Inspired by the recent adventures of Giggs and Scholes, I’ve embarked on a regime designed to transform this balding fatty into a ripped ol’ motherfucker: P90X, elliptical, running, yoga, you name it. Might even get a bike to ride to work. Who knows, maybe I’ll be on the plane with the lads come June, you can call me a loon, but that shower of wank have been walking the plank (yeah Roon) as winter ends and fair weather friends come out to play, and scrap the sleigh, I’ll be hittin the road with a lightening load, see the blubber recede like I’m livin on speed, but I’m gettin very nervous now we’re headin for spring, an the ABU perverts gettin ready to sing, they all makin motions wid their arms just like wings and they prayin that we crash again an don’t win a thing, but it doesn’t really matter if we bring it or not, cos we gonna fill Old Trafford fer the n’th game on’t trot, an sneering down upon em we the haves they have-not, seen a ground jam-packed like this in a supposed boycott, they don’t get our mindset consequently stinkpots, aaand that’s enuff. I don’t even fucking live there, so who am I to write about “us” filling OT? What I’m trying to say is we come from a cuntoid nation and we’re the Coca Cola of the football league. All the patriots detest us ‘cos we’re so massive. Anyway, Scott Parker was made England kapitan and his boss Harry is soon to be Commander-in-Chief. How nice. Don’t the media get giddy when something “properly” English, i.e. southeast-based, seems imminently successful? The beautiful people at the Emirates make Stamford Bridge look like East Fife FC and that wispy sideburned twat Theo Ballcock hobnobbing with royalty, ‘cos he wrote some shit books. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve got nowt against Parker Bowles. Charlie made the right move there. You never forget the proper dirty bastards, Peoples’ Princess or fucking not. Ah, England. A nation in drunken paralysis with a mahoosive inferiority complex based partly in truth. A manic land where indulgent brains inflate with imaginary memories, then hit the jagged rocks of reality where they burst and flutter like condoms on a vile beach. The jagged rocks are, of course, international football tournaments. Our lads, raised on a strict diet of spuds, must face athletes whose mothers make a different tea every night, each meal boasting a 400-page history stretching beyond Moorish palaces and medieval pirates. Today’s noble Englisher is a bollocksed fusion of savage tribalism and pampered ignorance. He thinks M&S boxed dinners are a gourmet treat and well worth a tweet. Hybridised and bloated, one minute he’s in it to win it an the nexx he juss floated. Maybe he’s fighting bulls down in Spain or the official supplier of Googleplex cocaine, or he took a golden parachute off to the coast, where he spends his time thinking and burning his toast, or he’s a priest of soccernomics with prophesies rich, or taking brass rubbings down at Hanging Ditch, but most likely he’s just shrunk from shootin up junk, or suppin’ Belgian ale that was brewed by a monk. I’ve forgot what I was on about now. Was it JOLEoN, JOLEoN, JOLEoN, JOLEoN, I’m begging of you, please don’t be a cunt?…no, that wasn’t it…and cunt doesn’t rhyme with monk, anyway…hang on…oh yeah, I may have to come out of retirement and rescue this nation’s hopes on the international stage. I would, of course, require my own dressing room, mainly so I could hide my superabundant man jugs. But once out on the pitch motherfuckers better KNOW…they only one letter difference between “Vaseline” and “Baseline” an I got em all friekened o’ me diminishin waistline, they be runnin like bitches wid their arses drippin, knowin this fatty gonna give em a whippin, an the midfield’s shut tight like a membranous filter, so we got em willy-nilly as we disrupt they kilter, but I’m dreamin like a knobhead as I type this shit out, and I’ve gone over the deadline while dreamin this rout, smokin clip-assisted reefer as I head down the wing, droppin magic beans as I send in an in-swing, an Pea is on the end an it’s bulging the string an it’s FUCKIN YEAH!!!! Innit. Oh, ‘ang on, Pea plays for Mexico, not England. Stick it up yer arse, then, ‘Arry. Not interested.
In other news, the man who is possibly Quadrant Two’s most famous son, Openshaw Monkee Davy Jones, has died. Gorton’s John Thaw, and cricketer Roy Collins, born in Clayton, are also in the running, but I vote Diminutive Davy as the Q2 main man. Not bad, really. Very famous. A lad from the slums made it to the pinnacle of Lalaland Mountain. To what do we attribute this meteoric ascent? Ecolicious endocriminology? Noble DNA? Tip yer hat to psychology, it won’t go away. Davy was a red who apparently hated city, according to the dogma circulated by UWS letter-writer Ramon. But this is Manchester and we need the proof.
