HERE you are, everyone. Some respite. A safe haven. This article is one of very few pages circulating on the internet this week which will not contain some sort of self-righteous/offensive hot take about terrorism. Quite why the immediate reaction of so many people in the wake of such tragedy is to go online and argue with strangers, I don’t know. So I’ll just ramble on about some soccer bollocks instead.

The Reds, then. Not bad at all at the Etihad last Sunday. Not bad at all. If Adam Lallana kicks the football, literally just kicks it in any way, we take the three points and feel on top of the world. But once he misses and then Sergio Aguero skies a sitter up the other end, you feel slightly fortunate to get away with anything at all. A mad, mad game of football that I had a great time watching.

And now an international break to catch your breath before the derby against The Big New Ground Blues. Can’t wait.

Davey Moyes’ Good Old British Boys

David Moyes. In his house. Draped in a Union Jack. The curtains pulled. Lights off. Thinking about the war. Storming the beaches. Normandy. Thinking about the thrill of voting ‘leave’. Feeling the spasms of rampant nationalism coarse through his pale, decrepit body. Spunking into a tea towel with ‘Rule Britannia’ stitched onto it.

Yes, Moyes has outed himself as a rampant nationalist this week, by revealing that he dropped midfielder Didier Ndong from his starting line-up because he wanted to instil a bit of ‘Britishness’ into the centre of the park. Now to me, ‘Britishness’ means xenophobic ale-gutted gobshites singing about spitfires and saying “Her Maj brings a lot of money in through tourism as well, though.” But I’m not sure those ‘qualities’ would really add the requisite technique to a midfield fighting against relegation, so ol’ Davey must have had something else in mind.

I have a recurring image of Moyes Skype-calling Tony Hibbert to get him in for the end-of-season run-in, standing in front of the webcam, pointing and saying “I WANT YOU” like that Lord Kitchener poster from World War Two.

There’s a reason clubs buy all them foreign lads, y’know, Dave. Your beloved ‘British’ warriors are, by and large, absolutely fucking shite.

Tim Sher-would Like To KO The Ref

He can never stay out of the spotlight for long, and big Tactics Timmy is back this week, with what could very well be his greatest piece of work to date. I do not know what his exact quarrel is with referee Mark Brown, which has rendered him absolutely frothing with rage, but for me, that only adds to the charm. It could be about anything. Swindon Town (where he is Director of Football) may have been refused a certain penalty, they might have have been given a controversial red card, or Brown could have just looked at him the wrong way.

I have studied English Literature at university for the last four years. I have read Shakespeare, Foucault, and Barthes. And so I feel wholly qualified to say that the sentence, “You’re the only fucker in the ground that’s fucking seen it you fucking mug”, is the greatest any speaker of the English language has ever uttered. Pure, pure poetry.

Sherwood is just absolutely fantastic value. His relentless commitment to being 100 per cent Tim Sherwood every second of every hour of every day is to be admired. Being Tim Sherwood must be exhausting. He has to be constantly ready to kick the fuck off on someone. He always has to be ready to defend his bullshit managerial record with his trademark charm. He must have to do warm-up exercises in the morning before he leaves the house. Being Tim Sherwood requires years of personality honing and hard work.

We need him back in the big time. Now. The Premier League yearns for the return of its prodigal son. I’m thinking Bournemouth. Dodgy start to next season and bin that mundane beaut Eddie Howe off. Get big Timmy in. Reap the benefit. Get relegated. But give the other 19 clubs a bloody good laugh in doing so.

Portsmouth FC: Mickey Mouse Club

Portsmouth FC, the largest fan-owned club in England, is purportedly on the verge of being taken-over by the former CEO of Disney, American mogul Michael Eisner.

Remember when Pompey were actually decent? Ronaldinho turning up to Fratton Park with AC Milan in the club’s first season in Europe? Nwankwo Kanu still cutting about and banging them in at the age of about 67, even though his passport claimed he was 32 at the time? Milan Mandaric sanctioning a spending spree on the back of the tax-free Monegasque bank accounts which were alleged to be used by Harry and his dog Rosie Redknapp? Those were the days, my friends.

And such glorious occasions might return to the south coast in the not-too-distant future if Eisner has his way and bankrolls the club back to the big leagues. This leaves the supporters’ trust which currently controls the club in an interesting quandary; do they stick to their principles and run the club in a fan-orientated fashion in the lower leagues, or sell-up to a foreign multi-millionaire in the potentially vain hope of reaching the top division and European competition once again?

I’m not really sure there’s a correct answer to all of this. Eisner presents the opportunity for greater reward, but with serious risks attached, while the current status-quo means the club is run for the benefit of the community, but will probably lead to years in the League One/Two wilderness and lead to little discernible success.

On balance, if it was my decision, I think I’d probably go with Eisner. Only live once, don’t you? So I’d rather spend the time desperately trying to reach the heights of a Real Madrid away than going to shitholes like Carlisle, Rochdale, and Yeovil every single season for the rest of my time on this godforsaken planet.

So yes, Portsmouth fans, take the money. You’d be Dumbos not to! (Waheyyyyyy)

Mohammed Makes Anas of Himself

Oh, mate. Oh, mate — oh, mate — oh, mate. For fuck’s sake. You’ve dropped the biggest of all the bollocks, here.

This is Mohammed Anas, a striker for the Free State Stars club in South Africa, partaking in a post-match celebratory interview following a victory for his side in the ABSA Premiership. It’s all going really well, he runs through the ordinary array of cliches with consummate ease, decides to thank his fans, and then… it happens.

“My wife, and my girlfriend… I MEAN MY WIFE! MY WIFE!”

The shift in tone in his voice as he realises what he’s said is fantastic. The fear is both visible and audible. He completely shits his kecks as he absorbs the fact that he has admitted to making the beast with two backs with a woman other than his wife on live television in front of the watching masses.

Now, I’ve got quite a major gripe with Mohammed Anas, here. It’s not the infidelity, though. To be honest, as funny as this is, he’s probably not cheating on her. He’s probably just got his words mixed up, and she’ll have been his girlfriend at one point before becoming his wife anyway, so it’s not wholly erroneous. But, well, his… erm, ‘excuse’, is a little bit problematic.

Anas has stated that when he used the word “girlfriend”, he was in fact referring to his daughter, whom he calls by that moniker regularly. Now, I really want to hasten to add that no allegations of any sort are being made here, but bloody hell, he hasn’t half made things worse with that, has he? Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t think calling your daughter your ‘girlfriend’ is OK. This excuse invites more questions than answers.

Incidentally, I’ve just discovered on this lad’s Wiki that he’s younger than me by a few days. He plays professional football. I write nonsense for this website. He’s got a wife and kids. I’ve got a mediocre Tinder profile. What a world.

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