Being Theo Walcott
This morning Theo Walcott lazily poured his Rice Crispies over his bowl, getting almost some of them in, and then getting a good fifty per cent of the milk in as well. He could have done a little better had he concentrated, but he was never really willing to do much properly, the main thing was that he got it done fast. Admiring the quality of his work, he tweeted the results. He ignored the people pointing out that he’d made a real mess of the whole thing. ‘Trolls.’ he retorted. The day was good, and after perusing the sports betting sites, he made a few hasty and terrible decisions on who to back, but the main thing was he got it done fast.
After driving to training, pranging his car a few times against the dual carriageway divider, but making it there in record time, he carelessly stuffed the rejection of the latest contract offer into Arsene’s In Tray. There were a few typos in there, but he got the gist. He’d do spellcheck next time, if he could be bothered to ask someone how to do it. It didn’t look likely.
Looking at his new tattoo, he decided he might as well try to do one himself. Getting a hot needle and splitting open a marker pen, he wrote THEO WALCO on his wrist before he ran out of space.
After a quick and eventful - three speeding tickets - ride home, he ate some lunch (half-cooked pasta) and indulged in some positive visualisation ahead of the game on Saturday. 'Theo Walcott sprints past the full back, he’s got yards of space, the game could be decided here, he just needs to pull the ball back to Tevez and… goal kick.’
Perfect, he thought. I am ready for the big time. I am it.