Posts Tagged ‘Manchester’
Riffle in the Sluicebox
Friday, June 1st, 2012Peterloo Mascara
Friday, October 28th, 2011So 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..?
HAARPing On…
Tuesday, June 14th, 2011Spring has sprung like Zebedee on crack, pipe down at the back ‘cos this May could be cack, though it might just be a belting craic. Not for the faint of heart-strings, knowhatImean, wack? Mancini and his robots are revved up for this semi-final. United must feel like the poor Japanese in the face of their punishment from the World Bank earthquake machine. Shake Man Sewer has unlimited beadage available to fund his little hobby horse. But don’t worry; we’re gonna sign Reina and Torres and the Qataris are buying us and Benzema, Schweinsteiger, De Gea, Banega, Rodwell, Sneijder and Kaka and Mourinho and – bollocks, I’ll have a cuppa and calm down. I’m sitting here, dithering like an alcoholic whippet, worrying about which component(s) of the treble we can afford to write off. There’s the League and Arsenal; could we really live with ourselves kissing goodbye to Number Nineteen? I think not. Then there’s the Champions League and Chelsea; can our Gibsonesque gimps put the pretenders in their place? Hard to say. Last, and by all means least, we have the FA Cup and the Bittermen; a devalued trophy we totally blew off in favour of the Intercontinental Cup after our ’99 treble, suddenly infused with meaning due to the bizarre fact that Manchester city have managed to beat Leicester, Notts County, Aston Villa (wow, Villa?!) and Reading on their way to their first semi-final since Albert Tatlock last got his end away. How horrible will it be if the Q2 whores edge us out at Wembley? I’ll never be able to utter the phrase, “when city beat us at Wembley…” ever. EVER. Granted, those words aren’t as difficult to say as “Bernard Breslaw”, “architrave” or “tundish”, with a straight face, but they are vile and without logic. In 1999 we flipped our middle finger at the FA and fucked off to Japan to beat Palmeiras 1-0 with a Roy Keane strike and Mark Bosnich minding the goal. Evergreen Ryan Giggs was Man of the Match as United became the first and only British team to win the trophy. But this year’s FA Cup has suddenly become important. Not because of the trophy itself, but because city are Chelsea Lite and as such must be battered on and off the pitch and sent home to their stinking hovels with welts, blisters, lacerations and piles. If our current squad of unstable crybabies, Amazonian cheekboners, Toltecs, beanpoles, French Action Figures, retirees, “clients”, sweet Transylvanians and shrunken-headed rapists fail to dispatch those blue cunts I will be fucking seething. Chelsea and Liverpool bullied us. If city do the same I may kill someone. Probably Darron Gibson, not because he’s crap, but ‘cos he spells his first name with an “o”, the annoying gobshite. Or maybe Michael Carrick. If he was a horse, they’d shoot him. As will I. Chris Smalling will help me dispose of the body. He’s proved very useful lately. I bet he can carry and dig with the best of ‘em. NOTE: I’ve just gone to Smalling’s Wikipedia page and discovered someone’s been pissing about. Here’s what it said: “Chris Smalling also had multiple trials with many County Cricket teams, but was considered too good to play for them, and opted to play football instead. He is widely considered the best centre-back in the world.” “And it wasn’t me, hand on heart; I’m on a second warning with Wiki and will be barred for life for a third. My assaults on the Michael Jackson and High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program pages put me in very hot water, so I’m on the straight and narrow these days. Bullying geek bastards. It’s their “time”, apparently.
