Auntie, you salty old whore, will you please pull your knickers up and give yourself a sluicing. I can cope with your charging over-the-odds for me to have the occasional jump on your out-dated public service broadcasting bones and I can ignore the fact that for too long you’ve let it hang out in all of the wrong places and have become shrivelled as a result. But your continued parading of a pair of pendulous mammaries and a sweating arse crack on your flagship sports programme is simply unforgivable.
I don’t want to watch Goals on Sunday and I don’t want to piss around fast-forwarding when I’ve got some booze in one hand a fag in the other. I just want to watch 90 minutes of well-packaged football with some half-decent punditry in between. Is that too much to ask? Is it? Can you not find a better way to spend the combined salaries of Lineker, Hansen and Shearer in the name of insight?
Knowing that it’s had some flak and hoping they might have upped their game, I decided to actually watch MOTD on Saturday. I‘m misty-eyed enough to remember when the theme tune - whether I was pissed, stoned or trying to gamely to ensure the supine figure beneath me got hers before it ended – actually got me excited. So had they done anything? Had they shite. As the final three ‘duns’ climaxed with a whistle, the only thing I could see had changed was that they had spoon fed the ‘Two Als’ MDMA. Lineker always looks like he’s on a double-drop come-up, but Hansen was actually gurning and Shearer just moved from arse cheek to arse cheek with a silly smile on his face.
Someone had clearly sent a memo.
‘Lads, you’re getting some stick, look like you’re really fucking happy to see everyone and, if you’re lucky, they’ll be shitfaced after the first game. Hansen, you take the first game and Shearer, say fuck all until the second segment…’
That they even read it probably guarantees the three millionaires a massive bonus. But much like the football, they ignored the sub-text between the lines.
SAY SOMETHING THAT ISN’T ACTUALLY HAPPENING IN FRONT OF YOU YOU FUCKING MORONS.
And then a chink of light. Shearer the master goalscorer on a montage of Drogba.
“There’s something missing in Drogba’s game,” said Shearer, blinking like a puppy about to have his bollocks clipped.
“I’m just not sure what it is.
FAG DOWN, BOOZE NECKED. FAST FUCKING FORWARD.
Your continued parading of a pair of pendulous mammaries and a sweating arse crack on your flagship sports programme is simply unforgivable
It’s fitting, I suppose, that Carlos Tevez should score one of the individual goals of the season against Wolves. The poor fucker looks like he was raised by them. But give him a ball and he turns into every fan’s identikit model of a player. Even Shearer was moved to call it a ‘Captain’s performance’, the fucking idiot. This was beyond a captain’s performance, he dragged a shitty looking City off the deck, howled in their faces and ensured that Mick McCarthy’s nose bent even further to the left in the post-match interview. That Alex Ferguson considers Rooney a better player than Tevez shows that the old goat might have finally had one too many bottles of Cabernet. And if you honestly type something along those lines in the comments section below then you’re a liar. Or Alan Shearer.
Super Sunday might have got top billing, but it was poor old Baron Greenback Grant who made the headlines. About to be ousted from his job and replaced by Danger Mouse, he took his normal hangdog expression to new levels of forlorn sadness. Gielgud will roll in his coffin tonight. As will David Gold, just after he’s devoured the two young City traders delivered to his door by Porn David. Were Arsenal good or West Ham shit? Wayne Bridge was beyond awful, at fault for all three goals, he made Theo Walcott look world class and got injured to boot.
In reality, the only thing super about Sunday was for the bastards who won money on betting that all four games would end in a draw. Newcastle nearly won, Birmingham ditto, Dalglish is three games without a win and Spurs and United bored the arse off each other.
It would also seem that Shearer-itis is catching.
Sat nail-chewing five minutes into the Merseyside Derby, my stepson walked in.
“What was it like when King Kenny walked out O,” he said.
“Yeah, brilliant, the roof nearly came off…” I replied.
“But there isn’t a roof…”
Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant. Shearer gets £500,000 for that level of insight and I get mugged off by an eight-year-old.
Auntie, darling, forget everything I said. How's about a quick one for old times sake...
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