Steve McLaren: Steve
Sven Goran Erickson: Sven
Steve: Sir, Rooney just stamped on Carvalho's goolies
Sven: With the left or the right metatarsal? Quick, which one?
Steve: The left one.
Sven: Good, those goolies can hurt those poor toesies like the damnation. Don't want that ogre, Ferguson busting my goolies.
Steve: Sir, SIr, there seems to...... (cell phone rings)
Sven (fishes cell phone out of pocket): Wait a minnit.
Yes, Nancy.... yeah... yeah... don't forget the bratwurst. Got that. I suppose any supermarket will have it. Oh! That bratwurst. Naughty girl. He he he he he he he he he he he. Tooodle-ums. Got a damn match to catch.
Sven: Where were we?
Steve: Sir, they've sent Rooney off.
Sven: Wait a minnit! Is this the same game.
Steve: He pushed Ronaldo with some force, sir.
Sven: Rooney did that? Pushed fat Ronaldo. What do we do now?
Steve: Cristiano Ronaldo.
Sven: Wait a minnit. Aren't we playing Brazil in the finals?
Steve: No sir, this is the quarters and we're playing Portugal.
Sven: But we're supposed to be playing Brazil in the finals. Terry Butcher said so. And The Mirror. Ladbrokes too.
(Brings his voice down to a whisper). I do have money on the frogs though. But what now?
Sven (light dawning): Crouching Peter, Airborne Lions. Brilliant!
Steve: Well yes. We did that against Paraguay, and Trinidad, and Sweden, and Ecuador. The 4-5-1, remember sir?
Sven: 4-5-1. I like that. Reminds me of a song. Syd Barrett?
Steve (stiffly): It was before my time.
Sven: Really. Look Steve, I really don't want a song to get in the way. We still have Lampard and Gerrard on the field, don't we?
Steve: Yes, and they don't appear to know what they're doing.
Sven: That's the cunning plan. Lampard softens them up with the heavy artillery. While Gerrard slips one in the fusillade.
Steve: You can't do it with one ball, sir.
Sven: I should have never used fusillade. Barrage. Is that better.
Steve (stiffly): Are you implying I never got an education?
Sven: Here we go again. I don't care whether you went to Wrexham Poly. Does Lampard look good blasting the ball?
Steve: Yes, but his mechanics are a bit off. Maybe we should get Theo.
Steve: Walcott, sir.
Sven: Ah! The bloke who sits at the end of the bench, looking like a... looking like a....
Steve (helpfully): Hood ornament.
Sven (frowns): Is that a racial slur? There are laws back home for such things. (whispers). Just because he does'nt look like you and me.
Steve (stiffly): 'Tis a figure of speech, sir.
Sven: OK. Don't go Oxford on me now, not when we have a match on.
Steve: Well sir, we did leave out Darren Bent and Jermaine Defoe for him.
Sven: Well Steve, that is because the tabloids had me down as a milquetoast. I wanted to thumb my nose at them. Remember?
Steve: Becks just left. He is weeping on the stands.
Sven: I blame Julius Ceaser. These 34 year olds, what don't they want? I like Nancy but give me Posh anytime (gets lost in a reverie).
Sven: What. Is it important?
Steve: Sir, the match is over. We lost on penalty kicks.
Sven: Why don't they tell me these things? Isn't this the age of the information super highway. Where was the Daily Mail on this one?
Steve: I dunno. But it was a pleasure serving under you, sir. I did learn a lot. Honest to goodness, I did. On my mother. What are you doing, sir?
Sven: What do you think I am doing?
Steve: It looks like.... it looks like... like...like.... you are shoving your head up your arse, sir.
Sven: Yes, Steve. I am preparing for the next season. Wherever that maybe. Saudi Arabia, Mali, maybe even the Aleutian Islands.