Saturday, 24 December 2011

Robbo's Christmas Carols


No, it’s not 50 cent describing some ladeez on his latest vidjo, it's Father Christmas Robbo-style. I’ve got me Yuletide head on and I’m wishing you all a very merry sherry-filled Christmas.

In between sticking a fork into an underdone turkey, performing the Heimlich manoeuvre on whichever of me young relations has choked on the 10p coin from the Christmas pudding, rushing out for last minute M&S gift tokens and playing ref to a couple of warring piss-headed uncles, I’ve cobbled together a festive blog.

This year, carols to suit all clubs!


At the Emirates we have a sweet rendition of:

Silent Night, Holy Night,
Pass and move, get it right,
Everything is not quite what it seems
Try not to think of the Theatre of Dreams
Robin Van Persie is fi-it!
Robin van Persie is fit.

ASTON VILLA (to the tune of 'O Little Town of Bethlehem')

O little town of Birmingham
Take back our manager
His jowly face
A puce disgrace
He's worse than Houlli-er
We may have lots of po-oh-te-eh-eh-ential
But still we lag behind
Goodbye McLeish
You piece of peesh
Hurray the plank’s resigned!


We Two Kings of Orient Are
Selling chucks from the back of a car
Fucking over
Blackburn Rovers
Doing it from afar, O oh.....

BOLTON WANDERERS (To the tune of 'Stop the Cavalry')

Hey Mr Gartside comes over here to say we’re doing splendidly
Owen’s positive, we are scared stiff, cos we're lying in the bottom three
Gartside’s hanging tough, Cahill’s had enough,
He’s buggered off to Chelsea.

CHELSEA (To the tune of Slade's 'Merry Christmas')

So here it is Terry Christmas
Everybody’s staying mum
Yes he’s the skipper but
That don’t mean he’s not scu-uh-ummmm!

EVERTON (to the tune of 'Good King Wenceslas')

Good King David Moyes looked out
On the Feast of Stephen
Asked Bill Kenwright ‘is it true
We are breaking even?’
‘There’s no chance of that’ said Bill
‘We are flaming brassic.’
‘Please don’t sell that Jack Rodwell.’
‘We have, mate!’
‘That’s just classic!’

FULHAM (to the tune of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen')

God rest you merry cottagers, let nothing you dismay
Remember that you hardly ever win when you’re away
You’re getting poorer and Zamora doesn’t want to stay
No-oh tidings of Comfort and Jol, Comfort and Jol
No-oh tidings of Comfort and Jol.

LIVERPOOL (to the tune of 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing')

Hark a Horrid Racist Sings
But not to Kenny the King
T-shirts on, an act of hubris
We all love to back our Luis
So he might have said a word
It’s not one we’ve never heard
Sepp Blatter would just shake hands
Not just give out eight-week bans
Hark the Horrid Racist Sings
But we didn’t Hear a Goddam thing.

MAN CITY (to the tune of 'Away in a Manger')

Away from Manchester
No penny is spared
To bring to the city
Some new millionaire
In all of their pockets
The finances stench
Not enough for the Gaucho
Who sits on the bench.

The Poznan is jumping
They score when they like
The boss smiles so happy
(Looks a bit like a dike?)
The league title beckons
It’ll be on the shelf
If young Balotelli
Doesn’t blow up himself.

MAN UTD (to the tune of 'Deck the Halls')

Of all coaches Fergie’s cleverer
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Not as smart as Patrice Evra
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

It will be so very pleasin’
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
If they win fuck-all this season
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

NEWCASTLE UTD (to the the tune of 'Winter Wonderland')

Mike Ashley is gettin’ meaner
At the Sports Direct Arena
All that they can pretend
At the Gallowgate End
Is that they end higher than Sunderland.

(To the tune of 'Ding Dong Merrily on High')

Ding dong we are flying high
The tractor boys are crappy
Ding dong we have lovely pie
Canaries all are happy
Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelia in excelsis.

QPR (To the tune of 'The Holly and the Ivy')

The Joey and the Warnock
When they have had their moan
The Warnock gets on the pundit’s coach
But the Barton tweets alone.

