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the striker cuts through our defence,
what’s happened to their common-sense.
if only we had played a sweeper
it’s goodnight if he beats the keeper

who’s number one, but now looks bigger,
close-up, a bloody scary figure.
“to hell with getting smacked again,
i’ll take a dive and get a ‘pen’.”

he trails a leg, he waves a bit,
then falls down like a sack of shit.
see how he writhes, and looks distressed,
how sad! the ref is unimpressed.

just waves him up, and gives a warning.
(the linesman can’t stop himself yawning)
and still he’s asking for the ‘pen’
“i’ll likely never walk again!”

and though he pleads for the award,
the arbiter is getting bored.

oh no, a card is coming out,
he’s gob-smacked! what’s all that about?
the stand arises in ovation,
he’s been sent off for simulation.

not before time muppet. and don’t come back neither.

what a sad debacle brown’s campaign visit to rochdale turned into. better still it was all his own work.

boy but he’s a dismal, preaching, boring, self-satisfied arse! on top of that he’s got a face like a robber’s dog.

(oops, sorry if i said anything like that, i forgot i was typing. find me somebody to blame. oh and make a note so i don’t forget to rip her head off later. oops am i still typing? shit! again.)

i can barely wait for tomorrow. why? because if the charmer’s decades-long record for re-announcing stuff if any guide he’ll give us this screw-up over again until his already lousy poll rating goes negative.

go on, pretty boy. give us a smile.

whilst chatting with some canadian visitors recently, talk turned to the subject of a famous wrapper. (what’s that about then?)

well, for the avoidance of doubt i should say that our subject was christo, the legendary installation artist, and self-styled wrapper of buildings and such, like the reichstag, or the pont neuf, as distinct from other bullshitters like eminem, jay-z et al, rappers of unsavoury lyrics.

speaking of bullshit, the main point of discussion was, perhaps surprisingly, neither the obvious, how could such a seemingly ordinary individual repeatedly separate enough otherwise apparently sane bystanders from their cash as to be able to fund his habit of wrapping random structures in improbably dismal fabrics, nor, for whom, apart from himself he thought his ludicrous stunts were providing amusement, but rather the prosaic question, what was our hero’s nationality?

needless to say, despite my feeling that the answer was ‘austrian’, i deferred to wiser counsels that the celebrated textilier was undoubtedly of the french persuasion. (every day’s a schoolday

imagine then, if you will, my jubilation (alright then, my mild amusement) when later, whilst visiting wikipedia, the fountain of all knowledge, on unrelated business, i grasped the opportunity for a quick, speculative poke around the christo department where i learned that the great man was in fact born in bulgaria! (ya know, where the wheat comes from. just kidding)

and further that, following an extended period of statelessness he misguidedly applied for, and was granted american citizenship.

so it would appear that his only obvious connection with the land of the frog was that he went there and made a bit of a mess!

so he can’t be all bad then

à bientôt mes petits choux-fleurs.

let’s face it, wayne rooney is the best footballer in britain; bar none. he could walk it. but he wouldn’t. see where i’m going here?

although he may not be the ultimate by any single measurement, as a package of skill, commitment, awareness, speed, strength, determination and a sheer willingness to go the extra mile, rooney is peerless.

it goes without saying, therefore that his value to manchester united goes beyond money. a player of his stature is impossible to replace, like-for-like.

so we’re all agreed: rooney’s a genius! but let’s try to remember that he’s also human. so, what do we do when wayne goes lame?

well because players like him don’t grow on trees to go out and find one is tricky to say the least: to say nothing about the cost and difficulty of liberating them from their existing obligations. at short order it’s impossible, not to mention outlawed by the league.

which brings us to the thorny subject of tevez.

if tevez did not want to play for man u, and who wouldn’t, i’ll pass my fags round! and as, effectively, a free agent it would surely have been well within the means, even of the glazer-strapped regime to have retained his invaluable services.

for the benefit of the slow-of-wit (not you surely?) i simply pose the question:-

what are manchester united short of for the remaining five games of the season?

who said carlos tevez? i’m with you!

over ‘ere son – on me head

i note with suitable disgust that gorgeous, pouting elliot morley, quondam mp for scunthorpe, and his vile co-religionists have been granted legal aid to defend themselves against the indefensible.

if a picture of morley (to the best of my knowledge the only mp whose constituency name includes a description of themself) is not enough to make the hard-pressed taxpayer puke, this surely will.

we can only look forward to the day they are sent down for the stretches they so richly deserve, and, i trust, are obliged to disgorge these (further ill-gotten) public funds.

