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Newborn in Liverpool shirt fake fan and glory hunter

A TINY baby in a Liverpool top who has barely supported them during the week since his birth has been accused of chasing clout and trophies.

Bandwagon-jumping Ryan Whittaker, who is only six days old, has been asked where he and his bloody rattle were when the club was relegated to the second division in the 1950s.

Liverpool fan and Whittaker’s uncle Stephen Malley said: “Win a few games and here’s this complete nobody turning up on Facebook in his home shirt. Never seen him on the Kop.

“Liverpool is my life. I was born here, raised here, live here, and only briefly leave for away games and Wembley finals. There was no sign of this Ryan during the Hicks-Gillett years when we were all protesting on the streets. F**king plastic.

“Tell you what else, he’s not even Scouse. Born in Chester. How do I know? Because I was there in the hospital car park when they brought him out under a blanket so no-one would recognise him. He should support his local club.”

Father Kevin Whittaker said: “I thought it would be a sweet picture, but it’s fair, he hasn’t earned the right to call himself a Liverpool fan and it’s an insult to the faithful.

“So since he’s a glory hunter anyway we’re raising him to support Man City. They actually win shit.”

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The five monotonous stages of Monday morning office chat

ONCE again it is Monday, as if you were not already well aware, and you must run the torturous gamut of post-weekend office chat. It will go like this:

Stage one, 9am-9.45am: talking about your weekend

You didn’t do anything interesting or fit for public consumption, so invent bland lies about drinks with friends or popping to a farmers’ market. The reality – you lay about in your pants for two days, playing violent video games, eating takeaway off your belly and browsing porn – is not suitable for the office even though it’s what everyone did really.

Stage two, 9.45am-10.30am: pretending to listen

Having rattled through your heavily redacted non-event, you’re obliged to listen to the non-events of others. It will be the same boring shit they’ve been doing for years, like visiting parents or taking children to ballet classes. Nod and smile and occasionally say ‘wow, really?’ until they’re finished.

Stage three, 10.30am-11.15am: what you’ve watched

The office chat will be under intense strain at this point. To avoid getting to know your colleagues at a deeper emotional level, move to the safe subject of telly. Who’s watched what? Who didn’t like what? Why is Amanda giving a rundown of who won on Pointless Celebrities? Still, it’s preferable to getting a glimpse into their deranged souls.

Stage four, 11.15am-12pm: brutal and intense focus on work

Pleasantries are over. It’s time to put on corporate personas for a demoralising huddle and bollocking because nobody’s hitting their KPIs this quarter. Any goodwill built up from asking how your line manager’s Sunday at a National Trust was is exhausted. Silently vow to spend the afternoon updating your LinkedIn profile.

Stage five, 12pm-onwards: “Cup of tea?”

That over, everyone sighs in relief and chat dies down to a metronomic back and forth of ‘Tea anyone?’ It’s safe. It’s inoffensive. And it makes you look efficient and productive which you really need after that meeting. The rest of the week will be occupied by chat entirely mundane. This process will be repeated unchanged every Monday for the next 20 years.

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