Hot Rod

Harry Redknapp cruised down the Las Vegas strip

in his red open topped Cadillac.

The full array of neon

was spread out across the lenses of his aviator sunglasses.

He wore these even though it was night time.

He didn’t care – he was like that.

Redknapp nodded slowly to slack-jawed bystanders as he glided past,

hundred dollar bills floating out of the back of the vehicle

and leafing back down into the road,

leaving a disjointed trail of green.

Spying a hot piece of ass by the side of the road,

Redknapp decelerated.

Leaning out over the driver’s side door he formed a pistol with his hand,

aimed it at her and mimed taking a shot.

As he did so he softly exhaled as he mouthed ‘Pow’

– his breath carrying the odour of three chilli dogs that he’d eaten earlier,

because Pavlyuchenko was confused.

Pulling up on the curb, Redknapp disembarked.

He tugged at the lapel of his linen jacket

and adjusted his hot crotch

before strolling forth into the casino. Harry was feeling lucky.

Harry-go-lucky