OLDHAM, ENGLAND - Saturday, February 16, 2013: Everton's manager David Moyes before the FA Cup 5th Round match against Oldham Athletic at Boundary Park. (Pic by Vegard Grott/Propaganda)

BIT of a lean week in terms of people in football doing some properly *mad* stuff this time around, what with the Premier League and European Cup beginning to pick up a head of steam, thus sending players, managers, and supporters across the land into FULL SERIOUS MODE. It seems that the Reds are the only ones having a proper good laugh at the minute, and that’s alright by me. If you aren’t on board that we’re winning this league in May, after Palace the other day, you’re quite simply in the wrong game.

Moyes’ Mid-Life Crisis

David Moyes crouches in the corner of his home office in an affluent Sunderland suburb on a Saturday night. All the lights are switched off. The blackout curtains are drawn. Complete darkness.

He gently rocks backwards and forwards as flashes of the day’s 3-0 defeat at home to Watford race through his brain. Vivid images of Jermain Defoe putting a shot wide at 1-0 and John O’Shea slipping on his arse for the third goal overwhelm his sensory system. The boos of the home fans and the jeering and swearing that bombards him for 90 minutes every week rushes to the forefront of his mind, the noise so loud his other senses simply melt away. It’s as if 45,000 angry Mackems are stood over him in this room, aiming their vitriol at the corner between the desk and bookcase; he can feel the spit from their lips landing on his forehead as they scream.

David Moyes does not feel safe at Sunderland. He cannot remember the last weekend he did not spend whimpering in this perpetual black solitude, feeling sorry for himself and wondering why the fuck he spunked £8million on Papy Djilobodji.

Remembering the good old days often helps. He tries to relax and take himself back to Bellefield. Between 2002 and 2013. No real specific time in mind. He thinks about the green grass and the happy faces coming into training. Timmy Cahill, who would have run through flames for him. Phil Neville’s highlights glistening in the summer sunshine. And, well, how could he forgot Hibbo? The man who never let him down. The man who embodied everything he wanted his team to be. The man he loved like a son. If only he had got his hands on the Arteta money when he needed it, those boys could have been heroes.

But then he jars back to reality. The room is so dark he cannot see his knees tucked into his chest. David Moyes is being swallowed by the blackness enshrouding him – he cannot escape.

He continues to rock and hugs his body into himself ever-tighter. “It’ll all be over soon,” he thinks. “It’ll all be over soon.”

What David Moyes appears to be forgetting here, is that everybody turns the lights off at night. It’s called going to bed, mate.

One of the aspects that has made this season such a joy to be a part of so far as a Liverpool fan, I believe, has been the added little extras we’ve been rewarded with so far. Brendan Rodgers wrapping the league up at Celtic before October’s out. Rafa Benitez doing the business at Newcastle and getting to the latter stages of a cup competition. And, first and foremost, Davey Moyes absolutely shitting the bed in the Premier League once again.

It’s a crying shame that there’s no way on God’s green Earth he’ll remain in charge of Sunderland for their trip to Anfield in late November, because with the form Liverpool are in and the crisis enveloping the Black Cats, it had the potential to be the funniest football match of all-time. Both in terms of on-pitch action, and also because of the unrivalled levels of piss-taking that would have been possible.

David Moyes has given me some of the greatest times of my life, no question. It’s absolutely unbelievable the joy he has given me over the years. And, for that, I thank him sincerely.

Godspeed, Davey, and good luck. Forever proving you don’t have to be a winner to be a winner, but he is a winner.

DG Hates The Change From BST To GMT

West Ham United co-chairman David Gold has continued his annual one-man protest against the usage of Daylight Saving Time in the United Kingdom this week, tweeting no less than *14* times about his unbridled hatred of the clocks going back by one hour. Makes a change from deciding what girth of strap-ons to sell in Ann Summers, I suppose.

This is a simply astounding succession of tweets; the passion with which he argues his case over a number days is worthy of true respect. His commitment to being so constantly passive aggressive about a trivial matter, that nobody else in the country is even slightly arsed about, is a testament to the strength of his feelings – David Gold believes, deep in his soul, that having an extra hour in bed one night and then the mornings being lighter during winter is the single most unjust concept on the planet, worse than child poverty, worse than sex trafficking, worse than the ever-increasing threat of terrorism across the globe, and simply must be stopped.

