Andy n Nandy Are Coming to Play!

It’s transfer deadline day. The window closes at midnight and the football world is agog for the last-minute defenestrators.

Down the Blue Bell speculation is rife: we’ve had several dead certs that have appeared in the Teesside area in the last 24 hours.

Yesterday morning, David Beckham was definitely walking a dog down Linthorpe Road at half-eight (he’d had a severe haircut and grown a droopy tache but it was 'definitely him');

at lunchtime, a cabbie dropped off Jamie Carragher at a branch of Bairstow Eves Estate Agents and he was definitely eyeing up the bigger properties;

and in the late afternoon Richard Keys was apparently thrown out of a mixed doubles tennis match for shouting 'Smash it!' every time his opponents threw up a defensive lob.

"Call that a smash? Do me a favour, love"

As it turns out, none of it was flamin’ true. Instead, Middlesbrough plunged into the black and white film archives and come up with some bloke from Casablanca. I was hoping it was Paul Henreid, but it turns out it’s some Charlie called Marouane Zemmama.

Which begs the question is 'Who’s Zemmama?' Huh? Well here’s what it says on Wikipedia:

« Marouane Zemmama est un footballeur marocain né le 7 octobre 1983 à Salé et évoluant actuellement au sein du club d' Hibernian FC. » Well sacre bloody bleu.

Nevertheless a stack of bollocks rumours from a bunch of long lunchtime lager specialists makes more sense than what actually happened yesterday.

Liverpool and Chelsea are the culprits.

You remember Liverpool? Unbuilt stadium, temporary Messiah in charge, rest home for the expensive liabilility. So obviously it’ll be a home from home for the big rumbling Geordie with a piss-poor ponytail.

But 35 million quid? I mean I even heard a couple of hedge-fund managers saying that was ridiculous and they treat money like bog-roll. The best you can say about Andy Carroll is that he’s promising. He was also one of them local boys made good, Newcastle through and through, a lad who couldn’t get out of bed of a morning without blowing Blaydon Races across the top of an empty Bottle o’ Dog.

Turns out he’s a Geordie Rooney. A magpie, yes, but a dirty thieving one. Unless you believe that the lad had no choice in the matter. Blaming Ashley will suit the Gallowgate, so I fully expect that to be the case. But it’s way too much, man. There’s not been a more stupid purchase of Tyneside talent since my Missus bought Jimmy Nail’s cack album Crocodile Shoes.

Carroll’s now officially worth more than Balotelli, Tevez, Ferdinand, Rooney. I mean crikey the lad’s good. But is he worth getting on for 100 Kenny Millers? Carroll’s fitness record is a tad ropy n all. Then again, if Chelsea are going to splash the cash for hamstrung pretty-boy Nando Torres for £50 million. It’s a kind of horse-trade in Sicknotes.

While the dartboards of Gateshead might not all be wearing a newspaper cutting of Andy Carroll’s face, chances are that an effigy of young Torres might be adorning the top of this year’s Croxteth bonfire.
"Burn 'im, he's a Cockney!"

Torres, much like the shambling bucket of greed that is Darren Bent, has spent most of the season playing like a lazy shiftless pillock. Or, if you will, Nicolas Anelka (at his worst). Of course it appears that there are reasons for this and those reasons are that he should’ve left in the summer.

Torres’s strike rate for ‘Pool is undeniable. He’s a cracking player, true enough. But even one as gifted as that lad finds it hard to really compete when his finger is permanently wedged up his arse.

At least Koppites can content themselves with the knowledge that in Carroll and Suarez they’ve got a couple of lads who will really put a shift in. Plus with Suarez, Dalglish has got himself some decent back-up to Beppe Reina between the sticks.

Of course the staggering thing about the amounts of money changing hands yesterday is that it takes place in straitened times.

I was under the illusion that football might just get affected by the enforced penury that the Eton Debating Society are about to slide us in to.

If there’s one thing that really makes you choke on your meat pie n peas it’s having some family-moneyed chinless pillock telling you how we’ve got to hold our frigging noses and swallow some bitter pills.

