Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Monday, 13 December 2010
Car-lost his bottle?
Anyone know what’s up with Carlos Tevez? Too many mirrors in his house perhaps? Can’t get a comfy enough snood? Or is he fed up of being outstropped by Mario Balotelli?
Or is it something a little deeper? Not that I reckon that the Argentinian has any more depth than all the other shallow mercenaries that pull on a sky blue jersey these days.
Rodney Marsh said on the radio on Sunday that Carlos is on £286,000 a week tax free. There’s another loophole just waiting to be closed Mr. Osborne. (I reckon I’ve worked out what really annoys me about George – that puffy face and ghostly white skin makes him look like the Prince Regent/George IV. If he’s not a direct descendant from that unforking family tree of royalty then I’m an overlapping left-back.)
"Silver spoon? I've got a whole blasted silver service up my backside, wot, wot!"
Any road, suffice to say Tevez’s dispute is not about money. And frankly as far as I can tell Man City look like they’ve dropped their trousers and bent over the reception desk for the young gaucho.
If he really is fretting for the wife and kids then for Chrissakes fly ‘em over. Yes, I know it’s cold but hellfire, Carlos, you can’t even walk onto a football pitch without looking like you’re one last push away from pipping Amundsen to the Pole so I’m sure you can find plenty of winter wear for the nipper and the lass.
Or, on your wages, you could build them a tropical theme park like some big fuck-off Eden Project for homesick Latin American housewifes and put her in there for the cold snap.
Or – as has been allowed by the club that contains ‘certain executives’ – you can meet up with them in Tenerife. That’s right. City really have been treating you ill.
First of all they buy you from their neighbours and use you as a poster boy. And sorry City fans but if Fergie had’ve indulged him the way they have at Eastlands he’d still be there, don’t you worry.
They made him the skipper. They let him pop back home every now and then. They don’t fine the little pillock when he bad-mouths the manager in front of the whole bleeding world.
Now Tevez is a popular footballer cos he’s got talent, yes, but more than that he’s one of them ones that, if I can borrow from the phrase-book of Simon Cowell, ‘always gives 1000%’. (Incidentally, here’s a piece of insight to make you loathe Cowell even more. You just know that every time he has to give the casting vote on some poor muppet’s future – and the crowd are baying and he’s waiting and waiting like some badly-crapped public school Buddha – you just know he’s getting a semi on? Shudder.)
Now we all like a tryer. It’s the reason Becks stayed in the hearts of the fans of clubs he played for – cos he never coasted. Football fans in this country can forgive greed, stupidity and being just a bit bleeding shite but what we can’t forgive is laziness. Which is why Berbatov gets such grief. And why I used to throw bits of pastry at Mark Viduka every now and then (I reckon most of it went in his gob).
Carlos Tevez is not lazy. At times he hunts down the ball like a dense Jack Russell puppy. If you’re a central defender with the ball at your feet, I reckon you can always hear him coming by the under-the-breath growling and the faint spray of canine saliva.
Most clubs would be delighted to have him pulling on their jersey.
The trouble with your footballer is you have to spend more than 90 minutes a week with them. And clearly Carlos is a difficult cove to have around the place.
His statement has attempted to spare all the important people from a slagging. Strangely enough Mancini, who he saw eye to eye with in an all too World Wrestling Federation way at home to Bolton the other week, is not one of his problems.
"You're right, Carlos, if only more of the team were like you, eh?"
Less surprisingly Sheikh Mansour – the only bloke at Citeh who pips Tevez on the monthly income gauge - is also complimented.
He resents the implications about Joorabchian’s role in all this and insists he’s a free-thinking individual. He says in his statement: "I hugely resent suggestions that I have been unduly influenced by others. I wanted to leave in the summer, but was convinced to return.”
So you haven’t been unduly influenced but someone convinced you to stay in the summer..? Hmmm.
Put simply I’m not quite sure what he’s expecting from his employers right now. He’s signed a contract. Yes it involves not being in Argentina much. Yes, it involves trying to get along with a bunch of people and players whose motivations for being at the club are a little suspect, frankly. And yes if Nigel de Jong was up against me in your average 5-a-side kick about I’d be dressed up like and ice-hockey goaltender. Or I’d be in the changing-room sobbing cos I wanted to see my ickle baby.
