HERE we are, back again with the third instalment of FBF, attempting to plug the gap between Monday night’s bore draw with a dourly defensive Manchester United and this weekend’s match against a dourly defensive West Bromwich Albion.

It’s a big week for the Reds, with anything less than a comfortable win on Saturday potentially cutting short the early title talk, so here’s something to take all of our minds off it – a piss-take of everything to do with the football I’ve found online this week.

Mourinho Feels the Full Wrath of the Anfield Atmosphere

Someone ring the death knells; get somebody else to go to B&Q for nails for the coffin; give Neil Atkinson a ring and ask him to write a eulogy – for Anfield is dead and must now be laid to rest. We all need to move on and find something else to do with our lives.

Monday night was supposed to be a big one – the first night game at Anfield in months, in front of our big massive shiny new stand against the bitterest of rivals. The build-up lasted what felt like an entire season throughout the world’s longest international break. The Reds were bang in form and United were coming on the back of a shaky start to the season, fearing a comprehensive arse-shagging.

They even had a man in the dugout with an enormously vitriolic vendetta against Liverpool dating back over decade. A man whose shithousing cost us a league title only a little over two years ago. A man determined to do whatever it takes to halt Liverpool Football Club’s progress towards success.

And here he is being photographed by adoring masses like he’s a bit-part character in The Only Way Essex attending the opening of a new Wetherspoon’s branch in Slough.

Not to go all Yer Da on you here, but this truly is deflating to look at. When we played the same opposition in March this year the atmosphere was absolutely raucous from beginning to end. It was one of the all-time great displays from the Kop and the sight of United players turning to stare at the flags and banners adorning every inch of the stand is an image that will stick for a very long time.

Obviously that was a European tie and the same level of intimidation is difficult to expect in a league game on a Monday in mid-October, but the stark contrast from the fear-provoking noise we offered up then to the celebrity-esque warm welcome offered to Mourinho here is staggering. Whereas our supporters no doubt helped us to victory last season, here we probably contributed to our own mediocrity.

This was a vital match and we as supporters allowed the opportunity to make a difference to its result pass us by. It felt more like a game against Blackburn Rovers than Manchester United. If that photograph, and the atmosphere which followed it, is an indicator of what is to come in games of such magnitude in the future, we may as well all just stay at home.

Everything about this picture can absolutely get to fuck.

Lineker Takes on Twitter Racists

That’s right; Gary Lineker spent his Tuesday afternoon this week absolutely bodying bastards all over right-wing Twitter, thus confirming that he is absolutely sound as fuck.

The former Everton forward took time out from his work as a corporate shill flogging crisps to lament the rise in racism and xenophobia spreading in the wake of June’s vote to fuck our own economy after six years of austerity and burn all the foreigners and take back the borders leave the European Union, especially the reluctance of both the UK government and right-wing head-the-balls to allow child refugees to enter the country from Calais.

However, what seemed like a relatively innocuous tweet based on morals, which decent people would see as common sense, saw an uprising from people who wank themselves off into Union Jack tea-towels and make love to each other wearing Nigel Farage masks. Lineker was quickly berated for daring to be empathetic towards people who were born on a different piece of rock than him, and was damned as unpatriotic by people who deplore the end of the British Empire’s worldwide tour of pillaging.

Lineker didn’t hold back, however, calling Tommy Robinson a “racist idiot,” and responding with equally harsh words to other Twitter users who get a stiffy reading the Daily Express. Is right.

Still, it must have been nice for Lineker to open his notifications tab and not read the words “shat on” a million times in a row.

Austin is the Main Man

Great stuff this, from Charlie Austin, as he eschews one of the worst Modern Football™ tropes and acknowledges a goal against his former club Burnley by celebrating it like any other.

I’m not sure exactly when this ridiculous behaviour crept in, but if memory serves it must have been about seven or eight years ago now and has absolutely baffled me throughout that entire period of time. Quite how anybody could do something as adrenaline-rushing as scoring a goal in a Premier League game but not go off their tits afterwards is completely incomprehensible to me. Why would you give a flying fuck that it’s against a team that you played for once years ago?

