money, money, money?

I was awoken about an hour before my alarm was due to go off this morning by a text message. It could only be one of two things: somebody who is horny and on their way home from a late night out, or my Mother demonstrating no appreciation of the time difference between the UK and Australia.

It was my Mum who, incidentally, is fine after her operation. The surprise was in the content:

"Andrew Turner and his wife have joined the board at Norwich. They are worth 275 million. They have given a two million interest free loan so we don't need to sell anyone."

Suffice to say I couldn't get back to sleep after that. My first thought like, I suspect, a lot of other people was: Who the fuck is Andrew Turner? And then: 275 MILLION?!

I grabbed a shower with all sorts of ideas running through my head. Was this one of the infamous American businessmen who have been eyeing up medium sized English football teams with a view to getting them promoted to the Premiership and cashing in on that league's opulent wealth? Would the club I have followed for 23 years ever be the same again?

After logging on to the web, it transpired this was far from the case. Andrew Taylor is a Norwich-based businessman who owns a credit company. He's followed the club since he was a kid. My brief fears that some unscrupulous inbred Texan was about to come in and butcher my beloved club have been vanquished - our saviour is a Norwich based accountant who probably does his shopping at Waitrose in Eaton. Perfect.

Quite where he's been hiding all this time, fuck only knows, but he's kept himself very quiet. I mean, has the whole world really been that engrossed in the fact Delia Smith runs Norwich City to not notice one of the UK's richest men is a Carrow Road regular?

We shall have to wait and see how this arrangement works out, but if it transpires he can provide us with financial stability without selling out to foreign or untrustworthy investors I'll be happy. At least we're not debt sozzled Ipswich Town - shamelessly flaunting themselves around potential buyers like a cheap tart.

No, if this was Norwich out on the pull, they got chatting to someone pleasant over a glass of Hunter Valley Chardonnay and some Mediterranean olives, retired to a candle lit room for a bit of romantic intimacy, exchanged numbers, agreed to meet up again and now look forward to the future. All this while Ipswich lurk in the dark room, bent over and waiting to be fucked up the arse by anybody willing. With no lube.

Or something like that.