Sombrero Kick 

Henri and I put our jerseys on the ground to make the goals. Though the sun is just setting I can still see the other moron Lambert, inside his improvised goal, pulling a face while Henri is cleaning off his studs. I've got my springy red Pumas on, with my white striped shirt and passion in my heart. I'll fire off some cannon balls; the guy'll not see a thing. I'll rip his head off, crush him flat, shit, I hate midgets. Yeah, yeah, you mo2on, laugh if you want but you'll be laughing on the other side of your face soon. I stand up like Diego, chest thrust out, standing firmly on my feet, strength in my pelvis; Undulation Man, that's me. I couldn't care less about his three years with Red Star, how dumb, living in the sticks. When I say sombrero, he says that he prefers Tyrolean headgear. What a disgrace. What's the time? Seven o' clock and it's starting to get chilly. The turf envelops us and I can make out Nonoss on the edge of the pitch sucking on his pipe like one demented. They're on my back, it's difficult to concentrate around here. "Come on, gentlemen, it's time." "For what?" Mr Lambert, Mr Villard, back to the dining room like everyone else." It's Simone, the nurse from Bluebird Mansions. " Well, what's all this! Over sixty-two, wearing shorts and in front of the residents. Come on, you've got to go in, and mind you put away the Zimmer frames." What a bitch. Tomorrow I'll vomit in your slippers.
In this collection dedicated to Diego Maradona, Marc Villard, sorry "the Bagatelle killer", revels in intertwining his true-false, past and future exploits, and those of his heroes. The reader revels in reading it.