(It’s like having Eamonn Holmes telling you to eat more salad. Or the Taleban advising you on the best schools for girls.) I mean what the fuck would they know? The only belt-tightening they’ve ever experienced is probably just some part of a fag's initiation ritual.

"I say George, are you tightening my belt?"

We were told that Chelsea’s days of big spending were over; that Liverpool’s debts were so astronomical that they were a FSA judgement away from bankruptcy. Now they’re spending money like they’re Real Madrid after a wink from the Spanish Government.

I dunno about the rest of you decent souls out there but me, I just hope these deals go tits up. I don’t wish the individuals ill – in fact to be honest I think Carroll is potentially the number nine England have been lacking – but a club that gets into grief and just unfurls a wad of blinking tsunami of wonga to redress the imbalance makes me despair.

And what’s more this transfer window business seems to have created a world where financial power is simply heightened. All day yesterday all I can think of was ‘Arry Redknapp with six phone son the go desperate to snap up anyone.

Apparently he nearly got Charlie Adam. Yeah, cos you’re well short of midfielders aren’t you mate?

I tell you next year just put everyone who’s available in a big fuck-off pen in the O2 arena and all the chairmen and managers can play Cash in the Bastard Attic with them.

Fair Play Rules? To quote one of the most twatty of current phrases 'Bring It On!'

Keys On His Knees

Who’d’ve thought it? Richard Keys and Andy Gray are sexist!

Here’s some other exclusives for you while I’m here. Graham Norton ... not into the ladies. Victoria Beckham... not into the later novels of Kurt Vonnegut. David Cameron... never eaten a pickled egg.

As usual you can’t hear yourself think for the touchline tantrums of the PC brigade. And on this occasion I’ve got some sympathy with this Sian Massey lass who Keys and Gray were having a pop at.

Here's Messrs Keys and Gray with an innocent trainee lineswomen. They're a disgrace aren't they?

First of all, it’s a crap job being an assistant referee. When I was growing up a lineswoman was the telephone exchange operator who could put you through. It’s especially tough on a lass cos them ref’s shorts look shite on a woman’s backside and you can’t exactly offset the effect on even a regular-sized arse by slipping into some three-inch heels with studs on the soles.

Frankly if they could find a more flattering outfit for the lady officials I’d welcome it. Watching Boro at home this year has required all the distractions you can get.

Here's an initial thought on the type of outfit I'm thinking of. Ladies, do advise of materials, practicalities etc.

Secondly, Richard Keys is the quintessential faceless nerk that gets to host football programmes. Clearly he’s well-qualified to espouse his views on gender politics given he’s so hirsute you literally have to shave him to find his fecking face. (Actually, I find the word ‘hirsute’ to be gratuitously sexist. Unless you’re talking about a top-tashed Tajikistani shot-putter called Tamara who can bench-press two Trabbants, the word should be his-sute.)

Keys’s job, as is the case with that Swami of Smarm Steve Ryder, Manish Thingammy and increasingly, the boy-faced crisp-whore Lineker, is to say eff-all in as unobtrusive a way as possible. In other words, don’t draw attention to yourself.

The reason I enjoy Adrian Chiles presenting the Chumps League, ravaged by the fatigue of early-morning starts as he is, is cos he’s not afraid to let slip a churlish Black Country sneer every now and then. Even Colin Murray, who can appear to be entirely caffeinated and as easy on the ear as a wasp in a jar, has a bit of devil-may-care charm and genuine enthusiasm.

Keys can come across as nowt more than a plughole of trapped pubes in a suit. If the chat about women not knowing the offside rule was supposed to be a bit of banter then remind me not to bother having a pint with them two wags down the boozer.

Of course there are aspects of women’s increasing involvement at footy matches that can get on a man’s goat. My Mrs’s interest seems to be directly related to the high totty quotient.

Mrs. Robson's personal selection this. Nah, me either, lads.