But really, sunshine, you’ve been here for four years, the terraces at Eastlands resound to the sound of your name and quite frankly when you’re on so much wonga it’s like you win Deal or No Deal every flaming week I think it might be possible to get over a bit of discomfort and carry on.
"If you don't like blues ar reds, you're going to be very disappointed"
Like he said just a week ago: "A sacrifice has to be made when you make a commitment like I have done with City and it is something I am going to see through.
"Once that job is done I will have plenty of time with my kids."
Well now you didn’t really mean any of that, did you son? And while I’m a bit smirky about you so blatantly ripping the piss out of the noisy neighbours, I reckon City are right not to sell. On balance, I’d say the gaucho is being bloody ridiculous.
Or is it something a little deeper? Not that I reckon that the Argentinian has any more depth than all the other shallow mercenaries that pull on a sky blue jersey these days.
Rodney Marsh said on the radio on Sunday that Carlos is on £286,000 a week tax free. There’s another loophole just waiting to be closed Mr. Osborne. (I reckon I’ve worked out what really annoys me about George – that puffy face and ghostly white skin makes him look like the Prince Regent/George IV. If he’s not a direct descendant from that unforking family tree of royalty then I’m an overlapping left-back.)
"Silver spoon? I've got a whole blasted silver service up my backside, wot, wot!" Any road, suffice to say Tevez’s dispute is not about money. And frankly as far as I can tell Man City look like they’ve dropped their trousers and bent over the reception desk for the young gaucho.
If he really is fretting for the wife and kids then for Chrissakes fly ‘em over. Yes, I know it’s cold but hellfire, Carlos, you can’t even walk onto a football pitch without looking like you’re one last push away from pipping Amundsen to the Pole so I’m sure you can find plenty of winter wear for the nipper and the lass.
Or, on your wages, you could build them a tropical theme park like some big fuck-off Eden Project for homesick Latin American housewifes and put her in there for the cold snap.
Or – as has been allowed by the club that contains ‘certain executives’ – you can meet up with them in Tenerife. That’s right. City really have been treating you ill.
First of all they buy you from their neighbours and use you as a poster boy. And sorry City fans but if Fergie had’ve indulged him the way they have at Eastlands he’d still be there, don’t you worry.
They made him the skipper. They let him pop back home every now and then. They don’t fine the little pillock when he bad-mouths the manager in front of the whole bleeding world.
Now Tevez is a popular footballer cos he’s got talent, yes, but more than that he’s one of them ones that, if I can borrow from the phrase-book of Simon Cowell, ‘always gives 1000%’. (Incidentally, here’s a piece of insight to make you loathe Cowell even more. You just know that every time he has to give the casting vote on some poor muppet’s future – and the crowd are baying and he’s waiting and waiting like some badly-crapped public school Buddha – you just know he’s getting a semi on? Shudder.)
Now we all like a tryer. It’s the reason Becks stayed in the hearts of the fans of clubs he played for – cos he never coasted. Football fans in this country can forgive greed, stupidity and being just a bit bleeding shite but what we can’t forgive is laziness. Which is why Berbatov gets such grief. And why I used to throw bits of pastry at Mark Viduka every now and then (I reckon most of it went in his gob).
Carlos Tevez is not lazy. At times he hunts down the ball like a dense Jack Russell puppy. If you’re a central defender with the ball at your feet, I reckon you can always hear him coming by the under-the-breath growling and the faint spray of canine saliva.
Most clubs would be delighted to have him pulling on their jersey.
The trouble with your footballer is you have to spend more than 90 minutes a week with them. And clearly Carlos is a difficult cove to have around the place.
His statement has attempted to spare all the important people from a slagging. Strangely enough Mancini, who he saw eye to eye with in an all too World Wrestling Federation way at home to Bolton the other week, is not one of his problems.
"You're right, Carlos, if only more of the team were like you, eh?"Less surprisingly Sheikh Mansour – the only bloke at Citeh who pips Tevez on the monthly income gauge - is also complimented.
He resents the implications about Joorabchian’s role in all this and insists he’s a free-thinking individual. He says in his statement: "I hugely resent suggestions that I have been unduly influenced by others. I wanted to leave in the summer, but was convinced to return.”
So you haven’t been unduly influenced but someone convinced you to stay in the summer..? Hmmm.