(to the tune of 'The First Nowell')

The first go-al
It came from a throw
Hurled up from our Rory
It came down with snow
Shawcross or The Crouch
Kenwynne or the Huth
One of them’s going get it
And that is the truth

O Hell, O hell, O hell, O hell,
Stoke City do love a set piece Go-al.

SUNDERLAND (To the tune of 'I Saw Three Ships')

I saw two shits come flailing by
On Sat-day night, on Sat-day night!
They trashed a car and then took flight
On Sat-day night Sunday morning

The policemen took em to the cell
On Sat-day night on Sat-day night
Titus Bramble was there as well
On Sat-day night Sunday morning.

(to the tune of 'Once in Royal David's City')

Once in Royal St. David’s City
Cardiff reached the play-off stage
Still they couldn’t win the big one
Dave Jones got the sack in rage.
Saw some Swans go floating by
Felt a tear come from his eye

No one knows who plays for Swansea
Apart from that Scott Sinclair
Bluebirds fans just sit and simmer
Disbelieving that they’re there
Soon they think they’ll take that crown
Cos the Swans will come straight back down

TOTTENHAM (Or rather Yuletide with 'Arry, to the tune of Nat King Cole's 'Merry Christmas')

My nuts roasting on an open fire
Taxman rifling through my clothes
Though I’ve heard it said, many times, many ways,
Harry’s Christmas, subject closed.

I’ll just settle watching Gareth Bale
Flames just flicking off his toes
And I’ll hope that whatever the courtroom decides
I’ll be free when Capello goes.

WEST BROM (to the tune of 'The Sussex Carol')

On Hodgson's watch all Baggies sing
To see Odemwingie on the wing
Sometimes he's soft as Christmas pud
but sometimes he is weally good.

WOLVES (To the tune of 'In the Bleak Midwinter')

In the bleak midwinter
Mick will slowly freeze
As another ref turns
Down two penalties

The first one was nailed-on
The second one stonewall
Mick just throws his head back
How he hates football.

WIGAN (To the tune of 'While Shepherds Watch')

While others watch their box at night
Martinez trawls the earth
To find an obscure midfielder
That might just prove his worth

And though they may be playing to
A crowd of twenty-five
Roberto fills his men with cheer
And keeps the dream alive.

Sunday, 18 December 2011


First of all apologies for the chasm of time it’s taken to get a new blog out. There are reasons for this. First, the computer got a virus. Second it passed it on to me. To be honest I haven’t quite got rid of the damn vyyv£"""£%^&&&*$E^E£&I *R yet

Of course, football has been idling along without me, not least in terms of two draws for European competition which seemed to be a response to a Cameron veto. Take that you smooth-browed quasi-Christian right-wing toff!

Cameron doing a sly 'wanker' gesture in the direction of France

Chelsea and Arsenal get the toughest fixtures possible. And Stoke, United and City pretty much match that in the Europa League. After the next rounds of both we could have no interest in what Europe does whatsoever and turn into a strange nation of hermits gathering on street-corners and buffing up our last pound coins while William Hague pads about in that baseball cap saying ‘I told you so!’

Of course fans of the Manchester clubs are managing to make upbeat noises about the Europa League now there in that particular kettle of fish. You’re not kidding anyone. Harry Redknapp may not have enjoyed the Shamrocking he got in Dublin but I dare say he doesn’t give a dry shit about not having to pop onto a plane every other Thursday morning.

Such is City’s strength in depth that they won’t mind having a little sideline to give their millionaire third-teamers a little run-out. United won’t last long given that injuries and illnesses have left Fergie’s cupboard looking barer than Carlos Tevez’s bookshelves.

To Stoke City, revived under Tony Pulis, the Valencia double-header will be immense fun. AS a Boro fan who watched awestruck as we marched to the final a while back, I have to say that the Europa League’s only raison d’etre is to give fans of the smaller clubs a little bit of the limelight. (Nevertheless it’s such a bloated, lifeless crock of crap for most of its duration that metaphorically it’s hard not to think of Robert Maxwell floating on the briny.)