The man has clearly done his research, too. Faced by a number of tweets in response explaining the usefulness of gaining an extra hour, Gold came back with a vengeance, furiously hammering details of its beginnings as a means to reduce coal consumption in 1907 into his keyboard. That’s all the people who drive to work at 6am in January told, Dave.

I mean, fair enough, he’s probably got a lot of time on his hands at present. It’s not like West Ham have had a terrible start to the season, nor are they are up shit creek in a stadium where fans are forced to watch the match from a different postcode to the on-field action. And there has definitely been no supporter violence and policing issues since they made the move from Upton Park. None of that. No siree. All going spiffingly.

It has to be said, though, I’m a big fan of Gold on twitter. Yeah, his club donates to the Tory Party, he’s charging kids a minimum of £50 to see his club play Arsenal at the Olympic Stadium, and I really would like to see them relegated, but I can’t help but smile at his complete and utter disregard for conventional grammar rules and the relentlessly cheerful ‘dg’ he adds at the end of every inane thought he posts on there.

And to finish, here’s the single greatest tweet of all-time. Enjoy:

Poppy Fury Returns Once Again

Yes my friends, it’s that time of year again.

The nights are drawing in, big coat weather is upon us, and it’s time for people whose virginities are on there verge of growing back to argue on the internet about whether or not footballers should be forced to wear two pieces of red paper fastened with a pin and arranged in the rough shape of a flower.

The country has voted to tank its own economy after six years of torturous austerity, societal division and racist abuse are at record highs, and the presidential elections in the United States of America have the potential to produce apocalyptic resul– hang on a minute… fuck me… James McClean won’t wear a poppy for the millionth consecutive year? FIFA have said England can’t have poppies on the shirt in an international friendly? Janet, get me a brew and my typing gloves – there’s a long night of kicking-the-fuck-off on strangers on the internet ahead!

Quite how people manage to be frothing at the mouth with rage over this every year, I really don’t understand. It’s not like it’s a new thing. James McClean isn’t going to suddenly forget about the relationship the British Army has with the place he grew up and stand belting out God Save the Queen with his hand over his heart. People who wish to wear poppies aren’t being told they’re in the wrong. This really is not a big deal.

The whole poppy thing has definitely become politicised over the last decade or so, and it’s a real shame, because the sentiment behind it is a noble one . As much as it shouldn’t be the case, there is now a tendency to associate the poppy symbol with the right-wing and with nationalism, which just so happens to be what an awful lot of the soldiers who are supposed to be remembered died fighting against. Obviously, many people just wish to honour the people killed, or relatives of theirs who died, but the appropriation of the poppy is making that increasingly difficult.

Let’s just get on with it, wear one if you want to and don’t if you don’t want to, remember the fact that governments across Europe exploited working-class men and sent them away to die, acknowledge the successes and sins of British soldiers across the world, and move on.

Let’s not have this argument again next year. It’s so fucking boring.

Bullard’s Banter Knows No Boundaries

I mean, I’m all for teammates spending time together, getting to know one another and building team spirit, but this is a bit much, isn’t it?

Jimmy ‘Banter’ Bullard has gone way too far here, in my opinion. Remember when he sat all the Hull City players down on the pitch after he scored a penalty the Etihad, a la Phil Brown? That was quite funny. That time he did the walk up to camera for Sky, pulled his shorts up really high and did a funny face? Yeah, I laughed. Wanking off in a hotel room in front of five people he works with, scarring Pascal Chimbonda for life in the process? I’m not on board anymore.

Again, akin to Tokelo Rantie farting in his manager’s face in last week’s column, I have many, many unanswered questions. Primarily, why? Why the fuck would you whip your boy out and crack one off in front of people you play professional football with? What purpose does this serve? Because it absolutely isn’t fucking funny. It’s sociopathic.

Furthermore, what were they watching on telly that aroused him so? What kind of programming lends itself to public masturbation? I do not know. Only Jimmy Bullard knows. Perhaps his unadulterated commitment to banter is so powerful that he can muster up an erection as often as he wishes if he thinks he’ll get a laugh out of it.

Finally, did anybody stop and ask him what the fuck he was doing? Was Chimbonda rendered frozen by the shock, forced to watch Jimmy Bullard stroke his Johnson to climax, unable to avert his gaze?

I hope you all can’t sleep tonight for thinking about Jimmy Bullard’s orgasm face. Sweet dreams.

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