This is okay because no one got hurt, right? Right!?
Before the accident, Ronaldo never oiled me, changed my tires, or cleaned out the empty moisturizing bottles from my back seat.
I am Ronaldo's Ferrari.
Getting him to and fro from his beautiful Cheshire home to United's training ground in Carrington, I was able to hit speeds of 315 Km/h. I wasn't going quite that fast when Ronaldo smashed my face open against a tunnel barrier yesterday, but after 180 clicks it all feels pretty much the same.
I know this because I am Ronaldo's Ferrari.
I have witnessed disgusting things, horrible horrible things. I learned to dread the month of May; the parties, the conga line of United defenders and their non-WAGS on my back seat. All over the leather interior. Did Ronaldo take time from his summer vacation to have my insides cleaned out?
No, because I am Ronaldo's Ferarri.
I remember when I first saw him at that car dealership in Lisbon. Everyone was there, the owner, the owner's brother. Little did I know I would be the chosen one. Those cleats felt a little weird at first during the test drive, but eventually I got used to them hammering my pedal to the plush sheepskin floor. I pictured us racing along the Atlantic coastline, wind completely not affecting his immaculate hair, like one of those car ads from the early nineties when sports cars were really cool. Then he drove me to England and I thought my windsheild wipers would fall off from fatigue.
I was Ronaldo's constantly wet Ferarri.
You'd think I'd be bitter about getting turned into scrap. But this way I finally get to enjoy my moment in the limelight. Ronaldo escaped completely unharmed, so that can only be good for my safety rating, right? And I'm only slightly upset that Van der Saar's poncy Bentley grabbed a sentence in the police report.
Yes, all told, I am happy I am no longer Ronaldo's Ferarri.