So we beat the Bitters at “Wembly” with a gaggle of gifted kids, having been fluked into a 0-2 deficit at halftime. Some people – usually the losers – claim the Charity Shield isn’t a real game, but I think the sight of Micah Richards’ studs-up challenge on Ashley Young tells another story. Ironically, city are using the “under strength” excuse, despite having all their main steamers on the pitch that day (excepting Tevez). De Gaea endured a nightmare 45, especially their second goal, when his little pogo motion took him out of sync with Dzeko’s shot, thereby delaying his dive until it was too late. That’s right; I’m a goalkeeping specialist now.
History flutters its eyelashes and a million monkeys jump to attention, defying convention and avoiding pretension, Scholesey’s orange napper’s got midfield in the crapper, alas, poor Carrick, he’s on fly agaric, I knew him well, tin-bath Geordie bell, when his mam she ‘ad nuffink, except an old cufflink, that was once Supermac’s, made from recycled tacks. What’s wrong with Fletch, that poor Scottish wretch, he’s a rake on the take, an he needs a good steak, while Nani’s emerging, downfield he is surging, a harbinger of doom, statue in living room, and he does like a strop, but where will it stop, I can’t take it no more; a fucking big face on the planet next door? A boat-race on Mars, gazin’ out at the stars, rocket fuel in our cars, let’s put some aside while we still know the score, ‘cos the planet is Red an’ – OK, none of that made any sense, I know.
Arsenal are fragmenting, with Flabbergast off to Catalunya, Bendtner off to anywhere, and Wenger probably off his head. Ever since the Handbags Era and the food fight (not to mention apeman Keown mocking Ruud after his penalty miss) I have nursed a strong urge to piss on Highbury/Emirates from a hovering Harrier. The only downside to this is that city could be guaranteed a permanent slot closer to the top. And that’s never a good thing.
One thing I’m sick of, no, not Paul Dickov, is the Bitters’ small mindset, must be a blind get, to not see the irony, of their Prima Donna tyranny, dissin’ Roberto, that poor little squirt-oh, an’ that Ballotelli, should give him the wellie, I watched them at “Wembly”, they became very trembly, when de Gaea cocked up, thought he’d won ‘em the cup, but it’s a shield you daft gets, an’ despite all our debts, we cleaned up again, it was on News at Ten, right after the rioting, an’ a bit about dieting, showed Nani break free, outran shite Kompany, and buried the ball, just like fuck all, and the Bittermen cried, and denied and denied, that the shield’s important, as is Rooney’s new implant, Colleen must be buzzin’, his napper is fuzzin’, but the streets are aflame, and no-one’s to blame, for kids who just burn things, livin’ on Burger Kings, Planet o’t’ Scrotes, an’ carnival floats, bearin’ footballing prizes, in various sizes, will not satisfy, the hungry magpie, cos all that glitters, has gone down the shitters, an’ the youth want a piece, an’ they’re not gonna lease, they ain’t lookin’ to buy, as the missiles fly, but United’s in debt, Glazers not finished yet, there’s a chance they’ll sell, to ‘im from’t’ oil well, while the Megastore cranks, and Gilgamesh wanks, ‘cos the boycotts ‘ave died, town’s fires subside, but I’m ‘ere in the States, degrees high ninety-eights, Nu England Bayou, climate changin’ hey-ho, an effect domino, the odd tornado, but enough about me, wharrabout Ste, with his infected groin, an’ American coin, with forehead so crinkled, his bollocks all wrinkled, he’s on his way out, with a bad case of gout, while Kenny the Saviour, and the gifts that he gave yer, stands forlorn on the side, his eyes open wide, ‘cos the Red Sox are watchin’, his face is all blotchin’, he’s spent a pile, but they’ll lose by a mile, ‘cos Carroll’s a drunk, an’ Suarez smokes skunk, an’ Henderson’s shit, but Phil Jones is a hit, and so is Young Ashley, attacking so brashly, and it’s time to stop this, it’s turning to piss…
So, another season to look forward to, and though we say it every year, this one could be a biggie. The performances in the States and against city at Wembley have raised everyone’s expectations, with good reason. The whole Sneijder to United saga, a soap opera of truly gash proportions, and bested only by Ronnie-to-Real and Cesc-to-Barca, has become little more than a tedious sideshow, knowing the likes of Cleverley is waiting to prove himself. Once young Tom gets his tendency to let fly, Gibsonecstasy style, under control, he will be an asset. Hopefully not one we sell to Sunderland for five million, though.
I’ve got my BBQ on, my slave girls waving huge peacock tail fans languidly in my general direction, and a hard-on that’s gonna have to wait until halftime to get sorted. Are YOU ready to rumble, fellow Reds..?