Put simply I’m not quite sure what he’s expecting from his employers right now. He’s signed a contract. Yes it involves not being in Argentina much. Yes, it involves trying to get along with a bunch of people and players whose motivations for being at the club are a little suspect, frankly. And yes if Nigel de Jong was up against me in your average 5-a-side kick about I’d be dressed up like and ice-hockey goaltender. Or I’d be in the changing-room sobbing cos I wanted to see my ickle baby.
But really, sunshine, you’ve been here for four years, the terraces at Eastlands resound to the sound of your name and quite frankly when you’re on so much wonga it’s like you win Deal or No Deal every flaming week I think it might be possible to get over a bit of discomfort and carry on.
"If you don't like blues ar reds, you're going to be very disappointed" Like he said just a week ago: "A sacrifice has to be made when you make a commitment like I have done with City and it is something I am going to see through.
"Once that job is done I will have plenty of time with my kids."
Well now you didn’t really mean any of that, did you son? And while I’m a bit smirky about you so blatantly ripping the piss out of the noisy neighbours, I reckon City are right not to sell. On balance, I’d say the gaucho is being bloody ridiculous.
Monday, 6 December 2010
The Gospel According to St. James's
The Gospel According to St. James's (another part)
Also taken from the Book of Ruth-less
And from the Park of St. James had there come much grief and Gate of Gallows Humour for they had taken unto themselves false prophets for many years.
They had listed to the Shepherd that didst scorn their womenfolk and couldst not pick a decent coach even if it had National Express writ upon it.
To the Lard Ashley didst they conspire thence, and lo, he did neck full pints on terraces high and mixed amongst the merry host e’en though he did talk and hawk his wares like a two-bit chav.
'I am the Lard and I move in mysterious ways my blunders to perform'
And unto them brought He the prodigal King Kev, who had much loitered on couches of punditry and made witless predictions uponst the quality of David Batty’s nerve.
And woe alack the day, Kev was but the old-born King and one visit from the Wise Man didst send him fleeing like a big girl’s blouse in a strong cross-wind.
Yea, and thence unto the Angel of the North ventured the Lard and so sorely tempted was The Shearer that he did set amongst the brainless sheep of the baa-codes with hope in his heart and an absolute dunce as his assistant.
But The Shearer couldst not save them. And sat he back between the Lawro and the Hansen – all three of them the Blather, the Glum and the Mostly Boast –
And still did the Terraces of Toon run rank with rivers of tears – and twas the second tier to which they ran - as the Lard Ashley didst lead them into the Shadow of the Valley of Debt.
And yet to some there appeared a star in the North-East. Yea, but there were no shepherds to follow that star, nor Wise men still hanging around cos the Lard was a mate. And yet still the star glimmered.
For it was told that there was somewhere Stable. And so twas that left with no other fucking option they found a new King. Chris. Jesus! Chris?
For he was there and had been there all along. Under their overbunged noses. Lying betweenst the Lard and the Lambias.
All about him the beasts were quiet; the Ass and the Ox (or Joey and Sol as we now know them). No sound there came until, upon the midnight air came there a tune for the wholly Chris. Aye, a Carroll. A Chris-must Carroll with a good movement in the middle and a lovely finish.
And unto the new-found Chris many more were born anew: and the Toon Army did redouble its faith. For The Chris was amongst them, both he and Kevin the First Noel-an. Dispatched were the Mackem and the Villain.
And Chris didst restore vision to those that had been blind (not least the lad Coloccini). And lo didst he entreat his followers to cast their nets like another side and lo the nets didst bulge with goals. And the success-starved Toonites didst dine out on this news, for Chris could make a lot of pretty average fare seem enough to feed the 50,000. For in short he had turned their Whine into Slaughter.
And Chris offered his home to the lost and lowly, the forgotten and forlorn: to the Dyer and the Krul; to the Perch and the Gosling; to Alan Smith and Xisco (no, not the twat who did The Thong Song).
And yet still the Lard looked down from over a stack of ever-multiplying chins and though he saw that it was good (well half-good any road) he was sore afraid that no one was talking about Newcastle much any more.
For, thought he, what is this Kingdom of St.James if it is not a complete and utter shambles. Why tis a nothingness. Tis a veil of mid-table mediocrity and fuck me, if I’d’ve wanted that I’d have brung back Allardyce.
And yeah though the mild and popular Chris didst unto his disciples give a severe bollocking after they didst unto the Dorrans and the Odemwingie grant the freedom of the Hawthorns, twas not still enough to save him.
