Taken for Grant-ed

Hello! Or as we Poles say 'Halo'.

Phew! What a week! And that's just this blog. Last Thursday, some bloke called Polish Dad appeared to have hijacked this site - but insisted he'd saved it from a worse fate than that. (Looking at Kusczak’s performance at Blackburn I wouldn’t want a Pole saving anything for me!)

Not realising that I am technologically-challenged he tried to explain himself: 'Blah-bli-blah-DOMAIN, blah-bli-blah OPEN' he wrote - or summat like that. Any road it appears he did save the day, so a big Polish thumbs up to the lad. And even if he didn't, thanks, son, for giving an ageing Teessider heart failure.


Poland is of course famous for many things including this - its reasonably good volleyball team

In this area of high beer and cholesterol consumption, heart failure is nowt new. However in that London, I'm imagining Irons fans are busy blowing themselves into bubbles and fading and dying as we speak.

Those of us with a cruel streak (and here I talk of every football fan I know) will not shed a tear for that weird triumvirate of Sullivan, Gold and Brady.

It strikes me that not one of 'em knows owt about football. It could be that porn magnate Sullivan ordered the back four to stay wide open to allow as much penetration as possible. Sullivan was keen for Avram to play someone in the hole who could push up behind the front two.

The selection of Grant, and his non-sacking in January, have been tell-tale indicators of a club that - ironically in Sullivan's case, doesn't know its arse from its elbow.

At least Hammers fans will be able to watch their team play in the Olympic Stadium soon - the main benefit of that being that they'll be so far away from the pitch that the pain will take longer to reach you.

When push comes to shove at the lower end of the league you need a gaffer who can stir the emotions. While Blackpool have got Tigger, West Ham have had to make do with Eeyore. While Wigan have Mr. Motivator, West Ham have Droopy.

Here's Avram wondering why he bought Robbie Keane

Grant seems a nice enough bloke but Gawd knows why he was hired. This will be the season West Ham fans remember as The Year of Scott Parker. (Or Scotty if you want him to sound like a really annoying pooch). He's been the footballing equivalent of Atlas. No wonder his Achilles twanged after carrying so many passengers.

He'll be off to somewhere wealthy in the summer - cluttering up Man City's midfield mantelpiece no doubt. Can't say I was too chuffed about the Cup Final result although Citeh were hugely superior to Stoke.

(Oh and by the way if the FA ever allow Premier League matches to be played on Cup Final day I will personally go round there and squeeze their gluttonous heads into a miniature replica of the Cup itself. Shocking decision!)

Mancini's side may have been a bit flaky at times this season but one thing you can't do is strongarm them out of it. At one point Tyldesley suggested that Stoke's aerial firepower was to be feared. Except even Huth looked like a border collie amongst the wolfhounds of Toure, Richards, Kompany and co.

They keep telling me the sky blue's the limit now. That the first trophy is the hardest to win. I'd love to disagree. But if Mancini can fork out a flaming fortune just to have a minder for Balotelli (Vieira) then the rest of us are pissing in the wind.

It's Chelsea Mark II. Abramovich never bothered about buying a dud. Kezman, that cokehead Romanian fella, the expensive scatter cushion that was Winston Bogarde. Doesn't matter that they stank. Same with Citeh now. Dzeko turns out to be Bosnian for 'cack'. No bother. We'll lay a trail of cash to the door of Karim Benzema or some such.

It's not a happy prospect unless you've been spitting out the dirt from Man U's wheelspins for three decades.

And them people - the fans - are the ones who have earned the right to crow.

United are of course Premier League Champions. Which really means that City are celebrating sloppy seconds for now.

As I've said before, it really doesn't matter what you think of Ferguson, fact is he's won the League with a great deal of averageness at his disposal. Which makes him, in this day and age, close to a genius. And, by the way, no one likes a genius.

If you look at the celebratory pogo-ers at Ewood Park on Saturday there's only Vidic and van der Saar who you can truly say have been exceptional all season. Rooney's blown hot and cold. (And if there's a football fan in the country who hasn't at least indirectly been told to fuck off by Wazza this season then he wasn't on the pitch when you watched Man U.)

"It's all very well but what am I gonnae dae now ITV are getting rid of Taggart?"

Somehow Old Purple Chops has managed to patch together a winning side out of crocks and journeymen. And there's never been a string of games when they've all been playing shite at the same time - unlike Chelsea and Arsenal.

Rooney and Berbatov have alternated purple patches. Nani's dip in form has been easily covered by Valencia's return and the work-rate of Park. The foetal Brazilain twins have covered manfully for absentees at full-back; similarly, Rio's creaking back hasn't caused too much disruption. Carrick has been very good in the run-in. And Gawd knows what he's on but Giggsy continues his campaign to become the Peter Pan of the PFA. (According to Twitter rumours he's been using a super-injection for years).

I'm hoping that Cardiff can muster a way to the Premier League after a series of rhythm method seasons. (They look like they're in but withdraw at the last second). Be nice if Dave Jones could get that particular monkey off his back - then again Craig Bellamy could make all the difference.

Who they might replaced is well anybody's guess. Me? I hope it's not Blackpool n Wolves to sink, as we'd lose two of the best post-match interviewees in the game.
Bit I reckon the Tangerines will go, joined by the Tired Toilers at Brum. Suffice to say bums will never have been squeakier.

Rest assured Boro fans will empathise with the lot of yer.

Give it back now

Robbo here. But will this go up?

