Bad week for Billionaires and Italians
Over the weekend, two very similar scenes played out in two very different places. Lets call them Moscow and Abu Dhabi. On Sunday in Moscow, in the plush inner sanctum of a castle built to withstand a nuclear holocaust, a billionaire is sat on a chair made from yak leather and stuffed with puppy ears. Surrounded by naked Slavic beauties wearing nothing more than beluga caviar, Jose Mourinho masks and gigantic strap-ons, the man has his eyes fixed on a screen. He doesn’t say a lot and doesn’t really move when two of the girls begin to undress him. Then, a big bald man does something inexplicable and a sex-addict Motorhead roadie named 'AC' bundles a spherical object over a white line and he erupts. Caviar flies through the air, a Yeltsin of vodka is smashed and the women are dispensed to fellate the guards. “The Italian, “ he says to nobody in particular, “he dies.”
24 hours earlier in Abu Dhabi, in the inner sanctum of a palace designed to withstand a nuclear holocaust, a billionaire lies on cushions stuffed with the softened foreskin of a thousand camels. Surrounded by bodies of unidentifiable gender, clad head-to-toe in black linen with only holes for the eyes and arse, the man holds a hookah pipe in one hand and a scimitar in the other. He too has is eyes fixed on a screen. He’s bored, has been for 80 minutes. Then the right-back, previously unknown for his dexterity around the box, performs a dance move that flummoxes his partner and rifles a round orb past a man in gloves. He erupts with pleasure, holds the pipe to his lips and summons two of the beings towards him. He instructs the two figures to perform and, such is his excitement when he realises he has chosen two teenage boys, he takes his eyes off the screen. Then he hears a noise, at first he thinks it is the muffled cries of the figure that is at the front of this very peculiar pantomime horse, but then he looks up at the screen and sees a replay. He sees the right-back ('we call him Michael') return to type and lose his runner. He goes insane, beheads the two concubines and tells his aide to ready the private jet. “We will go to Manchester. Today. Now pick up those heads. They are for the Italian.”
Mancini and Ancelotti live in fear. They are mere playthings of uber-rich autocrats and their teams have begun to play like it. Quelle surprise.
If it wasn’t for Paul Konchesky being shit and Torres finishing like the Fernando that Abba sung about Liverpool would be in sixth place.
Good Week for football
I’ve spoken before off the pointlessness off extrapolation when it comes to the Premier League and have decided to just enjoy each weekend as it comes. And by Christ wasn’t it enjoyable. Goals, goals and more goals was the order of the day and there were some absolute belters. Despite being shagged from staying up to watch The Ashes on your behalf, I managed to watch every live game, MOTD, MOTD 2, Goals on Sunday and The Sunday Supplement. Such was the quality that only Brian Woolnough got on my tits with his silly bouffant and crap questions. I couldn’t even be arsed to sneer at Shearer. Fuck it, what’s the point, football won this weekend.
Berbatov summoned Cantona’s ghost and breathed life into United. This is the sort of performance that Fergie will cling to and use to propel them forwards this season. Arsenal played some ridiculous football to put Villa to the sword and, even if they can’t defend for toffee, it was beautiful to watch. Harry Redknapp did no harm to his chances as next England manager and even Woy, in defeat, got a few plaudits for at least setting Liverpool up to have a go. If it wasn’t for Paul Konchesky being shit and Torres finishing like the Fernando that Abba sung about Liverpool would be in sixth place.
West Brom vs Everton could, if Jermaine Beckford hadn’t left his shooting boots in Leeds (don't you dare say we didn't tell you it would be like this), have been 6-6, Mick McCarthy started shadow boxing when his desperately unlucky Wolves team finally got a break and even West Ham, awful so far, played with verve to, and I apologise, hammer Wigan. This weekend showed the Premier League off in all its finery. The reason it has been the most exciting league in the world is because possession is swapped with alarming regularity and, as winter gripped this league of ours, it responded with a dragon’s blast of fire and brimstone.
We saw some horror tackles – yes Tim Cahill that means you – a couple of elbows, missed penalties, outrageous 60 yard passes and everything you could wish from a weekend of football.
Today, the Premier League is on the march again. Over to you La Liga.
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