FINALLY. It’s over. We’re there. The Reds have done it. The sun is shining and top-tier European football is on the horizon again.

As goal after goal was racked up against the almost unbelievably feeble Middlesbrough at Anfield, and as the full-time whistle blew, the overriding sentiment was not of raucous joy, but of relief. This Liverpool team promised an awful lot at the beginning of the season, came up short in January, but ultimately ensured themselves an impressive standing in the final league table and underlined a season which has seen significant on-pitch progress.

That lap of honour was a bit mad, though, wasn’t it? Abar 500 people walking round and everyone in the crowd going “Who’s that at the back there? Never seen him before.” Adam-fucking-Bogdan was in it for Christ’s sake.

Away from Liverpool, there were a few big stories in the league at large, so here’s your final Football, Bloody Football of the season:

Big Sam’s Crystal Cut Off

“Lynne! Lynne! Are there any of them mini pork pies left in the fridge?”


“The ones you brought back from Aldi in the week!”

“They should be on the bottom left-hand side! Near the sausage rolls and the lard!”

“What? They’ve all gone? Oh fucking hell.”

Sam Allardyce’s retirement starts on a sour note.

He reclines further into his Lazyboy chair, sending crisp crumbs tumbling down his torso through the creases of his shirt, over the ripples of his bootcut jeans and onto the laminate.

“Lynne! Send that fucking dog in here will you! The floor’s covered in pieces of Pombears now!”

The Allardyces’ dog, a dribbling, baggy-eyed mess of a St. Bernard with breathing difficulties drags itself over to the pile of pickled onion Pombear remnants, licks up two, and collapses from exhaustion.

Lynne, her pallid face drawn and wrinkled, enters the living room.

“Sam, if you’re going to be this angry sitting round the house all the time, don’t you think you’d be better going back to work?”

“No Lynne! I’m never going back. None of the bastards appreciate me. All they do is take the piss. If I’d have just kept my mouth shut when them undercover twats turned up, I’d still be England manager! But they bought me wine, Lynne! A pint of the stuff! I couldn’t keep schtum to some nice fellers like that. They tricked me, Lynne, the absolute bastards! They took my dreams away from in a matter minutes, while I knocked back the freebies.

“It was only Echo Falls as well, the stingy gets. I can’t go on after that. I thought I could at first, that’s why I brought us down here to Palace, but once you’ve had a glimpse of heaven, you can’t go back to purgatory, can you? They wouldn’t even give me the cash to make it worthwhile. It’s just not worth it. I’d rather spend my time sat in here, in my comfy chair, eating and shouting at the head-the-ball contestants they let on Tipping Point. Have you ever seen, it Lynne? Unbelievable! Every last one of them is thick as sin!”

“I can’t be with you when you’re like this, Sam. I’m going to stay in my mother’s for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be back. And I’m taking the Crown Carveries loyalty card with me.”

Sam sits back, thinks of the better times, and hums to himself:

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Bolton have gone and West Ham remain
All these places have their moments
With players and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved long balls

Terry’s God-Awful Goodbye

Captain. Leader. Legend. Questionable human being.

Yes, after an awful lot of fannying about at the end of last season, and not a lot of actually playing football this year, John Terry has finally left Chelsea Football Club, and looks set to either retire or fade into obscurity playing for Bournemouth or one of the multitude of money-laden franchises in the Chinese league.

Now, we all know big John Terry. We know what he’s like. We’ve heard the Wayne Bridge stories. We’ve seen the Anton Ferdinand video. We’ve retweeted the “Terry painfully has to recount to court the song from Liverpool fans about his “mum loving Scouse cock” tweet about a million times. So, do you reckon he went quietly in the sunset, not wishing to upstage his league-winning teammates, with a bit of respect and dignity in tact? Did he fuck.

In what can frankly only be described as 120 seconds of possible spot-fixing, faux-X Factor schmoozing, and south west London circle-jerking, Terry supposedly demanded that the ball be kicked out of play on the 26th minute, so that the crowd, his teammates, and even opposition players (clock Borini making sure he has a moment with him before he goes off, the shit stupid dickhead) could pay their respects to him in the most self-centered, attention grabbing manner imaginable.

I mean, there are loads of really evident problems with this. So let’s run through them, eh? Firstly, why would you rather go off after 26 minutes of your final game rather than play the full match?

Surely you’d want to make the most of the end of your career with your boyhood club? Secondly, how unbelievably arrogant have you go to be to think of your own send-off yourself, and ring up Sunderland and ask if they’ll bend over for you as well? It’s like organising your own surprise birthday party and fucking off after an hour, telling all of the guests they’re not allowed to have any more fun once you’ve left.

And another thing, why does nobody tell him to fuck off? He’s contributed the square-root of shite-all to Chelsea’s season and has deliberately made the final day about himself and nobody else. If you were Diego Costa you’d tell him to do one, wouldn’t you? And the Sunderland lads all hamming it up in tribute to him are a bad gang of wet-wipes.

The Sunderland perspective is mad. They’ve highlighted their own club’s subservience to this one feller. It’s more embarrassing than relegation. I mean, what kind of small-time, pathetic, loser of a football manager would allow his club to be shamed in such a way…

The Final Joys of David Moyes

Moysey, obviously. And know he’s quit and left Sunderland firmly submerged in shit creek.

Now, we’ve been over Moysey a good few times before, but I’m insisting that we do so again, because this feels like it might very well be the final farewell.

What a journey the man has been on over the past 15 years. From Everton hero, keeping them in the Premier League when times were truly dark, through laughably career-damaging stints with Manchester United and Real Sociedad, to Sunderland, where he began by telling supporters the club would most likely be relegated, became embroiled in a misogyny scandal with a female BBC journalist, and finally saw his entire reputation in this country sullied forever.

There just doesn’t appear to be anywhere left for him to go, now. Nobody in the Premier League will touch him again. Championship Clubs will give him the swerve because he’s never been able to challenge at the top of a division. He’s already tried the irreverent reinvention abroad. Surely Scotland wouldn’t even want him, as their entire goal is to beat the bigger nations and qualify for a tournament, which doesn’t really seem like Davey’s remit.

Essentially, he can either start learning Mandarin so he can ring one of the lads who owns a Chinese club to beg for a job, or he to takes the retirement option and is never heard from again.

Which leads me to a startling revelation; quite simply, how do we go on without Allardyce and Moyes? Who provides the relentless laughs, the sizzling banter, the material for this weekly column? To me, it seems like we’d all be better off quitting while we’re ahead.

And so I say, stop it all. Stop this column. Stop the Premier League. Stop the football. We’ve reached the pinnacle, and it’s only downhill from here.

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