Bullying is ugly and wrong, but sport is a physical contest and inevitably the big boys get to throw their weight about. We are seriously lacking in the weight throwing department these days. Nani’s serial humiliation at Hamford Fridge and ultimately Anfailed proved this beyond measure. Little Pea also comes in for too much stick and there’s no-one to watch his back. Even Rooney, as game as he is, seems to reserve most of his short-arsed venom for the officials rather than the David Luiz’s of this world. Then again, I can’t blame him; Luiz is proof there’s plenty of value in the market if you know where to fucking look. This bullying of United players by shitehawks like Gerrard and Ivanovic is painful to watch, but it might be on its way out. The fact that football has become a form of showbusiness may mean a shift downward in scale. Just like Hollywood actors are really miniatures of the characters they play (i.e. Harrison Ford is actually four foot nine and seven stone, but they make him look like a six foot hunk), footballers may soon be required to fulfil similar criteria. Nobody over five-three will be permitted to participate. HDTV and Max Factor will create a pop culture wonderland of little men who look awesome. Evra and Park will be the dominators come the titchy revolution. Tevez will be a raging beast. That midget feller who plays for Marseilles will be the new Messi- oh wait, Messi’s smaller than him. Either way, it’s the future. But until then Fergie needs to sign some big steamers who can sort it out in the middle. They say it’s the size of the fight in the dog that matters, but living in the States I’ve grudgingly come to admit that sometimes bigger is better. Mega and Meta. Macro and Micro. Two fractals in a modern sporting dichotomy. Giants versus elves. Football freakonomics bows down to physics at the end of the day, ‘cos 15 stone of bone, ligament and muscle trumps 10 of skin and bone. When Beckman became the bend it king and other set-piece specialists emerged, football took a step towards a more American approach. The game was dissected, butchered into clinical moves and zones. Having big guys in the engine room became imperative. Sure, football’s always had its centre-halves, but power and speed are now as important as heading ability and grit. Each player now serves a more defined function even as they’re expected to cover more ground. United are currently struggling with a jack-of-all-trades gaggle. Utility men like Rooney, the twins and O’Shea shuffled about the peripheries of a misshapen blob. Rooney’s work-rate and support skills have won matches, but his salary means either Chicharito or Berba must start on the bench. Now Tony V is back the pressure is off Roon and on the opposing defence. That’s the way, a-ha, a-ha, I like it. The novel formation Ferg fielded against Arsenal in the FA Cup was a stroke of genius, but we’re gonna need some steel against dirty bastards like Barry, De Jong and Kompany in this Wembley test. The latter is a square-headed cyborg, but even he couldn’t control Luiz at Chelsea recently, and Aleksandar Kolarov nearly snapped his foot off in a tackle with the onrushing Brazilian phenomenon. Sorry to be kissing Luiz’s arse a bit here, but WHY DIDN’T WE SIGN HIM? EH? Was it ever even a fucking rumour? Never mind, there’s always Sergio Canales if rumours are your thing. The truth is we just need a goalkeeper and two monsters in the centre of the park and we’re fandabbyfuckindozy. It could be worse; we could be bringing Peter Schmeichel out of retirement, a la Arsenal and Lehman. How embarrassing and strange is that? But enough about football. It’s shit.
Don’t get me wrong; “bigger is better” has its applications, but I’ve not turned into a dumbass yank. Anyone who’s been around competitive people knows that it really is about vibes and body language, perceivable clouds of pheromones and neurotransmitters that combine to send complex messages. These aromatic halos are instantly deciphered by the ancient brains around us. It’s why toddlers seem to read our minds when we try to outwit them with semantic codes. We say more to each other with these silent clouds of information than we ever could with silly words. And right now we’re oozing a queer blend of confidence and fear on the pitch. United are strong yet weak but the big time may be something we little people don’t completely understand. Conspiracies are probably rife. Fact is, we should have also won at Chelsea, but refereeing decisions obstructed us and Fergie was right to question biased ref Martin Atkinson. Things could be worse, as I say. We could be poor Arsenal, bringing out an old man to stand between the sticks, having crashed out of three – that’s right, three – competitions in a couple of weeks or so. Wenger will be pacing the sidelines in his tortoise coat, his reptile boat race grimacing madly in the title run-in. A very dear friend called John Burney died last week, aged 52. John told me recently that he thought the 3-1 loss at Liverpool was “a fix for the betting”, and I am inclined to agree. It’s John’s funeral tomorrow and I am drinking (again) tonight, while I look at photos of Carr Clough, Prestwich, Rainsough, Whitefield, town, etc, thinking of all the times we had. I can see him now, in leather soled shoes, man-pants, a smart shirt under a lambswool v-neck sweater. Hair swept slightly back, with an amused expression on his face. On his knees, helpless with laughter, to be exact. In a pub. Only the good die young and John was very good, and he believed in speaking the truth. He watched United to the very end and never lost his sense of humour or dignity. Most strangely, the least prestigious of those three competitions is the FA Cup, and it’s the one we HAVE to win. I just wish John had lived to see it, whatever the result. There’s no need for any bigonomotry for this one – it’s as big as it gets, let’s not kid ourselves. So if you’ll excuse me, I must play some music and look at some pictures and relive many memories of a great man and United supporter about whom many tales could be told. As Dr. Seuss once said, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened”.
