One of my fondest childhood memories is of when this kid called Anthony shat himself in the library corner of our classroom. He’d been rocking back and forth for a while, desperate to go, but because Anthony was a serial bullshitter from a young age, our teacher, rather foolishly it turns out, decided he definitely didn’t have one on deck – shortly before Anthony decided he’d show her otherwise. The details of how it came to be as much over the floor as it was over Anthony himself are a little hazy now, but I remember how it had to be covered in sawdust and we all jumped over it to get out, and how later I walked past Anthony sitting outside the head teacher’s office, wearing nothing but a pair of lost property pants and a devilish grin.
Leonardo da Vinci. Vincent van Gogh. Rembrandt. Monet. Picasso. Tony Hart. Some of the greatest artists of our time, revered forevermore; their talent undeniable, their passion forever unquenched. But what is it that sets the few apart from the many? What lifts them to the very highest echelons of our admiration? Why do we remember their names as easily as that of a cherished childhood pet or our very first shag? I don’t know, and I’m not even sure why I’m asking you really, it’s just that these pieces are sometimes quite tricky to start, sooo… Anyway, Luis Suarez, he’s fucked off and that, and he was really good, wasn’t he? And not just at scoring goals but at getting on everyone’s tits as well. And I love all that, and I reckon you should, too. Shall we find out why? Oh, go on then, let’s.
Yes, you read that correctly, and yes, I know it’ll come as a shock to some that I’ve come out with a statement like this, but I can assure you I’ve not taken this position without a great deal of thought. I’ve considered it carefully, and enough is enough. You can’t keep defending actions like these and hoping that things will change. They won’t. I think we can all agree there’s clear proof of that, and Tuesday night was yet another in a long line of perfect examples. It’ll just keep happening again and again unless we address it correctly, right here, right now. And I’m not naive. I know that many will disagree with me, and that some will of course be uncomfortable with what I’m proposing, but I genuinely think it’s for the best if we put everyone into a giant lead safe, seal it forever, and drop it to the bottom of the fucking ocean.
Guillem Balague. The man. The legend. An Adonis of football punditry. He’s been around forever, hasn’t he? He’s written several bestsellers, he’s best friends with Rafa, and he’s got a tan Pat Bateman would kill for. He must be used to the odd interview by now, so what’s the point in asking questions he’s fielded a hundred times before? We already know him as the go to guy for all things La Liga, and his body of work for Sky Sports, The Times, the BBC and more speaks for itself, but which air instrument does Guillem choose to play while listening to Hall & Oates? What does he keep locked away in his garage? And how exactly would he survive if forced to enter The Hunger Games? Shall we find out? Yes, let’s.
Late last month, the FA announced that as a mark of respect and remembrance for those who lost their lives at Hillsborough, all games taking place on the weekend beginning April 11th would kick off some seven minutes later than originally scheduled. A noble and appreciated gesture to commemorate the 25th anniversary of one of football’s darkest days, but one which also had me sighing into a facepalm almost instantly, as I contemplated the sudden, exasperating inconvenience those seven little minutes would promptly become to rival fans up and down the country, and how the next few weeks would once again be brought to us by the number ’39’ and the letter ‘H’, set against a backdrop of fabricated anguish.
Have you seen that Brendan Rodgers? I can’t stand him, that Brendan Rodgers. Did you see him putting up the old ‘This Is Anfield’ sign? He’s stood there, right, under the old ‘This Is Anfield’ sign, with a fucking hammer. Under the sign, grinning, with a fucking hammer, so that we’d like him. Pandering to the fans with his hammer and his new old sign. Like we were gonna get behind him because of his hammer and his new old sign. And his red nets. He’s put the old red nets back in the goals so that we’ll like him. He’s stood there with his hammer and his new old sign and his red fucking nets. And his teeth. Did you see his new teeth? He’s had his teeth done, the twat. He’s stood there with his hammer and his new old sign and his red nets and his new fucking teeth. Seat sniffer, him.
For Liverpool fans, a successful transfer window is about as rare as finding a salad in Charlie Adam’s fridge. The club’s innate ability at thunderspunking funds up a wall was once again showcased during the summer, when they lobbed twenty million quid at three players who’d end up spending more time out of favour than Colonel fucking Kurtz. Fast forward four months and ‘The Committee’* would again set alarm bells ringing, as it decided the only thing better than spending money on players you don’t need was spending no money on players you probably do – presiding over a January window more barren than Paul Merson’s vocabulary.
* NOT a shit wrestling faction created by Vince McMahon.
Let’s be honest, everyone loves a good cunt, and a good cunt, these days, is hard to find. I think Feargal Sharkey even wrote a song about it once. You see, deep down, we all appreciate a spot-on piece of cunting. We may not readily admit to it, but we do. We’re excited by it. We revel in it. We wrap ourselves up in it like a giant, fluffy cunt blanket. And being a good cunt is a challenge, as the best ones know their remarks should always be just obvious enough to burn the nostrils of Multiple Miggs. For instance, a comment about Steven Gerrard not being a top player couldn’t be more transparent if it was wearing cling-film fucking pants. It’s like saying Paul Scholes doesn’t have orange bollocks. It’s not a lie, and it isn’t the truth – it’s just flawless cunting.
Oil money, eh? What a pisser. Since 2003, Roman’s roubles have helped lure a top four finish back to his place for some Huey Lewis and surgical butchering, while elsewhere Manchester City recently donned a pair of Versace daps and little else to chase down another with a chainsaw, having been sold to a group of mega bastards with wallets as green as Kermit’s arse. Suddenly, third and fourth place – league positions previously described by football fans everywhere as “shite” and sometimes even “utter shite” – are filled quicker than Buffalo Bill’s fat bird wank sock, and qualification for the Champions League has become a trophy by any other name; one with extra Ruud Gullit and arousing intro music.
When Branislav Ivanovic ruthlessly smashed one of his limbs into the gaping, innocent maw of Luis Suarez back in April of this year, few of us could barely believe the character assassination that followed. Not of Chelsea’s detestable, cowardly Serb, Ivanovic – who, to anyone with a pair of working eyes, was clearly the guilty party – but of our beloved, valiant, squeaky clean, heroic number seven. Incredibly, (and contrary to telegenic evidence) the gentle Uruguayan was deemed to have used his teeth inappropriately while defending himself against his aggressor, and this so-called ‘biting offence’ prompted a ten match ban and some of the cleverest minds in the country to demand his immediate removal from it.