21/05/2013 12:02 BST | Updated 20/07/2013 06:12 BST

Ferguson to Moyes - The Hairdryer Changes Hands

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2013-05-20-C:\Users\Iddo\Pictures\Drawings\David Moyes.JPG-DavidMoyes.JPG

I imagine thousands of you are inconsolable on this point but nonetheless I'd like to apologise for the lack of posts recently and try to explain. On Wednesday 8 May 2013, Sir Alex Ferguson - terroriser of fourth officials, menace of the media, scourge of silverware and manager of Manchester United Football Club for longer than I've been capable of going to the toilet unaided - announced that at the end of this season, he would be hanging up his hair-dryer for good.

As you can imagine, this news played merry havoc with my chakras. For as long as I've been able to make sense of the world, Sir Alex Ferguson has been the boss. His presence at the helm has been such an immutable constant in my comprehension of what life is that hearing the news of his departure a fortnight hence was tantamount to being told that two and two make five and the sun will cease to rise in the East. In other words and in a quite literal sense the world as I knew it ended that day.

I remember sitting at my peanut butter-smeared desk and staring in abject despair at my peanut butter-smeared stapler as my entire being was engulfed by a vision of apocalyptic awfulness. Geri Halliwell. She'd be the first to die. But then bad stuff would happen. There would be a run on the banks and people would begin hoarding food. Then they would become food. In a matter of minutes, aircraft would begin falling from the sky and dashing themselves upon the earth's rapidly toxifying crust. The air would sour and the rivers would run dry. I felt drunk. I looked round the office in a daze at my mild-mannered and achingly boring colleagues, each one saying words and typing bollocks and blissfully unaware of what sort of a place the world was about to become all around them. How long until the poor fools would be vaulting over desks and trying to wear one another's faces like hockey masks? How long before the windows of this unassuming office block and every other like it were frescoed with human blood and excreta? ANSWER ME, STAPLER! CAN YOU STAPLE THE WORLD BACK TOGETHER, STAPLER!?

All these thoughts occupied about 3 pre-retirement seconds but it seemed longer. Perhaps the shock waves generated by this announcement had caused the earth to skitter off its axis and go hurtling off into the cruel, motherless void of space. How long was a day? Perhaps the very fabric of time had unravelled. After all, without Sir Alex wheezing sclerotically on life's touchline and telling the clocks how much to add, what did a second even mean? If 90 minutes could be extended arbitrarily until Fergie's team scored more goals than the opposition and Fergie no longer had a team, then who was to say one of our best and most handsome dimensions hadn't taken its ball and gone home?

Anyway, for what seemed like an unfathomable abyss of time, I sat agape wondering how I - how anything - could possibly go on.

Then, after only two weeks, I pulled my shit together.

This was supposed to be about David Moyes because I drew a picture of David Moyes. Apparently though, that plaintive howl of despond was up in there waiting to be evacuated first and probably would've come out no matter what I was writing about. Speaking of which, I should double-check that article I wrote the other day about how Business Process Outsourcing can ease the burden of the modern CFO; the one which, in an unusual move, I entitled "OH VENGEFUL JAH, WHY!?" Might need a slight tweak.

Anyway, for those of you with the insatiable morbidity necessary to have read this far, I don't propose to tax your limited attention spans any further by embarking on a new subject. So instead, I'll sum up the gist of what I had intended to write in one sentence:

We gon' be aaiight wiv Moyes.

Also posted on Jowls of Derision.