memo?
Carew: What memo?
MON: Very good you two, the memo, you know.
*MON shuffles the cursor on his laptop and it jumps into life, he clicks on his sent e-mails*
MON: Here we go. "Lets leave it to Chelsea lads, lure them into a false sense of security then strike in the F.A Cup semi-final" and might I say lads you executed the plan beautifully.
A.Young: Boss, I didn't get your e-mail.
*MON chuckles*
MON: Good one Ashley, you said you went to check your e-mails a few minutes before the match, I saw you get your laptop you little scamp.
A.Young: Yeah .... um ..... e-mails.
MON: And like I said before kick-off, "everyone don't forget to check out your e-mails".
Carew: E-mails? I thought you said check out the females.
Gabby: Yeah me too.
MON: Fema...? Why would I ...? So None of you got the memo? You just ... Lost?
Dunne: Aye bass, every goal was like a dagger to me backside.
MON: Don't you mean your heart?
Collins: Steady on boss, his heart's not that big.
*MON flips to a foul, four-letter word tirade which lasts for 40 minutes*
A.Young: Please boss, calm down, I don't think the last few sentances you yelled even made sense.
MON: Pound sign! Percentage! Asterix! Exclamation mark!
*MON Collapses in an exausted heap. He lays on his side heavy breathing like a dying animal*
Warnock: Boss..... Are you ... OK?
*MON raises a weak arm*
MON: Confound you to Hades!
*Carew and Gabby scan the room*
Carew: What ladies?
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