So, the curtain-raiser is done and dusted. Sir Alex is glowing in the light of a new day. Fergie’s kids done the business against Barca in DC, so Reds everywhere were confident they could sort City out at Shit Wembley…City being “The Barcelona of England”, according to their fans…the few that actually turned up, that is.
The Barcelona of England…deary, deary me…Almost as boring as “Paris of the East” innit? And just like that worn out old claim, more than one dubious outfit has claimed the title (Budapest, Prague and Bucharest, in case you’re wondering). Both Chelsea and Liverpool fans have tried the Barca bit on, and we all know about Arsenal. But City are a special club, for special people. Their near lifelong humiliation and disappointment is balanced only by their undying hopeful absurdity. But now they’ve got brass in pocket, and they’re gonna use it. And that.
I was excited to see if any big surprises came running out of the tunnel at Shit Wembley this past Sunday; Sneijder in red, Sneijder in blue, Pele, Cantona…don’t laugh, you never know. The only big surprise was the halftime score; City two-nowt to the better after Dzeko took advantage of de Gaea, who was counting sheep due to inactivity. The Spaniard must have thought, ‘fuck if this is all I have to do in the so-called big games, the rest of the season’s gonna be a fuckin’ doddle!’. The sluggish-reflexed cunt. At halftime I took to Twitter frothing like a rabid skunk about de Gaea’s howler. There were other issues, though; Balotelli’s cuntish cartoon face, Carrick’s indecisiveness, and Micah Richards’ shite attempt at being muscular. I was strangely optimistic ahead of the second half, despite my Tweeting tantrum. Unfortunately, I referred to our new goalie as “Odd-Bod’s retarded sibling” and spent the rest of the match worrying what the Thought Police thought of me.
Sneijder never emerged from that Shit Wembley cameltoe tunnel, nor did Tevez or Chicharito, or Owen or Don Givens- no, sorry, Shay Given. Fucking too high here, me hearties.
Was I one of those “bell-ends” being slagged on Twitter for slagging our own players? I was determined not to let it ruin the occasion for me, and when the Reds massacred City in the second half my balls were well and truly detached from my person by means of vigorous chortling. I’d be a liar if I said the Thought Police weren’t niggling my swede, though, so I went back on Twitter IMMEDIATELY following the final whistle to assess the damage. Sad, I know, but when the choice is harmless internet gayness or drinking Tennent’s Super through the body of a Bic pen, the former wins every time. Well, almost every time.
City’s ground is in a perennially derelict area of Manchester, where the terraced streets, 70s grey bunker council houses and tower blocks lack all redeeming qualities necessary to keep peoples’ chin(s) up. Every shop sells refurbished goods, every pub stinks of old dogs and the locals are like Daleks out of their shells; ugly, slimy throwbacks in stained Matalan gear, with horrific spidery tashes that do little to camouflage the apelike appearance of their inbred filtrums. Or is that filtra? Either way, they walk in the rain bent towards Mecca like Lowry figures in cheap polyester; feeling like their day has come. “Our day has come”, they cackle, grinding second-hand dimps under the heel of their LA Gear hi-tops and blinking unaccustomedly at the light provided only to teams who finish in the top four. This oil money has unearthed them, like bone-white polecats who’ve been living underground for decades. Horrible little fuckers.
Carlos “the scalded jackal” Tevez was conspicuous by his absence. Presumably the lure of London was offset by the at-a-distance repulsive force of Manchester’s two restaurants and wet smallness, or small wetness, whichever. But that other malcontent, Ballotelli, was in attendance, and was quick to engage in a preposterous tête-à-tête with former death camp supervisor, Nemanja Vidic. Vidic would have scraped Ballotelli’s scalp right off with his incisors, chewed it up and swallowed it there on the hallowed turf of Shit Wembley, make no mistake about that, if referee Phil Dowd didn’t have access to certain photos showing Nemanja dressed in sussies and gaudy makeup, wildly squealing like a pig while sucking on the swollen nipples of a Brazilian transsexual. It’s the only thing that keeps the death camp supervisor in line, fortunately for glove-headed Ballotelli.
Either way, Sneijder never emerged from that Shit Wembley cameltoe tunnel, nor did Tevez or Chicharito, or Owen or Don Givens- no, sorry, ShayGiven. Fucking too high here, me hearties. This year’s vintage is pure rocket fuel. What decade is it again?
Speaking of which; where’s Mancini’s barmy ol’ scarf, has he threw it away? And why’s he letting his hair grow again like a big girl? Not that we can talk. Mike Phelan looked like a gold prospector in the Olde West after a particularly gruelling day at the mine/saloon, or an ice road trucker or summat. Most notably, though, was the second great performance by our latest batch of young acquisitions and youth team graduates. Tom Cleverley and Danny Welbeck interacting like, well, champions, and Phil Jones and Ashey Young looking solid and daring, just how we like it at Old Trafford. Anyway, we’ve turned ‘em over once again, and how. It doesn’t wipe last season’s semifinal slate clean, but it goes some of the way to proving that, despite our bitter enemies’ claims to the contrary, Sir Alex Ferguson is still the sharpest tool in the shed.
Ian Hough’s Twitter rants can be found here
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