Who’s That Lion on the Runway?
Saturday, April 23rd, 2011February’s over. March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, as the saying goes. Another five weeks and it’ll be 60 degree weather here. Time to celebrate the spring and strap one’s balls on for the title run-in. Good riddance to February, nowt good about that month, really. The annual remembrance of Munich reminded us not just how terrible the air disaster was, but how few people now survive who were personally affected by it. As a result, “my” Munich will be forever preserved in the words and emotions of my parents’ generation. People who loved to watch the Busby Babes, and who were devastated when they were snatched away. Not everyone saw it that way, though. Back in the 80s it was common to see a full Scoreboard End of scousers singing their famous Munich song, bouncing to the rhythm of cruelty while we spat and threw missiles and climbed the railings to show our displeasure. Munich may have sewn the seed of a global brand, but it’s also a painful target painted on our collective hearts. It’s part of football culture. Now we’re all a million years old it’s easy to slag kids off who sing Hillsborough or Munich songs, but they’re young and they want their share of the scandal. Imagine if a top Premiership side was wiped out today. Would those same kids sing songs about that? Or a hundred young people crushed to death in a badly designed stadium? When I heard about Hillsborough I was in my flat, alone, painting a sign. I felt only shock and horror. Three miles up Bury New Road, 25% of a pubful was cheering each time the death toll rose on the television. Would I have been cheering among them had I been on the lash that day? I don’t think so. Testosterone is paradoxical stuff; it makes heroes and villains of us in unequal fractions. When 24-year old Harry Gregg climbed back into the burning wreckage to save fellow passengers he showed his true colours and has been revered as a lion of a man ever since. Would I have entered that burning aircraft to help others? It’s easy to say yes, but that kind of heroism is very rare. 99% of men would have been grateful to have survived, with little thought for his team-mates, much less the pregnant woman and her toddler Gregg rescued from that dangerous smouldering slushpile.
Slushpile. Now there’s a word. It’s what publishers call their unsolicited manuscripts. I fancy meself a writer so let’s talk about me now, shall we? I’m currently writing fifteen different stories, not one of which is vaguely normal or sane. One’s called “Big Fat Horrible Twat and the Slave Girls”. That one’s about this big fat horrible twat – and I mean a really sweaty overweight couch potato with hairy earholes and a stinky arse – who enslaves these perfect, sexy young girls and spends his days crawling all over them, sticking his tongue into every orifice, forcing his engorged member into their rectums and, having forced them to live on a diet of donner kebabs, chips, pudding and gravy (and not washing his cock afterwards), taking the whole funky sweaty sexy disgusting bacchanal up a level as each day passes and the slave girls slowly become big fat horrible twats themselves. But it’s only a first draft, so it might change. Another one is, “It’s All Gone Cunt-Shaped”, about Liverpool and Chelsea’s recent non-challenge for the 2011 Premiership title. In this one, the two football clubs are taken over by shape-shifting aliens who desperately try to knock us off our perch by fielding superpowered ringers in place of mortal footballers. Unfortunately, an alien posing as Gerrard forgets which side it’s on when Liverpool play Chelsea at Anfield (a bit like last season) and its heart rips itself in two right there in front of a confused Kop. Basically, it all goes proper cunt-shaped and United rampage through the earth’s footballing crust, tearing it asunder like a great steel ramrod, causing an explosion that destroys the planet, and consequently the aliens. But it’s a first draft and will definitely change.
Now back to reality. Only joking. The most important thing for me this season is that city don’t win anything, followed by city not finishing in the top four, followed by city never winning anything ever again. Have you noticed that new feeling you get now when they show the bottom half of the table? What you’ve never had you never miss, and boy do I miss seeing the bittermen languishing in sixteenth. Now it’s like, “wait, where’s ci-?” and then you remember; they’re right behind us, their Pot Noodle/Not Poodle breath on our necks, singing Munich songs in their sleep. It’s a dose of angina every time I see them in the top four. Balotelli’s stegosaurus head, Barry’s Goth features and poor grimacing Shay Given, completely out of the rotation. Mancini is so paralysed and clueless he daren’t even bring his “reserve” goalie in for odd games and give Hart a rest. But I’ll shut up; why should I give him football tips?