She enjoyed Italy in the last Euros n all - when their contribution to entertainment was so minimal their possession stat for the first half v Spain was -23%. But they looked good in their tops.

As Keys n Gray noted, the Offside Rule is a bone of contention between any self-respecting footballer and their partners, regardless of their sex. Anyone who hasn’t used two mugs and a bottle of gunged-up HP sauce to describe this bit of footy legislation to an Unbeliever is not truly a football supporter of any worth.

It doesn’t help that there’s now this flaming rider to the Offside Rule. The Mrs had got the hang of it until Ruud van Nistelrooy started behaving like an infant school goal-hanger and I had to re-explain the new interpretation to our lass by saying that the Dutch Man-Horse was not active when the ball was played in. So he was technically onside.

‘Not active?’ she snooted, ‘I s’pose that means you’re permanently onside, then.’

There’s a lass who sometimes sits behind us at the Riverside and is as passionate a Smoggy as you’re ever likely to hear. She’s also got a squeal on her that could be heard from bloody Neptune. Shrill doesn’t even begin to explain it. When Boro score it’s like I’m having me earwax removed by ultrasound.

I mean I’m all for the lasses getting involved but Jesus Christ, pet, can you find a lower register?

My dear old Dad (dear as in the fees to keep him at the Sunshine Home for the Bewildered are going through the frigging roof) is going a bit deaf and can’t hear higher notes and sounds now. All I can say is 'Lucky bugger'.

Point is, I might like to see linesladies in hula skirts. I might like to see lady footy fans issued with gags. I might like my wife to find more enjoyment in a slick passing movement than she does in the beauteous patterns that Man City’s groundsman is able to mow into the Eastlands turf.

But none of this has owt to do with whether a lass is capable of officiating at a football match. And to suggest that her ability to make a decision is compromised by the lack of a cock in her pants is sexist as far as I understand the definition.

Personally I’d be more than happy to see more women reffing games (as long as they’re not going to drive themselves to the game – JOKE!). They can’t be worse than the card-wielding pipsqueak Mike Dean. But the main benefit might just be that calling a lady ‘a blind f***ing c***’ is far worse a sin than shouting it at some well-meaning part-time actuary from Saffron Walden who happens to like running up and down the line in a blatant toupee.

I dunno why that should be – although some well-groomed Oxford Professeress in a trouser-suit’ll probably tell you it’s an inverted form of society’s inherent patriarchal chauvinism – but I’d more than welcome a reduction in the gobshite tendency of the modern-day footballer whenever the ref gives a decision against him or his team-mate. (NB – it doesn’t happen in women’s football.)

On the other hand, looking at the likes of your Wazza, I doubt they’d be reining in the odd ‘c***’ and ‘f***’.


And when it comes to odd fucks, Rooney knows what he’s talking about.

Nice Little Urners!

There’s the chill evening pint on a warm summer’s day.

There’s the soft kiss of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey after the ten minutes’ thawing time is up.

There’s the hard smack of a green chilli crunched off the top of a true jalfrezi.

And then there’s the taste of victory. Sweet, full-bodied, crisp and consummate Victory. I say Victory. I mean, Utter Annihilation. England were more dominant than a fat lass at a finger buffet.

Apparently this is the worst Australia team ever. Really? Good. Once they’ve unpeeled themselves from the chunky soles of Team England’s DMs they can go away and deal with that. Of the blokes currently wearing the baggy green only three of them could reckon on deserving another go. Hussey, Haddin and – if only for a bit of gumption, Siddle. Let’s hope the baggies are recyclable.

'Look at us, Punter, they've done us up like skippers!'

Lord knows we’ve had some cack-handed selectors in the not-too-recent past. This lot of Australian pickers must select using the blindfold and the drawing pin.

Not since Marilyn Monroe stood on that grille have I seen owt quite so wafty as Phil Hughes. Shane Watson would be great if he didn’t get halfway up, look down, and come over all dizzy. Ponting has been honest about his form and has taken out his frustration on officials rather than the turgid lame-brains all around him. Michael Clarke has all the confidence of a baby turtle trotting through a seagull colony.

