Claudio Ranieri Lookalike Has Reportedly “Bonked” 26 Women Since Leicester Won The Premier League | US | Translation

In the saloon bar of a quiet, traditional boozer in the centre of Leicester, an unassuming man sits drinking a pint of Oatmeal Stout. He adjusts his glasses, before sweeping his wrinkled hand through his soft, silvery hair. As he takes another sip of his dark, inviting beer, a whisper passes through the pub. Suddenly, a young woman plucks up the courage to approach him. "Sorry –– but –– are you Claudio Ranieri?" she asks hesitantly.

"Dilly ding, dilly dong!" he cries, and so they slope off to romp in the bogs.

While this particular interaction is imaginary, it's certainly faithful to its source material. That source material is the Sunday Sport. In case you aren't familiar with the Sport, it's a newspaper that reports almost exclusively on toplesness, nudity and men fucking lasagnas. It can be found in truck stops, motorway cafes and public toilets, and accordingly is more popular than all the works of Shakespeare put together.

According to a Sport 'exclusive', a man who closely resembles the Leicester boss has spent the last few weeks riding on the coat-tails of the club's Premier League triumph by "bonking" people left, right and centre. He doesn't have sex with people, he bonks them. He is bonking personified, bonking incarnate, bonking made flesh. He's a bonker, a shagger, a romper and, more than anything, a dirty old fox. He is Alan Ashcroft, an unemployed electrician from Glasgow who frequents the bars and nightclubs of Leicestershire in pursuit of limitless bonk sessions.

Claudio Ranieri lookalike bonks 26 women after Leicester's title triumph! Only in @thesundaysport tomorrow. pic.twitter.com/gSRg6nVgf3
— Sunday Sport (@thesundaysport) May 14, 2016

The Sport reports that Alan speaks in Scottish dialect, but puts on a faux Italian accent when he's out on the town. Despite this nightmarish phonetic crossover, he's reportedly managed to bonk 26 women since Leicester won the title in early May. Alan has told the Sport: "Every time I go out for a bevvy, I'm surrounded by women. They cannae get enough of me.

"I want it to be known that I never lie to the women. I never say I am Ranieri, they just assume I am – and I don't correct them!"

Having proven himself to be only partially deceitful in his insatiable bonk quest, Alan continues: "The minute I saw the result that Monday night I jumped on the next National Express coach with a case, three bottles of Buckfast and a bumper pack of condoms. I knew this was an opportunity too good to pass up." Alan is a whirlwind of destructive sexuality, a man who collapses down the carpeted steps of his own personal battle bus, entangled in a latex mesh of plus-sized johnnies and fired up on a heady mix of fortified wine and Tennent's lager. He cannot control his primal urge to bonk and, what's more, he doesn't want to.

"I booked a fortnight at the Travelodge and headed out on the town" Alan goes on. "It was packed with celebrating fans and within an hour I was in the bog of some pub getting my cock sucked by one girl while her best mate tickled my bollocks." This is the bleak face of human intercourse, and Alan revels in the boundless filth of it all.

Alan does admit to feeling some guilt about the situation, but only because he worries about besmirching Claudio Ranieri's good name. "It is a wee bit rum if people think Claudio's going round town shagging all and sundry, but what's a man to do? My wife's dead, so it's not like I can say no is it?" Here we discover a more relatable side to Alan. We glimpse the personal loss that motivates him to bonk away his days. He may be a remorseless bonk cyborg at this point, but only because he has been abandoned on this earth, left to fend for himself in a world of joyless, mechanical rumpy pumpy. Even in the wild throes of bonking, he knows solitude, and realises that he is essentially alone.

There are only two possible conclusions to this story. The first – and more prosaic – is that the Sunday Sport has been duped by a drunken electrician from Glasgow into believing a far-fetched tale of sexual promiscuity. Their reporter has gone to a pub in Leicester, been accosted by an unemployed electrician, and written down his inebriated ramblings verbatim before splashing them across the paper's back page.

The second – and more profound – is that Alan Ashcroft is a sad indictment on our society. People genuinely want to bonk him for looking a bit like Claudio Ranieri, simply for the transitory association with success. Some will bonk him for the banter, some will bonk him to alleviate their crushing sense of aimlessness, and others will bonk him for a fleeting moment of validation. Meanwhile, Alan remains a lonely widower, desperately trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle of Buckfast, quietly dreading his return journey to Glasgow by National Express, bonking despairingly – and losing all hope.