By Darshan Joshi, writing from Sydney

As Santa Claus tightened his belt-buckle, and slouched into the backseat of his sleigh, he noticed the lights still on within the poorly-painted exterior of the transfer rumour office. Of course, he hadn’t a clue as to what went on behind closed doors - lies, lies and more lies; almost putting the myth of his very own existence to shame - and undoubtedly, this was a good thing. He let out a little ‘ho ho ho!’ and set his course for ho-ho-home.
It was around 7.30pm, and the staff at this little office were a couple of hours into their £20-an-hour overtime, milking every last ounce of loyalty out of Wayne Rooney’s spud-like exterior. At this point, they just wanted to get it over and done with; pictures of Wayne Rooney would become thoughts of Wayne Rooney. Thoughts morph into dreams, and of all the things one could dream of, Wayne Rooney just doesn’t cut it in any way whatsoever. Except when you’re keen on fries.
The Will of Sir Alex Ferguson deserves capitalisation. Nobody crosses him. We have seen what betrayal leads to in Hollywood films; this is a real-life Scouse/Scottish fling, and flinging Wazza and his £150,000-a-week wages over to Madrid, or allowing him to front another ‘Welcome to Manchester’ poster remains a possibility…
Okay, so he probably won’t join Manchester City. If he is as in love with Manchester United as he says he is (or at least as much as he loves women of the night), he would certainly have the decency to avoid Roberto Mancini’s 4-3-2-1, already piloted by Carlos Tevez, but still ever so hungry for that one gamebreaker. However, some conspiracy theorists think that in order to eke one final explosion from Lord Ferg, Wazza might just do that. Or maybe the club won’t even allow it.
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