Leon hung up the phone, his hand, still caked in mud and grass, feeling strangely heavy.
He was standing in the doorway of the 'war-room', the smell of 'victory-scones' and 'damp-footballer' filling the air. He felt like he'd just been hit by a 'joy-grenade'.
"Live… on the BBC," he said, his voice a quiet, stunned whisper.
"Pulling… 'balls'… out of a 'hat'."
Biyon, who had been wheeled back from his 'cherry-picker-throne' and was now sitting in his 'golf-cart-of-power', just stared. His jaw was on the floor.
Walter Samuel, who was meticulously wiping down the 'tactics-board', paused. He turned.
Biyon was the first to explode.
"A-HA!" he roared, slamming both hands on the golf-cart's horn, which let out a comically weak 'meep-meep'. "A 'MEDIA-COUP'! A 'PUBLIC-RELATIONS-MASTERSTROKE'! I 'SEE-IT-NOW'!"
"See what?" Leon asked, his head spinning.
