“Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in…” is one of Michael Corleone’s most famous lines. Probably because it is the only memorable line in the execrable Godfather lll, and possibly because it was the moment Pacino turned from a dead-eyed master of his craft to a bilious ham.
Following my attack on the MOTD pillocks a few weeks ago, and what with the ‘Smash It’ debate rumbling on, I thought I’d steer well clear of pundits for a while. But apply the quote above to ITV, and the choice Chris Coleman and Chris Hughton as pundits, and you’ll see where I’m coming from. ITV, you broke my heart, and I’m not even going to kiss you for it.
#itvisfuckingshit has been a popular trend on Twitter recently. Good. Because it is. I could delve into an essay I did at university about the charters of the respective broadcasters, but let me paraphrase and say that ITV was founded to be a commercial version of the BBC for people who consider biting their toenails a fucking master craft. The graphics have always been shit, the lowest common demonitator programming an arse-wiping disgrace and as for the sports coverage, let's just start and end with that wanker Clive ‘One Famous Night in Barcelona’ Tyldesley.
But, much like the porn actress who has had her colon nudged one too many times by Big Dick Dastardly, ITV reached new depths of pain and excrement on Saturday. I was one of the people who couldn’t have given a fuck when Hughton was sacked from Newcastle. Yeah, so what, he got a bunch of Premier League players promoted. If he was such a good manager why did he feel the need to let Nolan, Smith and Barton run the dressing room? I wouldn’t let those three fuckwits run to the shop for my Blue Rizlas, as I cannot imagine ever wanting to smoke a Viagra and a packet of Turkey Twizzlers.
Look out for a slightly overweight man, roughly 5’8” tall, wearing a parka, drunk, carrying a chainsaw down the Kings Road while overacting wildly and quoting lines from gangster films in a midlands accent.
And Coleman, that arch shagger who blamed a washing machine and someone else for being a shit manager and crashing his car? Do me a lemon. All he could think to moan about was the Crawley players being unprofessional.
All this AFTER Strachan, Chiles and Southgate. Here’s a song for you, to the Lord of the Dance.
EYE-TEE-FUCKING-VEE, HIT EVERY BRANCH ON THE UGLY TREE, LIKE GORDON, GAZ AND AIDEE C, HIT EVERY BRANCH ON THE UGLY TREE.
Bet you think I’m going to bang on about the footie now, don’t you? ‘Oh, here we go, he’s had his rant bless him, let’s see what he has to say about (insert team here) against (insert other team here)'. Well, pedro, not-to-fucking day.
You might have noticed I’ve got a wasp in my arse. I have, I borrowed it off Gordon Strachan. We had a right job getting it out. Been stuck there since Fergie fucked him off 20-odd years ago.
Of course, the reason I’m pissed off is Fernando Torres. A written transfer request apparently. Funny that, I didn’t know the turncoat could write, all I thought he could muster was a grimace, a shrug and a fucking woeful run. What’s he got written under his armband now? ‘Chelsea Chelsea?’If he doesn’t want to play for the club, fine, but I’d tell him he’s going nowhere for six months as set out in the summer. If he doesn’t like it, let him rot. Fuck him. And if he’s doing a Rooney or Tevez, then give him the money and I’ll start licking his arse again next week. Or get Big Dick Dastardly to hypothetically bugger him into oblivion while I hold a virtual chainsaw to his neck and tell he’d better not grimace.
Not me. Fernando. I’ve just spiked his vino with some poppers and GHB.
Regular emotive, clichéd, nostalgic and hyperbolic coverage of the actual football will resume next week. Probably. Unless Torres signs for Chelsea, in which case you should look out for a slightly overweight man, roughly 5’8” tall, wearing a parka, drunk, and carrying a chainsaw down the Kings Road while overacting wildly and quoting lines from gangster films in a midlands accent.
“Yes yow, Torrez, yow fuckin cockrowch, say ow bist cocker to me little friend….”
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