Cristiano Ronaldo: Diary of a slave

In light of Cristiano Ronaldo confirming Fifa president Septic Bladder’s view that he is a modern-day slave, I thought it only right and proper that he keep a diary to ensure that future generations be made aware of his suffering.

DIARY OF A SLAVE (Cris aged 23; Mental age circa Barmitzvah Boy)

6am
Awoke to find a tear in the silk sheets. Sweet mother of … why is it always me? Do you think the kids in Ethiopia have to wake up to silk sheets that keep breaking up? Of course not — only me! My life is worthless! Anyway, I got up and “tripped” on the fold in the carpet. Dived full length and started rolling over and over, clutching my ankle. Practice makes perfect.

7am
Breakfast is served on the terrace. If I’ve told that idiot who passes herself off as a cook not to make my eggs hard boiled once, I’ve told her a thousand times. Does she listen? Hell no! She’s almost as bad as the valet and the cleaning ladies. I’ve got a good mind to tell the butler to toss out the whole lot and be done with it. They don’t know me yet; I’m a big tosser.

8am
I check my look in the mirror and give the hair an extra brushing to ensure it covers the lobotomy scar. Then comes the hard part — which Ferrari do I take to training? Isn’t it always the way? I can never make my mind up whether to take the red, the black or the yellow. I go with red because it matches my jersey. While I’m driving to training I notice an oil light. I must be the unluckiest man on the planet.

9am
Exhausted from putting in oil, I arrive at the training ground only to find there is no shuttle bus from the parking lot. I must have committed some terrible sins in a past life to deserve this. Why don’t they just kill me and be done with it!?

9am to noon
Just my luck everyone else gets two hours’ training while I have to put in an extra hour to perfect my dive. The gaffer says that after rolling around clutching my ankle as if I’ve been hit by an RPG I seem to get up without even a grimace and take the penalty. I’m under strict instructions to stagger and groan as I make my way to the ball at least to make it appear realistic. I can’t seem to get it right until Giggsy tells me to try thinking about being kept waiting at the hair salon. Voila! I’m a picture of agony.

1pm
Lunch is disturbing. I have received a call from my home village. My friend Carlos wants to know whether, if he divorced his wife, they would still be legally considered brother and sister. Tricky! Lovely place: 16 000 people, four surnames.

1pm to 4pm
As it’s an afternoon off, I go with Wes and Rio to watch a movie. It’s called The Little Mermaid. They try to kid me that it’s only a cartoon, but I know better. I’m not falling for that again. Last time they told me that Titanic was a true story! Right! As if people actually dress like that. Anyhow, I cried through the whole thing. The part where King Neptune takes away Ariel’s treasure trove reminded me of the time Sir Alex confiscated my Pokemon cards. Cost me a fortune in therapy.

5pm
It’s home for bath time. Jenkins, my butler, is so immature. He loves to run into the bathroom and steal one of my toy ducks! Usually it’s one of the babies just after I’ve got them lined up behind the mommy duck.

6pm
Nap time or I’m not allowed to go out.

8pm
Tonight Giggsy and Owen are going with me to a nightclub. They’re fetching me so I’ve dressed in my open-necked trousers and velcro top. Jenkins made a very disturbing remark about his mortality. Something about rather being dead than seen in that … or something like that. I hope he’s not suicidal. I might have to toss him. My form, I land up tossing everyone.

9pm to 11pm
The club is packed and everyone is drinking and dancing. Then they decide to play a tricky game called the hokey pokey, which starts me crying because I still can’t get my Pokemon cards back from Sir Alex. Owen tells me it’s nothing to do with Pokeymon so I feel better. The only problem is that every time they shout “You put your right foot in” I instinctively dive, roll and start clutching my ankle. So they disqualify me. It’s not fair, so I take a cab home.

12pm
Midnight, Dear Diary. It’s all quiet. Why is my life so miserable? Why do I have to sleep in broken silk sheets, live with oil lights and get thrown out of hokey pokey games? Why can’t I just have an easy life like the kids in Somalia? Septic Bladder is right.

I am a modern slave!