Simon Parker column

Before I get going, it’s only right to start with a few words of appreciation.

I’d like to show my personal gratitude to all you dear readers.

So happy birthday, anniversary, bar mitzvah, bank holiday, graduation, driving test, season-ticket renewal and pay day. And if I’ve missed anyone off that list, you have my sincerest apologies.

I hope that everyone turning to this page feels loved. After all, you’ve given up a few precious minutes of your day to peruse this nonsense, so it’s only fair that I tip my cap in your direction.

The T&A expenses bill doesn’t stretch as far as a spanking new Bugatti unfortunately; nor even a decrepit old one sat up on bricks. So my gushing recognition for your time will have to suffice.

Sadly that might have cost me a reader over Manchester way. A certain Mr Y Toure has never felt so neglected over his weekend breakfast.

For some, it seems, a simple thank you won’t cover it. That’s not nearly enough to show how much you value them – nor even a wage packet that boasts as much in a week as some of us receive in a decade.

Yes, the silly season officially kicked off this week with the story of a birthday cake, a card that went missing and the absence of any shiny motor wrapped up with a bow.

Poor old Yaya, though I’m not sure that’s the most appropriate description. Poor old Yaya, the unloved outcast at Manchester City.

All they had to do was show him how much he meant on that very significant birthday – the 31st.

It didn’t need much. Maybe the odd trinket or two; a designer drive; a Red Arrows fly past ... that sort of thing.

But no, Mean City snubbed all that for a piffling birthday cake – the sort of thing that us mere mortals have to put up with.

Toure’s lucky, as working in our office he’d have been expected to dash to Gregg’s and provide his own box of eclairs for the rest.

Sadly, an iced sponge and an embarrassed sing-song on the club’s private jet was as good as it got for his big day. No wonder the squad had to clamber over his bottom lip on the way out.

We’ve all been to birthday parties when the host has got the hump. A paddy over pass the parcel or a strop during statues is swiftly followed by a dark warning of an impending red card to the bedroom.

Only in Toure’s case, his very public flounce could lead him straight out of the Premier League; no doubt with the door slammed off its hinges as he departs.

For a fearless warrior on the pitch, he comes across as a right wimp off it.

Surely this monstrous midfielder, who at times single-handedly powered City towards their second title in three years, cannot really be the same sheepish individual hiding behind the robes of his megaphone agent.

This time of year brings out the most crackpot stories and there’s always one transfer yarn that is guaranteed to run and run.

Twelve months ago we were all convinced that Luis Suarez was about to join Arsenal; before that it was Wayne Rooney crossing the Manchester divide. Cristiano Ronaldo, Gareth Bale and Cesc Fabregas have all kept the national newspapers in business in summers past.

Now it’s Toure’s turn to hog the headlines; his underlying intent to force a move or, at the very least, another mega pay-rise hung on the flimsiest of pegs.

A grown man whinging because his employers didn’t do enough for his birthday. Are you for real?

But in the fantasy world of the Premier League, we know that anything goes. Nothing, it seems, is too trivial for these pampered superstars.

So Toure feels unloved and wants everyone to know it. The agent claims his star client is not being respected.

And this embarrassing episode is likely to change that?

Until a week ago, Toure was known as a giant of his profession. From now on, he will be seen as the ‘little’ boy who threw out his toys on his birthday.

Good work all round.