Our lass has always maintained football is a soap opera for blokes, and the last few weeks has only confirmed this. By the time Saturday came round I’d had a belly full of football, and that was before a ball had been kicked.
I’m referring, of course to the Wayne Rooney saga. I think it’s safe to say there’s been enough written and recorded about Mr. Rooney’s ambition-fuelled quest for silver (and gold) to last everyone a fair few seasons without me pelting a few more on top. But just in case you missed all the nail-biting drama, it basically went like this: Day One: Oh no! Wayne’s not happy! He’s leaving! Boo! Day Two: Oh hang on, look – there’s a load of blokes in balaclavas stood outside his gate! Day Three: Now Wayne’s happy again! He’s staying! Hurray!
Personally I couldn’t give a flying frig if the newly redeemed Rooney plays for Man Utd til he’s fifty odd or he spends the rest of his days sunk to the nuts in a writhing pile of gaudily painted prostitutes. All I ask is that he does it in private. I’m sick of seeing his boat race staring out from every screen and newspaper.
Down in the less news worthy depths of the Championship, my team, Hull City managed to plummet my mood further by valiantly losing to Portsmouth in the pissing rain, an event I celebrated by turning up the central heating to full and opening a few bottles of wine. So by the time the Match Of The Day theme tune tootled out of me telly I was half delirious with heat and alcohol.
Fulham’s new away kit is a tad adventurous. At first I thought the picture on my telly was fucked. Actually, I think Fulham looked rather dashing. Daring use of muted green. Mind you, I’m the only person I know who liked the Coventry City chocolate brown Talbot strip. And the Shrewsbury Town one that looked like a migraine. Despite their new get-up, Fulham fell to two cunningly disguised offside goals, which very briefly catapulted the Baggies into the top four. The idea of West Brom going on a protracted run should not be entertained though, on the basis that it will probably encourage Frank Skinner to step back inside a recording studio.
“Day One: Oh no! Wayne’s not happy! He’s leaving! Boo! Day Two: Oh hang on, look – there’s a load of blokes in balaclavas stood outside his gate! Day Three: Now Wayne’s happy again! He’s staying! Hurray!”
Apart from a spectacular bicycle kick from someone or other, and a hilarious miss by Emile Heskey, that’s all I can really remember from the action on Saturday’s MOTD.
There were two highlights served up by MOTD2. The first was Javier Hernandez’s back header against Stoke. I love seeing Stoke get the piss ripped out of them. I think it’s partly jealousy, cos they came up at the same time as we did and managed to make a much better fist of things.
Whereas Hull City’s hierarchy pissed money up the wall by signing hair product modeling journeymen with glass knees, Pulis and his staff set about building a “durable” and “challenging” Premier League team who “play to their strengths” and “are always hard to beat.” Boring bastards, in other words. So I was glad Manchester Utd beat Stoke with a last minute goal despite Stoke’s “gutsy attitude” and their “vociferous” fans, with their shit Rockport jackets and their one dim-witted song.
The second highlight on MOTD 2 was provided by Mark Lawrenson’s reference to “Twitter Face”. At first I thought he was referring to Roy Hodgson, who was starting to look more and more like Fred “Parrot Face” Davis every week. I hope Liverpool’s win cheers him up, because he’s had a hard time lately what with the mounting pressure of being in the bottom three, peering up the skirts of teams like Fulham and Blackburn amidst all the customary wailing and gnashing of teeth and the unfurling of pithy banners. It was all getting a bit much for Roy. He looked like an irate dinner lady who was trying to control a mob of delinquent schoolchildren.
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