The myopic ejaculate that blurted from the shrivelled cocks and wizened fingers of the denizens of Fleet Street over Wayne Rooney's overhead kick washed up yesterday morning on doorsteps from Canterbury to Carlisle. There is probably a small overspill of it somewhere in London, with the one-eyed, malformed-by-tight-chino swimmers of Winter, Northcroft et al rubbing up against each other and oozing viscous claptrap as they attempt to edge towards the grand egg of Old Trafford and fertilise their relationship with SAF and Wazza.
Wayne Rooney is a very good footballer who might go onto be a great if he knuckles down and stays away from the fags and whores, and the instinctive vision and fast-twitch athleticism he showed to climb and scissor the ball into the top corner in a local derby of elephantine importance was frankly wonderful. But the ball connected with his shin. I'm not denigrating Rooney here, to have the physical talent and mental brio to get in that position and connect is enough and he deserves the reward. But it came off his fucking shinpad, and not one journalist (except for Gabrielle Marcotti in a piece for SI.com) mentioned it.
And this is my beef. The whole of the football media, from the rags to the 'qualities' to MOTD to Sunday Supplement to Goals on Sunday, are so keen to indulge in journalistic fret wanking over an English player that they, if not lie, then hide the truth behind superlative.
Jonathan Norcroft said in The Sunday Times, "Rooney's right boot smashed through the sweet spot of the ball, transforming it into a missile that scorched past Joe Hart, practically melting the net that received it."
The shame being that most of them were splattered with flying inky jism from the forceful bolt-shooting of what future generations will recognise as Great Sporting Media Spunkfest of February 2011.
I can cope with the missile and melting analogy. But boot and sweet spot? Do me a favour. Are you telling me that no-one in the press box called it a shinner?
Even the most one-eyed United fan. A man, incidentally, so one-eyed that he makes Cyclops look like an advert for Vision Express, concurred that it was a shinner. How do I know? Because I rang him, he’s my mate, and through his mouthfuls of tripe and stout he said, in his Salford brogue, “Tooo riiiggghht maaaate, proper fookin’ shinneeerrrrr that, but who basteerrrrrd cares, it were fookin’ ace…”
And it was. A fitting climax to a game that shat all over the Decimal Point Derby (© Owen Blackhurst 2010) played at he Temple of Doom (© Sir Alex Ferguson 2006) earlier this season. Taggart even claimed it is the best goal he has ever seen at Old Trafford, and it might well be. It could even be the greatest goal ever scored at OT. But if you want another example of lazy journalism, look no further than the box-out that accompanied Nothcroft’s blustering bukkake. Entitled ‘five of the best from Old Trafford’ it had four goals from 2007 onwards, and one from 1996 - Cantona’s delicious dink over Loopy Lionel Perez.
I bet Bobby Charlton, George Best and Denis Law scored at least one each to have made it on to that list. But as Sky invented football and the Sunday Times is also owned by old-handbag face, I guess it is fine to consign the great triumvirate to the spike of a junior writer who was neither professionally bothered nor sufficiently roused to investigate further. A shame. A real shame. Any ST (this one) writers care to tell us the truth?
There were, of course, several other matches that took place this weekend. And if you looked hard enough, you could find the reports. The shame being that most of them were splattered with flying inky jism from the forceful bolt-shooting of what future generations will recognise as Great Sporting Media Spunkfest of February 2011.
And they shall know it by the stained khaki dockers, ruddy faces and Bovril splashed ties of a group of men who should definitely know better.
Wayne Rooney, you scored a fucking belter. I just wish you’d taken your shinpad out and kissed it.
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