‘TIS the Liverpool FC Christmas Panto, and Roy Hodgson sits mournfully in a tatty retro tracksuit staring at the fire, occasionally throwing on another goalpost to keep it going.

His trusty elf helper, Sammilee, has gone for the evening, having tidied up the bibs and cones as his duties dictate. Alone with his thoughts, he sighs wistfully as he ponders why he hasn’t been invited to the Supporters’ Club Christmas Party.

His ugly stepsisters, Koncheska and Jonjo, had spent all day preparing at their cabin in Mell Wood, carefully applying designer unguents and pate polish. Their cruel taunts as they left him to his chores rang in his ears: “Why would they invite you? You’re just a humble caretaker!”

Slipping further into despair, Roy rubs his face vigorously, wondering how it had come to this. Then, mysteriously, a figure rises from the smoke of the fire, gradually assuming human form. The tall apparition is extravagantly dressed in eastern garb, broad of shoulder with long, flowing locks of golden hair.

Blinking rapidly, Roy struggles to make out the looming spectre before him. “Who...who are you?” he mumbles. “Do you not recognise me?” replied the fancy phantasm.

“I am Voronin, the Genie of the Cheeks! I was cast into the Wilderness by your predecessor, where I share a flat with Dundee, Meijer and Camara. There we are doomed to whack cows’ backsides with banjos for all eternity!”

“But now your bizarre gesture has summoned me from that netherworld, and has earned you my everlasting gratitude.

“I am therefore obliged to grant you three wishes, though of course my agent will require 30% commission on any material gain paid over the course of my contract into a numbered account at the Brown Envelope Bank in Switzerland.”