(if guilty, obviously. none intended, obviously)

giv’em the rope

on a lighter note, i see that one of the few discerning members of the italian general public has seen fit to gob his fearless and irreproachable duce in the mouth with a die cast model of milan cathedral.

despite reports that the attacker is a nutter i cannot but heartily congratulate him on his choice of both target and missile.

i’m almost ashamed to be writing about this but last night’s semi-final of the bbc’s strictly come dancing took the piss a bit too far. or rather it’s simpering female audience did.

the public’s elimination of talented, elegant, leggy bill-actress ali bastion in favour of some cheruplegic sports monkey made my normally tepid blood boil. (well it warmed-up a bit)

i would have spat the dummy if my minders had not dipped it in special brew.

to be honesht i have not been sho angry shince the lasht time they forgot to dip my dummy in shpecial brew.

mine’sh a pint.

Barack Hussain Obama — Nobel peace prize laureate? What’s that about then?

whilst i trust and believe that Obama is a different, and altogether more palatable kettle-of-fish than his deranged predecessor, this award, apparently the result of a nomination submitted to the committee only nine days into the recipient’s presidency seems, shall we say if not over-generous, then at least somewhat premature.

perhaps with no other worthy candidate to hand they simply lobbed it his way to avoid the inconvenience of having to record excess inventory in the peace gong department for this year. who can tell?

to his credit, i note that he has already pledged the prize-money to charity and hope that despite its unfortunate timing the award will in due course prove to have been well-merited.

mine’s a pint of creme de menthe Barack.

well we all like a laugh, but the report on the demise of mg rover takes the cake on so many levels i barely know where to start.

first: this toothless piece of tat has cost the hard-pressed taxpayer £16 million and yet has failed to finger a single wrongdoer.

second: the most strident critic of the report, and its subjects is lord mandelson, a guiding light in moral probity and my very favourite arbiter of truth and goodness. and the best he can do is tell them he thinks they should apologise.

third: this third-rate bunch of spivs, under the gaze, nay with the assistance of the government achieved a feat usually reserved for the more-gifted though similarly morally-bankrupt operators known as asset strippers.

to strip assets on this scale from a company long-recognised by it’s german owners to be a vast liability is a feat which almost by definition suggests impropriety. (how much is a car company which you can buy for £10 and get a vast interest free loan to run it worth? come on; the clue’s in the question.)

so how do these maggots justify taking over £40 million out of it while it’s dying on it’s arse?

hilariously, throughout the day, national news channels have referred to mg rover as the uk’s last remaining volume car manufacturer, whilst assorted industry pundits have sought to justify this plundering by suggesting that these “rewards” were consistent with the industry norms.

in reality, by contrast with the world’s genuine volume car makers, decades of woeful mismanagement had left the group looking like something under a railway arch. depressing to say the least.

how fortunate then that we now have such genius at our disposal in the financial services sector that we need no longer concern ourselves with such grubby enterprises as making things that others want to buy.

“where you been boy? oh, down the job centre?” ‘yeah. all centre, no job! but they’ve got new chairs; and a yucca plant. oh, and uniforms. musta cost a fortune!’

“come across john towers or any of his lousy cronies down there? no, thought not.”

okay, so we qualify for 2010 world cup finals. engerlernd, engerlernd, engerlernd! that’s what i say.

and we qualified without dropping a single point, 24 from 8, and with two matches to spare. now i grant you we emerged unscathed from a bunch of no-marks who would have struggled against our womens team but let’s not be churlish. a win is a win is a win.

in all fairness, who could fault the team’s record under the enigmatic Fabio Capello. i grant you the great man’s english is practically impenetrable to the native speaker but we don’t pay him to give lessons in elocution, now do we? and as fortune would have it our trusty squad, linguists to a man, seem to have understood which way the maestro wants them to kick it.

but i must concede i’m slightly less bullish about the finals next year, when, fresh (knackered surely) from the exertions (we are talking about football here, aren’t we? oh go on then let’s pretend it’s hard work for another minute otherwise i won’t know what else to write) of the 2009-10 domestic season our heroes will find themselves sweating in the heat of the dark continent as the gloves come off against the likes of italy, brazil, spain and germany.

still we can take comfort from the thought that most of the top players we hope to face in the later stages of the competition will have had similar build-ups to our own players, if only because most of them play their club football in the english premiership!

i’m almost sure there’s a pearl of wisdom glistening somewhere in this pile of drivel but, do you know, i just can’t be arsed to dig it out.

make an effort yourself, for once, muppet.