So this is it; everyone’s playing musical arses as we ride the seat of our man-pants all the way to Memphis. Not the actual Memphis, a metaphorical one that symbolises the end being nigh like a dirty Bitter Tashman in a sandwich board declaring the fact on the road to ruin. When an ubermortal like SAF says this is Ruby Tuesday or bust (I don’t know what that means) you know it’s strap your balls on time. The 4-4 with Everton suggested something fundamentally wrong with our back passage. Upon shining a policeman’s torch into that murky area, I think I may have found the culprit: We are severely lacking in the meme department. Knart-a-meen, Twatlock? Chelsea have Sideshow Bob and England’s Not-Really-Got-A-Cracked-Rib-‘Cos-Nobody-Could-Play-Premiership-Fotball-In-That-Condition; city have a whole gallery of funky looking villains; Arsenal have Oxtail Chamberlain and Freddie Van Mercury, and our friends Liverpool have too many to mention. But where’s our own private freakaho? Rio makes a pretty good Nessie, but probably only in my eyes. Nani Davis Junior would provoke hysterical bleating from liberal goats hungry for a witch to hunt. But Phil Jones, famous for his hilarious array of tortured gurning expressions, may well be our man; the meme machine. What we need is a massive banner of *that* face passed round Old Trafford, raising masses of uncontrollable laughter that distracts the opposition while United pile on the presh.
But memes, they’re all the rage. The Most Interesting Man in the World is a good ‘un but there’s always room for more: Twittercide Attention-Seeker (a pathetic dude who threatens to delete his account as if anyone gives a flying bollix); Cross Channel Synergy Guy (a know-nowt div who tries to make money by telling other people how to make money online despite never having made any himself); Personal branding (the sad cunts who nobody knows, ‘cos they’re not even remotely famous but who discuss themselves in the third person and upload pics of themselves holding massive wads of cash with their dad’s Bentley in the background). I could also mention Handbags not Handguns, Fadcinations, Astrosplosh, The Legend of Bonefang and Museum Units, but I’m not gonna. Instead I’m gonna make a confession: I want Chelsea to win the UEFA Champions League! I know, it goes well against the grain, but if you can’t appreciate the game Chelsea played in Barcelona there’s a withered, dead jellyfish where your heart should be. And yes, I’m avoiding talking about what happened in Quadrant Two, when a square-headed beast of a bastard bulged the netting…The memes began right away on this supposedly momentous occasion. That one shot showing masses of ticker-tape raining down as the teams came out was *clearly* CGI; an obvious ESPN conspiracy. Maradona was there – the father-in-law of Sergio Aguero – well I never! WTF?!? Oh, the lizards had done their homework here. Setting up a Global Elite picnic at the Council House as ABU’s around the globe wanked into inflatable blue moons (there’s one for you bitter b’stards). City were unchanged. United had four changes. Everyone was talking about how good our bench was, FFS. Our bench! Not the actual bench (though that might have been pretty decent as benches go, it hurts to admit) the cunts sitting on it: Berbatov, Hernandez, Young, Welbeck, Fabio, Valencia. Lord Fuckerson once again terrified own people with his terrible tinkering. city’s humourless hardmen must have been laughing into their inflatable Kakas, as they kissed and shagged them prior to KO in a lusty weird group in the dressing room. Our lads looked good standing in formation at KO, but city looked nervous and Carlos Jackalface was popping up AOTS. David Silva, the current world record holder for distance-from-tip-of-nose-to-back-of-head-ratio-to-overall-height, was racing about like a demented gadfly, and then, in first-half injury time, it happened. “It” isn’t Chris Smallman failing to outjump his robot nemesis and the ball being in the onion bag, no. “It” is Steve McManaman’s Happy Monday “Step On” howl, issued in response to a ball being cleared around the 58th minute mark. “It” is destined to be THE mash-up meme of the century. If someone hasn’t already done it, I might well take up the reins on that one myself. Cheers Macca. I’ll squeeze at least 48 webinars on “Viral Videos and conversion metrics” out of that little beauty. Editing and Photoshopping a vast library of footage and pics with thought and speech bubbles and serious headlines followed by hilarious taglines, etc. We are all artists, after all. The Mark E. Smith Guide to Writing Guide is HIGHLY recommended to those seeking success as a poet in the north Manchester tradition, but don’t bother if you’re an egg-stained stinking be-tashed blue cunt. Like Mark himself, ironically. Sorry Mark. I can still see you now, shitfaced in the pubs of Prestwich. Maybe you were in the Forresters the night I shook my cock dry in Nico’s face and asked her if it was as big as the Lizard King’s. But I digress.
Speaking of lizards, the sight of Maradona celebrating at the end will haunt me forever.
Tags: lizard elite, Madchester, Manchester United, meme machine, memes, michael carrick, mufc