ONE peculiarity of this particular Liverpool FC season is the fact that, despite innumerable excellent displays and one of the highest point tallies the club has attained at this point in Premier League history, there have now been about four or five individual performances in 2016-17 which rank as some of the worst I’ve had the misfortune to witness.

There was Hull away, a match completely devoid of any attacking fervour or imagination, where we conceded a goal to to one of the most ridiculed joke-figures in Everton history in Oumar Niasse. Swansea and Wolves at home were embarrassing defensive showings, and Jesus Christ do I never want to think about Leicester away and how happy we made that jarg trackied-up caretaker divvy Craig Shakespeare ever again in my whole entire life.

The first half against Burnley last Sunday was up there with the worst of those, too. The whole club: staff, players, and supporters, have now certainly developed a complex about these ordinarily mundane games against the division’s provincial dross, to the extent that the tension both on and off the pitch is palpable from kick-off. The performance from minute 45 onwards, then, was arguably more important than in games such as those against Arsenal and Spurs, because, despite still being absolutely fucking crap, the Reds managed to stagger across the finish line and take the three points.

Let’s just hope the dead good Reds, the ones that run loads and blam all of the goals in, turns up to the Etihad this weekend.

Pep’s Turtle Power

Frankly, Liverpool Football Club should be liquidated if we don’t win against Manchester City on Sunday, because look at the absolute fucking kip of them here.

It’s frankly staggering that this is a football team turning up at European away; it looks like a very un-handsome set of male fashion models turning up to shoot an advert for the M&S S/S ‘17 formal range. Clock how uncomfortable John Stones looks about the whole thing, as though his mum has rigged him out for a family Christening.

Apparently Pep Guardiola has insisted on his players sporting an array of different uniforms on all their European trips so far this season, presumably in an effort to create a sense of togetherness and intra-squad unity. No doubt it will have worked too, as surely every member of his playing staff will have simultaneously thought, “Fucking hell, I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in this gear.”

The whole ‘Pep’s wearing a waistcoat with Converse omfg’ shtick has been getting right on my tits for a bloody long time now. I’m not arsed about his accessorizing. He clearly has too much time on his hands if he’s planning all these mad outfits for 30-odd people every few weeks. He should be spending that time coming with his tactical plan B to tiki-taka. Don’t talk to me about Pep Guardiola’s dress sense until he’s finally a good enough to figure out how to successfully swing crosses and diags into the mixer for the big man.

My theory on the fashion thing is that he’s only trying to dress so impeccably to compensate for the fact that he’s as bald as the day is long.

Japan’s Golden Oldie Is Nifty At 50

People don’t half bang on about Stanley Matthews, y’know. Yeah, he scored loads of goals. Yeah, the 1953 FA Cup final is named after him because he played so well in it. And yeah, he kept playing togger until the age about 173. But that was all absolutely years ago, now. People didn’t have tellies back then for Christ’s sake. Anything from this era should be scratched from the records and forgotten about in my opinion, so I’m delighted that Japanese striker Kazuyoshi Miura has begun that process, by becoming the oldest professional footballer to score a competitive goal.

The 50-year-old scored the winner in Yokohama FC’s 1-0 victory over Thespa Kusatsu in the J2 League, having first joined the side in 2005. He began his career with Santos in 1986 and had further spells with Dinamo Zagreb and Genoa before returning to his homeland. In essence, the man is old enough to be your actual da, and is still absolutely banging them in for a living.

Imagine it. Yer da, sat on the couch now, just come home from his job working for the council, shouting into the kitchen “Arr ehh Jeanette, bring us one of them little fucking mini Twixes in there, girl. Blowing out of me fucking arse here after that day today.” He unbuckles his belt and his Heineken-laden flesh ripples over the coarse fabric of his jeans. He settles down for an evening of Babestation and second tweets saying “BREXIT MEANS BREXIT. IF YOU’RE SO ARSED ABOUT REFUGEES WHY DON’T YOU LET THEM IN YOUR HOUSE?” to Gary Lineker and Lily Allen.

Your actual da is the same age as Kazuyoshi Miura. He should be ashamed himself.

A Hool Lotta Love

Oh dear God, please let this happen. Please.

I’ve been dreading the World Cup in Russia for a long time now, to be honest. The dodgy nature of the deal for both 2018 and Qatar in 2022 is pretty evident; I don’t think there’s anybody alive who believes those nations have been awarded the tournament legitimately off the back of contribution to the sporting sphere. But that’s not what irks me, because it’s really not surprising. It’s the ol’ racism and rampant homophobia that really grinds my gears.

The only thing that can save this tournament in my eyes, therefore, is the prospect of knuckle-dragging meatheads from across the globe meeting up at pre-arranged arenas in dystopian Stalinist cities and kicking the absolute fucking shite out of each other.

Imagine it. There are always days when the group stages are on where none of the day’s matches are particularly appetitising. You know the likes – when matchday two of group C reads: Japan v Nigeria and Greece v Mexico. So wouldn’t it be much better if you could flick over from those games to watch Ukraine v Poland in group B of the organised hooliganism, live from the streets surrounding the Luzhniki Stadium. Who cares about the Golden Boot when there’s the award for Most Glassings to follow throughout the competition?

Think of the media coverage. As well as harping on about 3-5-2 and false nines, you’d have journalists around the world forced to do tactical analyses of the formations in which Neo-Nazi Skinheads line themselves up to throw patio furniture at boisterous Ireland fans.

If you thought that England fan getting launched in the canal in Marseille last year was a bit mad, this could be a whole new world of chaos.

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