And the Portliest Pirate didst call him in and did wash his hands of him. And alas Chris was cast out into the wilderness, for like Sir Bobby he knew not what he had done.
‘Lard, Lard, why hast thou forsaken me?’
And to the Twitter went the disciples to spread the Word: and yea even those that didst always think the Geordie Bottlers were a bit of a laughing stock didst bellow unto the tops of their voices.
And over his last cuppa Chris turned to his disciples and was unsurprised to find that the Shithead Lard Ashley had entrusted all he despised to St. Peter of Beardsley. (Steve Stone - as in dropping like a...)
Also taken from the Book of Ruth-less
And from the Park of St. James had there come much grief and Gate of Gallows Humour for they had taken unto themselves false prophets for many years.
They had listed to the Shepherd that didst scorn their womenfolk and couldst not pick a decent coach even if it had National Express writ upon it.
To the Lard Ashley didst they conspire thence, and lo, he did neck full pints on terraces high and mixed amongst the merry host e’en though he did talk and hawk his wares like a two-bit chav.
'I am the Lard and I move in mysterious ways my blunders to perform'
And unto them brought He the prodigal King Kev, who had much loitered on couches of punditry and made witless predictions uponst the quality of David Batty’s nerve.
And woe alack the day, Kev was but the old-born King and one visit from the Wise Man didst send him fleeing like a big girl’s blouse in a strong cross-wind.
Yea, and thence unto the Angel of the North ventured the Lard and so sorely tempted was The Shearer that he did set amongst the brainless sheep of the baa-codes with hope in his heart and an absolute dunce as his assistant.
But The Shearer couldst not save them. And sat he back between the Lawro and the Hansen – all three of them the Blather, the Glum and the Mostly Boast –
And still did the Terraces of Toon run rank with rivers of tears – and twas the second tier to which they ran - as the Lard Ashley didst lead them into the Shadow of the Valley of Debt.
And yet to some there appeared a star in the North-East. Yea, but there were no shepherds to follow that star, nor Wise men still hanging around cos the Lard was a mate. And yet still the star glimmered.
For it was told that there was somewhere Stable. And so twas that left with no other fucking option they found a new King. Chris. Jesus! Chris?
For he was there and had been there all along. Under their overbunged noses. Lying betweenst the Lard and the Lambias.
All about him the beasts were quiet; the Ass and the Ox (or Joey and Sol as we now know them). No sound there came until, upon the midnight air came there a tune for the wholly Chris. Aye, a Carroll. A Chris-must Carroll with a good movement in the middle and a lovely finish.
And unto the new-found Chris many more were born anew: and the Toon Army did redouble its faith. For The Chris was amongst them, both he and Kevin the First Noel-an. Dispatched were the Mackem and the Villain.
And Chris didst restore vision to those that had been blind (not least the lad Coloccini). And lo didst he entreat his followers to cast their nets like another side and lo the nets didst bulge with goals. And the success-starved Toonites didst dine out on this news, for Chris could make a lot of pretty average fare seem enough to feed the 50,000. For in short he had turned their Whine into Slaughter.
And Chris offered his home to the lost and lowly, the forgotten and forlorn: to the Dyer and the Krul; to the Perch and the Gosling; to Alan Smith and Xisco (no, not the twat who did The Thong Song).
And yet still the Lard looked down from over a stack of ever-multiplying chins and though he saw that it was good (well half-good any road) he was sore afraid that no one was talking about Newcastle much any more.
For, thought he, what is this Kingdom of St.James if it is not a complete and utter shambles. Why tis a nothingness. Tis a veil of mid-table mediocrity and fuck me, if I’d’ve wanted that I’d have brung back Allardyce.
And yeah though the mild and popular Chris didst unto his disciples give a severe bollocking after they didst unto the Dorrans and the Odemwingie grant the freedom of the Hawthorns, twas not still enough to save him.
And the Portliest Pirate didst call him in and did wash his hands of him. And alas Chris was cast out into the wilderness, for like Sir Bobby he knew not what he had done.
‘Lard, Lard, why hast thou forsaken me?’
And to the Twitter went the disciples to spread the Word: and yea even those that didst always think the Geordie Bottlers were a bit of a laughing stock didst bellow unto the tops of their voices.
And over his last cuppa Chris turned to his disciples and was unsurprised to find that the Shithead Lard Ashley had entrusted all he despised to St. Peter of Beardsley. (Steve Stone - as in dropping like a...)
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