We’re still the team to beat. Chelsea have their African shooters, city their second-tier superstars, but United composes an eclectic bunch of pagans and kings. When Chicharito prays in the centre circle before games it’s a big V-sign to the European media. He’s Mexican; he doesn’t give a shite what they say about him in the Daily Star. He’s the antithesis of an England World Cup ditherer. He tore Wigan apart like a Toltec sword with a smile on his face. I’d be willing to bet Chicharito would have gone back into that plane to rescue his fellow passengers, too. He is fearless and will make life hell on winklepickers for Mancini or whoever succeeds the Italian for the next several seasons. It must be hard being a football manager though; corralling numerous megalomaniacs, settling disputes between team-mates, etc. The respect Sir Alex instils is the exception not the rule. Arsene Wenger seems to enjoy a protective yet stern effect on the Arsenal players, while Mancini builds his mountainous bench and tries to arrange those bitches as best he can. It must be like juggling irritable Chihuahuas. Chicharito is no Chihuahua – he’s a puma – and Fergie’s teaching him the ropes. Successful managers have to be control freaks (or great leaders if you must be polite). The kind of men who create a dimple in the spacetime around them, such is the mass of their ego. You know the type: Everything about their body language screams, “I am in charge”. You have your work cut out to get from under such domineering bleeders. That depression in spacetime translates to another in your central nervous system, and it drains you. You’re like a spider in a web. If you ever escape you must remain beyond the periphery of their spell, for the mangle is always ready to suck you back in. Ronaldo escaped the clutchment, but Rooney didn’t. Probably ‘cos Ronnie’s a merciless knave, with a full-length mirror permanently in his head, but Rooney’s just a snide elbow merchant. People like that are psychos. Real ones. A few hundred years ago they’d have been dungeon keepers, knights, lords and masters. Today they’re celebrities, sportsmen and politicians. The key to being a successful secret psycho is keeping the urge down to size. Reserve a small compartment in your head where a full-blown murderer’s mindset roams free, but in midget form. A cub, not a full-grown lion, so you can control it while removing genetic samples. Not that I’d know, like.
But how does SAF get so deep into the heads of his rivals? I think I know. I reckon Fergie is capable of remote viewing. After a glass or three of wine he enters a hyper-reality neither inside nor outside his swede. Cruises the universe until he arrives at the Galactic Federation Headquarters. There, he liaises with his reptilian overlords. Makes plans for the conquest of humankind. Some of you may already suspect that Fergie is a lizard. He’s certainly known to exhibit the strategy of the Komodo dragon when dealing with his enemies; the Komodo bites its prey with toxic gnashers, then calmly observes the victim as it slowly succumbs to the poison. Messrs Keegan and Benitez fell foul of particularly virulent infections, but there are many other carcasses rotting in the deserted gulleys of Premiership history. I’m afraid we’re almost out of time, Dear Reader. And that’s a shame. I was just getting into YOUR head there…
The farmer from down the road ploughed our driveway the other day. There’s a pile of snow on the lawn 30 feet long and 10 feet high. I bought him a bottle of Crown Royal for his troubles. Worth every penny. It is dark now, and I can see three snowmobiles racing across the field over the way, their eerie headlights and chainsaw-like engines cutting in and out of the woods. Nasty, dangerous stuff, snowmobiling. Those motherfuckers can easily do 100 MPH, and sometimes the elastic recoil of an unseen bump can damn near take a man’s head off. If I saw one of those boys wipe out would I run across a thousand yards of three foot deep snow to help him? Brave possible coyotes, cougars and bears here in the wee hours? Fucking right I would. But it’s nothing compared to what Harry Gregg did in Munich. I watch every Premier League game here, with my satellite dish. They start around 7:30 am with the time difference. Then another at 10 and one at 12:30. If we’re the third game it makes us look even better. The boys in red sweeping the pill about so gracefully. Our relentless passing is like a machinegun in a Vietnamese jungle, going “n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n” only each bullet is in fact a Nani banana cross to Rooney, or a hairy Raphael coconut to Chicharito, or a Scholes lob on for Berbatov- I’d better stop there. But I’ll say one more thing; just like in Vietnam, this season it’s gonna be n-n-n-n-nineteen.