I know scientists at CERN think they’ve found proof that the the so-called “God particle” exists, despite Jose Mourinho’s insistence that he is the Higgs Boson. But they’ve also isolated the gene for “no-nonsenseness” and it turns out Tony Pulis has no other genetic matter in his system.

Here's Pulis dressed like a twat - it's the only such picture ever taken.

Wenger and the increasingly fractious Andre Villas-Boas have trips to Milan and Naples. This means the Blue Bell will be running its ITV sweepstake for how many times Peter Drury uses the phrase ‘Italian Job’. Yawn. Personally I can’t see either of ‘em getting through. And I’m not bothered either.

There seems no doubt that if the draw keeps them apart then the final will be Real v Barca. And yeah, I’m sure they’ll be some nice stuff played n that, especially now Jose has let his team express itself a bit more, it is becoming a little too bleedin’ predictable for my liking. I mean I’m sure Sebastian Vettel’s a lovely man and an excellent driver but I don’t want to see him win every bloody race.

(Actually that’s a bad analogy cos I don’t want to watch F1 full stop and anyone who does should be taken out and shot in front of Jeremy Clarkson’s family.)

The gloryseekers abroad are as nothing compared to the burgeoning relegation dogfight that is already cranked up to breaking point this season.

Tuesday night is the must-see Lancashire Hotch-Potch derby: Blackburn Rovers v Bolton Wanderers. The two clubs have many things in common – geography, ineptitude... but more than that a couple of Scottish managers who are, regardless of circumstances, relentlessly positive.

If Steve Kean’s house caught fire he’d be happy that for at least one night the neighbours had saved on their heating bills. If Owen Coyle fell off a cliff he’d still be hoping to pick himself up and go again when he was halfway down.

I mean I’m no psychiatrist (and if you’re thinking you need one then I advise you to watch this ) but surely there comes a point when positivity in word but not in deed becomes a hollow joke.

Coyle at least has started to spread the blame amongst his players, but truth be told I’ve seen more creativity in an actuaries’ brainstorming session. No Holden, no Korean lad, no Elmander If Chris Eagles, worthy though he is, is your main spark then your matchbox is a bit on the damp side.

Steve Kean, meanwhile, has become pathologically upbeat, as if to admit for more than a second that second from bottom is pretty shit would mean the Lancastrian skies would come crashing down on top of him.

Hoillett apart there’s not much going for ‘em up front and Ryan Nelsen has been a huge miss. Scott Dann may have appeared a perfect match for Samba, but maybe he’s more ballroom and less Latin. Above all else you’d have thought that Formica would be good on the counter.

In the teeth of another gale of abuse from the Rovers faithless, it’s hard not to be impressed by the Kean’s fortitude. Blackburn have had a fair bit of misfortune and conceded a lot of late goals. I seem to remember that Boro would’ve stayed up not so long ago if football matches were 80 minutes long.

"Och we've just let in another but it only meks me more positive!"

Nevertheless you do get the impression that Kean’s position is secure only cos it would cost the Venky’s owners too much to sack him. And while he’s a focus for the fans’ ire, the poultry pedlars can hide behind him and use him, in a phrase once uttered by Lord Brown to describe his role as head of BP, as a ‘shit umbrella’.

Personally I think a shit umbrella is one with loads of holes in it. Which is a good way to describe the defences of both Bolton and Blackburn. One of em’s doomed. And the other’s not safe. It’ll be a superb, terrible football match. A reet old classico.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Out With the Dead Wood, AVB!

Andre Villas-Boas didn’t waste any time getting his retaliation in after Chelsea’s 3-0 tonking of Valencia. And you can’t blame him. Journos (and me) have been forming an orderly queue to gently push him off Roman’s slippery pedestal, and then his team came up trumps.

"3-0! Nyah-nyah-nee-ner-ner!"

There is a fair bit of spine in the Portuguese lad, isn’t there? This week Alex and, more predictably, Anelka have been put in the show-room window. Nicolas got a sign round his neck saying ‘Many previous owners, but very few smiles on the clock.’ Anelka has never been more than a sub’s bench away from a teenage strop his whole career. Enigma? Nightmare, more like.