The End of Mourinho?

A Robbo Robson Exclusive

Reports coming in from UEFA are suggesting that special operatives from UEFA have, following extensive and meticulous covert surveillance, found and killed Josama bin Mourinho.

Mourinho, whose whereabouts was not shared with Castillian secret intelligence for fear of a leak, was found cowering behind his pizza margherita with extra jalapenos in a hotel room not far from Las Ramblas in Barcelona’s city centre.

'Don't look at the eyes, boys, don't look at the eyes!'

He was unarmed but officers were obliged to avoid the monster’s glare and wear protective earpieces should his sultry sneers for mercy convert them instantly into Special Ambassadors for his mission.

For a long time now UEFA (Upholders of European Football Artistry) have waged a clandestine war on the one they call The Special One. He has been the Beautiful Game’s Public Enemy Number One, Football’s Most Wanted and Least Loved, a man who is the ultimate in Ends Justifying The Means.

Mourinho’s ability to escape capture has been one of the great mysteries of modern sport. He is rumoured to have traversed great distances in any number of modes, and once passed through several banks of security in a laundry basket. (Admittedly the baskets at Chelsea need to be enormous given the amount of dirty laundry they get through each week). It is said that Mourinho once travelled from London to Milan in a flight powered entirely by his own ego.

While much of the evidence of Mourinho’s misdemeanours is anecdotal at best, there are many who put down their demise to the overweaning influence of the Portuguese-born translator. Referees have felt compelled to retire, and voyeurs have fervently felt the need to defend themselves.

Members of FC Barcelona have also been victimised. Sergio Busquets has been so manipulated by Jose’s Special Forces that he seems to feel every scratch, tug and nudge by an opposition player through his face. It is thought that this condition has led to cerebral damage that may have turned him into a racist shit. (Certainly Emmanuel Adebayor, a Mourinho aide, seemed to think so when he was sent on an assassin’s mission last night. Personally I was on his side although having said that, it’s not as if the Madrilenos aren’t averse to the odd monkey chant when it suits them.)

Then there’s Javier Mascherano, a fearsome man renowned for his power and malice that a Mourinho operative reduced to the role of writhing soap queen yesterday evening. Rumours are that the Masch spent the evening on Monserrat Caballe’s washing line though he rejects the idea that he is that big a girl’s blouse.

Image from a grim pro-Josama website

Mourinho has maintained that the Catalan capacity for fakery is not of his making. Indeed sources at Real Madrid are said to be pushing for an investigation into the whole structure of FC Barcelona. They have recommended that a special commission be headed up by Lord Scarman in the full expectation that he will find the Masters of Magical Footy guilty of ‘institutional simulation’.

While few share Moaninho’s beliefs, he has insisted that his failure to win every European competition he has ever entered is down to a conspiracy. When UEFA has been unable to defeat him, they have invented victories from goals of a paranormal nature, made members of his crack squad ‘disappear’ early in proceedings to face the water torture of the ‘early bath’ or forced him to squeeze into uncomfortable corners from whence he has had to communicate in more inventive ways.

Even then, UEFA have been powerless to prevent him from using such cutting-edge technology as the I-pad, the mobile telephone and even, fiendishly, a notepad and pen.

There are some mainstream sympathisers with the arch criminal’s view that diving divas need to be punished. If UEFA really wanted to deal with this they could view video evidence and start suspending the pimping plungers here and now. To the average man in the street – and I’m nothing if not that – it seems such an obvious and fair policy that even Nick Clegg would have difficulty reneging on it.

Central to the mission to destroy Mourinho has of course been the match they call El Crappico. El Naffico is a long-held tribal dispute somewhere in the fictional confederacy of states known as ‘Spain’. It is Moronho’s belief that the forces of evil are reined to the cause of the Catalans.

In particular he has sought to blame the organisation known as Unicef, which as everyone now knows, stands for the Unfeasibly Naughty Institute for Cheating Embryonic Footballers. There is circumstantial evidence that for years now Barcelona has been flooding its training camps with tiny schoolboys who for the first year are trained in dodgy play-acting and the second year learn how to do a triple twist with pike and tuck. Even the stadium’s name ‘Nou Camp’ translates as the ‘New Theatrical’.

Mourinho attempts to lure a young boy away from the Camp Nou

Of course Maureenio’s contempt for Barca may also derive from the first time he ever translated Bobby Robson at the Nou Camp. (And, bless Sir Bob, but it’d been nice if Jose had worked as a translator for the old fella when he was England gaffer too.)

Whatever the source of his malice and menace there seems to be little international outcry at Jose’s demise. UEFA have however been unforthcoming with photographic evidence of the end of the Special One and counter-conspiracy theorists are even now suggesting that the dark lord will rise again. Indeed to my certain knowledge he’s been seen driving a cab in Stockton-on-Tees.

In the meantime Barcelona officials have distanced themselves from exuberant celebrations on the streets of Barcelona. They have insisted that allegations of improper conduct by their representatives are completely unfounded and - well, it’s thought unlikely that we will witness any more third-rate Hollyoaks style tizzy fits from them in the final. Especially if Scholes plays as the Ginger Ninja always leaves plenty of evidence on the thigh of an opponent to make play-acting unnecessary.

Me? Were it not for Messi and Iniesta (another serial diver, mind) I wouldn’t care too much for Barca at the mo. Still they’ll be up against United. And they’ll beat ‘em. As for the Moochinho? Beware the second coming.