The bowlers have been average to poor, bluntly spearheaded by Mouthy Mitchell who has talked a lot but Perth aside, delivered little. Leave the sledging to the snow, Mitch, mate. Hilfenhaus must be Old German for Trundle.

You could see how desperate the selectors were getting cos of their Freudian slip of a selection policy. First, Bollinger. Then Beer. I half-expected to see a bowling attack of Neil Harvey Wallbanger, Glennlivet McGrath and Keith Miller Lite.

Nah, they weren’t up to much – and for once, England got ‘em by the throat in Tests 4and 5 and didn’t let go.

The Barmy Army were in their pomp – like the footy fans of one of them Championship sides that still somehow stagger to the FA Cup Final, there was no pricking the joy. (Just watch us cheering when Mowbray leads our boys out in May!) Obviously there wasn’t a bloke amongst them who earned under forty grand a year, but what the hell? It’s good to see the old-fashioned values of beer, sunburn and stupidity all condensed into one jolly mass of Englishness.

As for the heroic Englishmen well... it’s a wonderful achievement. It really is. And a lot of the credit goes to Flower and Strauss. We can just about expunge the memory of the 5-0 drubbing last time around. Just about.



Cook was the revelation of course. His namesake discovered Australia but even had that Cook imbibed a dozen senna pods he could not have got more runs. As it was he was closely followed by a dose of the Trott. I’m not sure I could watch Jonathan for too many days in the future. He can make Chris Tavare look a bit carefree. But he’s been like cement for the team.

Pietersen, well... he’s been Pietersen. His claim that England wouldn’t be where they are today were it not for his sacrificing himself to get rid of Peter Moores is very Marc Almond (takes a lot of swallowing). But they’ve managed to cage his ego and got him back somewhere near his best.

Ian Bell – perhaps the least engaging post-match interviewee since Alan Shearer – showed bags of style on the park (if you ignore his twatty sunglasses) and Prior flayed them like a master butcher on Day Four.

England weren’t afraid to ditch the slightly struggling stork that is Finn for the hulking menace that is Tremlett. Tremlett was the rediscovery of the tour. He must be hugely intimidating to face, like being charged at by a runaway tennis umpire’s chair.

Bristling Bresnan took up the mantle of honest Yorkie with great verve. Swanny didn’t tear them apart but didn’t half shut ‘em up. And in Jimmy Anderson England have a rival to Dale Steyn as Shit-Hot Bowler in the World.

And just to prove that the team is a team, Collingwood leads them out this morning/last night, even though by his standards he’s been pretty shite. I mean in this series he averages less than Ponting!

It’s great to see the Durham lad bow out now, mind. He’s been damned with fiant praise over the past couple of days cos he’s ‘made the most of his limited ability’. To my mind that’s the highest praise you can give.

Obviously we’d all like to be Kevin Pietersen and be able to reverse sweep a six in a blindfold, but Colly’s done more than just grind out inningses and he’s been a top one-day player, a more than useful dobbler of a bowler and the finest English fieldsman since the scurrying twitchfest that was Derek Randall.

Apart from the Western Australian aberration, where Mitchell Johnson’s arm was clearly being remotely controlled by Denis Lillee with a handheld monitor, it was a series of complete bliss.

Count 'em. An innings and 71. An innings and 157. An innings and 83. Hmmmmmmmm!

The Aussie failure is being matched in the Premier League too. Chelsea, the Abramovincibles, the Blue Meanies – a team that oozed through and over the opposition like so much West London lava – have well and truly cooled off.
Soon Ancelotti’s eyebrow will take off out of there and the rest of him will surely follow.

Meanwhile in Ipswich the prawn sandwich salesmen have come out of hiding. And back in Cheshire a pair of Irishman’s hounds are cowering in their kennels and begging not to go our for walkies.

Now can one of youse lead me back into football management?

If we needed verification, we have it. Keano is a cack manager.

Ipswich could do worse than bring in Andy Flower.