Frank Lampard has the face of a man watching some joyriders take his Ferrari for a spin. ‘Course Frank has come back strong before but you can’t help feeling he ought to take a leaf out of his missus’s book and take a short vacation.

The escudo’s dropped for AVB. Having not wielded the new broom soon enough, there’s a sense that the axe is being primed for the greatest clear-out of dead wood since Pinocchio became a real boy. What gives him renewed confidence is the way certain players have flourished, Sturridge being the obvious example.

Some of his finishing at the Sports Clobber Going Cheap Stadium on Saturday was a little Heskeyian (hard and true and straight at the keeper) but Heskey would never have managed create such situations in the first place. Add to that a great eye for a pass and you’re looking at the best English forward in our league on current form.

Juan Mata has settled well, even if you suspect that there ought to be some sort of Hans Blix-led FIFA delegation sent into Spanish training camps to see whether they’re simply cloning Xavis and Iniestas in a topnotch laboratory somewhere.

Didier Drogba, who’s been trying to thumb a taxi out of the Bridge for three years, seems to have at the very least told the cabbie to leave the meter running while he pops inside to tidy things up. In fact getting him on side is a bit like getting the bull to hold the red cloak while you straighten your side-parting.

AVB bleated about the unfair scrutiny of the press in the post-match conference and while you can understand his yah-boo attitude, I don’t quite know what he was expecting. Chelsea managers don’t get the benefit of the doubt, not least cos it’s hard not to think of Roman Abramovich without picturing his index finger being drawn across his throat.

But surely there’s no point in employing a 34-year-old if you’re not thinking long-term. And long-term means that the old boys’ network needs ripping up sooner rather than later.

Of course, AVB suggested that Man City have not been subject to the same pressures but then maybe he wasn’t here when people were smirking about Mancini’s stuttering squad not that long ago. But old Roberto has been wielding his own weaponry in recent months.

His squad is as deep as the Marianas Trench which always means there’s someone with his own axe to grind. Kolo Toure is the latest Grinch, and given the amount of time he’s spent with nowt to do it’s hardly surprising that he’s been sitting around with his chopper in his hand.

Back in your usual seat, Kolo!

Toure’s latest lament can be best summarised as ‘Is it cos I is African?’ To which the answer is ‘No, you pillock, it’s cos you failed a drugs test.’ He argues that playing in the African Nations Cup puts him and his fellow Africans at a disadvantage. I just don’t see that. Kompany and Lescott are playing well and neither of them have bloodstreams with a suspicious composition.

Frankly young Kolo is still in work and that’s a bonus for anyone these days. I mean I haven’t seen such a misguided response since Rio came back from his absent-minded absence of 8 months and asked for a pay rise.

Every manager these days will tell you of the importance of having at least two teams to pick from. Mancini’s got getting on for seven as a far as I can tell. The price you pay for going to a club that’s got money dripping from its portals like sweat from Mike Ashley’s sauna is that you may find yourself having to be patient.

Lamps may seethe, Kolo may cavil, but if the team does better without you then wait your fucking turn and stop whingeing.

In the meantime we can still hope that financial might not win the day this season. Take that with a Siberian excavation of salt as I’m talking about Spurs. Gooners aside, Arry’s lot are certainly the neutral’s favourite this season. It’s not just Neil Warnock giving them warm applause.

Modric still weeps when he thinks that he could be playing midfield with John Obi Mikel

Modric is player of the season, if you ask me (Van Persie’s coming up on the rails). He controls the reins of that team like a tiny jockey in charge of a mighty stallion. Its galloping flanks are Bale and Lennon, its thumping heart is Scott Parker and if you want the odd award for presentation you’ve got Van der Vaart and Adebayor.

Redknapp’s said they can win it this season. Most of us wouldn’t be quite so bold, but it’s good to hear an Englishman speaking about a football team with a bit of conviction. And if the gaffer can steer clear of other convictions into the New Year, then you just never know.