Truth or Dare; Midnight at the Oasis
Sunday, December 12th, 2010I’m about to watch United at Stoke followed by the camel herders hosting Arsenal. Anything can happen, if the recent twists are an indicator. The blue Arabs started calling United “city’s feeder club”, at one point last week. A terrible business best left ignored. Ignore them and they’ll go away, the wisdom says. I have a disgusting feeling in the pit of my arsehole that tells me this time they won’t. When an overrated superstar claims he wants to leave United ‘cos the Glazers are too tight, certain ears prick up like a desert predator. It’s been a time of strange news, this. Rooney to Eastlands? United to “hunt” Torres? Christ, I thought Norman Wisdom dying was bad enough, but the absurdity of this thing is soap opera standard.
When I heard about Norman Wisdom, I was reading the Evening News on my mam’s laptop. She doesn’t know a Hewlett Packard from a pangolin but what can yer do? With heavy heart I plugged the headphones into my shrek-likes and played The Human League’s “The Things That Dreams are Made Of” on YouTube. Electro-drums on a pitch-black field of silence and a fat pinpoint synth. Why was I listening to 80s claptrap when a British icon, a man of the (laughing-so-hard-you’re-touching-) cloth had just passed away? Those of you in the know (that’s right, pie-face, I said “in the know”) will understand the significance. The rest will just have to simmer like choirboys with an advanced case of collective haemorrhoids. Bad gear the piles, innit? I was once advised, “Dab, don’t wipe”, upon developing a major conflagration on the eve of my return flight to America. That was 1996, the ecstasy 15 times stronger than it is today. People very ill in pubs. Accidents did happen. I flew back via Amsterdam. Must have looked a picture, shoving something up my arse in a cubicle in Schiphol Airport, assuming they have hidden cameras in the shithouses there. I was following advice to stuff ‘em back in each time I got chance. But I digress. Actually, I don’t. We’re on the subject of arse and piles and drugs and stuffing things up your arse after taking piles of drugs. I discovered on this recent Manchester visit that in the 15 years since then neither I nor Manchester have changed. I predictably got mullered and went AWOL. Fortunately minus Emma Freuds. Our flight home was devoted to controlling a bored one-year old daughter. Much better than shifting about like Paul Stretford in the transfer window.
Which brings me to the inevitable discussion. The wonderful Mr. Stretford, guardian of the potato-faced creature they call “the White Pele”. Who’d a thunk good old Stretty would almost emerge as a working-class hero? Don’t for one minute think that every word of Moonhead’s “statements” weren’t masterminded by Stretteh. That man…that HERO, nearly achieved something nobody’s managed these past 5 years; he brought the superstar spotlight onto the leeches draining the lifeblood out of Manchester United, by threatening to sacrifice the Golden Goose. Well, gold-plated, anyway. With stainless steel peeping through the distressed exterior. Definitely not a polished turd though. He has his shining months.
Fact is, I’m gonna miss Norman Wisdom more than I’d have missed Rooney. Norman made me piss myself. Rooney just pisses me off. Always in the ref’s face. Blowing hot and cold. Such roller-coaster form is unsettling. Many people claim Roon’s as good as Ronaldo or Messi. He isn’t in the same class. But people think he is, especially after last season. He’s now a global brand, one of many to appear since Becks shown ‘em the way.