I mean, if Steven Gerrard came back to Anfield with another club and scored a winner I would sort of get it, but I would still hope we could all move past the sentimentality and let him go mad with his new supporters. But it irks especially when it’s done by a player who was an absolute no-mark within a team, bags against them and acts as if it would be morally reprehensible for them to even smirk afterwards. See Nacer Chadli at the weekend, for example. He was barely used at Tottenham and contributed very little to any semblance of success for the White Hart Lane club, so why bother acting as if enjoying it would be deeply hurtful to them? West Brom pay you to score goals now. Tit.

What Charlie Austin did should not be outside of the norm, and I’m happy to see him offer such a simple explanation of the need to celebrate goals in football matches.

Terrific surname as well.

Drawn Against the Big Boys

This is the reaction of the staff and players of Cultural Leónesa, a team playing in the Spanish third tier, to the news that they will play Real Madrid in the Copa del Rey round of 32 later this month.

The León-based side, who have only played top-level football for one season in their history, will come up against the most famous team in world football in a two-legged affair at the end of October.

Now, on first thought, the sheer delight that overcomes these men at the prospect of those matches is understandable. They are simply not good enough to play against Real Madrid on a regular basis in league football, and this is mostly likely going to be the event in their lives that draws maximum attention to them both as individuals and as a football club. The extra gate receipts and television revenue will help secure the club’s finances, a problem which afflicts the vast majority of lower-league Spanish teams.

But I can’t help thinking that, if I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t be losing my shit to quite the same degree.

I don’t mean to become the Celebration Police here, but they are, unquestionably, going to get their pants pulled down in front of up to 81,000 in the Bernabéu. They have literally no chance at all of making it through the tie and will do well to have a shot on target at any point (err…Liverpool were kinda the same in 2014, like). Meanwhile, teams remain in the tournament who I’m not even entirely sure are real, such as, Huesca, Guijuelo, and Formentera, who sound like the greyed-out made up clubs you see on Football Manager. Surely you would rather play against one of those and have a good crack at advancing to the latter stages of the competition?

Here is what those lads are thinking in their heads as they bounce around celebrating the draw:




That’s an absolute shocker of a brown leather jacket on the lad in the front, by the way. Looks like he bought it from the Leather Shop in Central Station, the fucking meff.

Good luck, Cultural Leónesa. You’ll need it.

Merson in Lack of Subtlety Shocker

Fuck’s sake, Paul.

This is absolutely fantastic. Jeff Stelling attempts to turn his mundane Saturday afternoon banter-vision programme into a momentarily more poignant affair, taking the time to discuss Leyton Orient manager Martin Ling‘s brave decision to discuss his mental health problems in the public domain. Stelling negates his usual caricatured style of delivery for a far more soft and lucid voice, in what is clearly a genuinely heartfelt moment.

But Paul Merson is having absolutely none of that.

In Merson’s juvenile mind the most important thing in the world at present is a mid-table Premier League match between Bournemouth and Hull City, and every human being on the planet simply MUST know that Ryan Mason has scored an equaliser at this exact moment.

“ONE-ALL!,” he bellows from his chair in the studio, mere yards from where Stelling is attempting to make a salient point about an issue which affects an extraordinarily high proportion of the adult male population.

Stelling does his best to carry on but he has been completely undermined by Merson, a man whose mind is occupied exclusively by a plush monkey banging together a miniature cymbal when he is not being paid to watch football by Sky Sports.

At no point has Merson had a little internal consideration in his head. “Should I just hold off for a few seconds?” “Is this goal important enough to destroy this moving monologue?” “Will I come across as a bad bellend?” He has thought none of these things.

I really do hope this is a continuing feature of the show, though. Stelling informing viewers of issues of utmost importance, before being interrupted by Merse screeching the scorelines of mediocre football matches at him.

Stelling: “We are interrupting our coverage of this afternoon’s fixtures to bring you news that the ceasefire in Syria has been broken by Russian forces and the United States has declared war on t–“


An Actual Child Plays For HJK Helsinki


Yes, following on from the runouts given to youngsters by both Celtic and Galatasaray in recent weeks, HJK Helsinki went one further, as they gave a debut to an 11-year-old in a Finnish First Division match, with the debutant scoring a late winner to secure them all three points.

Nah, only messing. This one’s bollocks. Picked Helsinki at random because it sounds half plausible.

See you next week, everyone.

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