Rooney was on fire last season, before being nobbled. People were angry; they’d had their Champions League and Premiership Title snatched away by a bad tackle, or plain bad luck. Our end of season belly-flop proved how good Rooney was, in the eyes of most – and how shite United actually were. It was “Messi, Ronaldo, Kaka and Rooney” from commentators here in the States, all World Cup. The scouse lad had become a cardinal direction in global soccer marketing. In truth, Diego Forlan ate the lot of ‘em for breakfast. But it didn’t prevent Stretford from putting Rooney head and shoulders above them all with his sweet nothings last week. Suddenly, the money-grabbing Scouser was a man who stands up for what we, the commoners, believe. And still the supposed anti-Glazer wallahs found fault in Rooney’s patter, as they did with Beckham last season over the G&G scarf. Even the United board believed it, hence the ₤2.3 million injection into Moonhead’s back bin. Some fucking pay-rise, that is. Are those scores of empty seats at the Euro tie against Bursaspor poised to multiply as this season progresses and the oasis dries up? Will the silver glittering at the far end of next spring evaporate as new competitors race for the prizes, and the rats – sorry, heroes – desert the sinking galleon? Rats? Rooney’s shit ‘em. The Croxteth lad said in August 2009 he loved United and would stay for as long as they wanted him. Last week’s claim, that the cash flow has become a trickle, never implied United didn’t want him. There were some people who insisted that Fergie had pushed Rooney out, engineered bad feeling so they could flog him and divvy up the proceeds. Personally, I think it went deeper than that. I think Ferg was secretly pissing himself, like I did while watching Norman Wisdom as a lad. Rooney is a bit overrated but he is very famous, and this is the source of the frustration. I’ll bet the way Sir Alex vented his gizzard at the media wasn’t in Roon’s itinerary. Question is, was Stretford’s “response” in it either? SAF was laughing up his monogrammed shirt sleeve at the gob on the scouse rebel and his brooding ventriloquips. Would a top agent jeopardise his relationship with a club the stature of United just for the sake of that truth? It was a mess; no black and white, just a big grey elephant in the room, a ₤1.1bn price tag hanging off its ear, writ large in red. I can see Rooney now, flush-faced with money/power/glory lust, bellowing, “Truth?! You can’t handle the truth!” at Gilgamesh, as Fergie titters inwardly, weighing up his cut, while Stretford salivates like a Pavlovian dog in a doorbell factory. Oh to have been a bluebottle on the wall at that meeting. The amount of shit being launched about would have done you for life. People are funny. They mellow as they age, yet become more conservative. They don’t actually change; the points of resistance just rearrange themselves. Ferguson has left his trade unionist principles behind yet those old crags have grown more human. The precocious youngster in royal blue became the angry man in red. Ferg and Rooney come from similar backgrounds, but one is somewhat ahead of the other in the maturing department. It is only natural that these volcanic personalities should fall out. The funny part was Rooney telling United to shove it. If he’d stuck to his story he would’ve been the first United player to properly demonstrate the Glazer effect. He’s now the only one to properly speak out against them. And how.
You can’t have it both ways. You can’t slag players off for saying nowt and then slag them off for actually doing something. Even if it’s all a pile of elephant – or camel – shit. Something made Wayne Rooney say he wants to leave Old Trafford, or at least claim to. And now he remains a United player, one who finally said something about the current state of affairs. His reward suggests that we really do have that 80 mill on tap. Then again, 2.3 goes into 80 nearly 35 times. Add all other outlay since we received the 80 and where are you? I’m asking because I can’t be arsed researching it all, ‘cos I’m leathered on AK-47, listening to Human League again; first song I ever heard with my own headphones, that. It’s at times like this I wish I was at least partly straight enough to read that andersred blog. Fuck it, I’m goin’ in.
Alright, I’m back. The 80 million was 53% of the overall closing financial balance for that year. So let’s say we made 155 million total for just that year. We’ve shelled out nearly 32 million on player business since then, so we should have the 80 left, just washing around in a kitchen drawer somewhere, or maybe stuffed inside a cleaned out jam jar on a shelf in the cupboard. Does Stretford know where it is? Is he in cahoots with Fergie? Maybe they’re saving it for when Mourhino brings Ronaldo back…
During those uncertain days these speculations buzzed about like big fat bluebottles: Rooney and Benzema in a loan-swap between us and Madrid; Rooney to Bayern, the very team that chopped his dreams apart towards the end of last season, then chopped him again for good measure in the return leg at OT; Rooney to Stamford Bridge, to play nice with Terry and Lampard; Rooney to Eastlands to join Tevez in a caveman spearhead. I highly doubt a mentally more robust scouse version of Paul Gascoigne really wants to live abroad, unless abroad means That London. Chelsea would have alienated him as much as Barcelona, though, for different reasons. Which leaves our noisy neighbours from the desert. It was a case of “My cousin’s best mate’s window-cleaner’s sister’s goin’ out with a player from Macclesfield Town whose dad works at city’s accounting firm. They dropped 70 million on Rooney this week. Deals been done for months!” Nudge, wink, taps nose. Rooney signing a new contract with United was another possibility. Funny one, that, but you didn’t write it off, did you?
Will Rooney’s form now improve – that is the question. And how will the other players respond to this gigantic wedge he earns? What would Norman Wisdom say? Hang on; Chichen Itza, as my wife calls him, has just bailed us out at Stoke. I wonder how much he gets paid..?