2013 can't be as exciting as 2012, although there are some reasons to be optimistic. So I've gazed into me crystal balls (it's a long story) and I foresee some moments of sporting wonder ahead of us.
January
At the Australian Open, Andy Murray's final against Novak Djokovic goes into a third day with the Serb eventually coming out on top when Murray falls asleep in the change-over.
Due to a horrible administrative error, Manchester City fail to sign David Villa. They purchase Aston Villa instead. 'Well' says Mancini, 'At least it was a bit cheaper that way.'
Meanwhile Mancini continues to deny a training ground bust-up with Mario Balotelli. 'It was nothing', he insists, 'I'm like a father to him'. 'Yeah' agrees Balotelli 'And I hate my f**ing father.'
Theo Walcott stays at Arsenal after being offered an eight-year contract as a central striker. The recently sacked Alan Pardew tells him that the contract isn't worth the paper it was written on.
February
The Six Nations begins with England beating Scotland by six foreign players to five. They win the match too. Gavin Henson gets a recall to the Wales squad when it becomes clear that none of his countrymen have a clue where to find the best tanning salons in South Wales.
Phil The Power Taylor becomes the first winner of an indoor javelin gold at the Indoor Athletics Championships and tells the world he likes these new big darts.
Harry Redknapp's QPR astound again as they beat both Manchester City and United at home. He also manages to help out in the executive boxes when they run out of wine and bread ("Get some stones and a jug of water and I'll be up in a mo!") and he oversees Kieron Dyer as he picks up his bed and walks.
The Ivory Coast, led by Didier Drogba, win Africa's Cup of Nations. Mancini says the Toure brothers are selfish for playing so well and keeping Yaya away for so long. Mario Balotelli starts and finishes a game for the first time in six months. 'Now' Mancini smiles 'if I can get him to do the same in the first team we might be getting somewhere.'
Cristiano Ronaldo returns to Old Trafford with Real Madrid and is marked by Paul Scholes. It's not a nice mark and Scholes receives his marching orders. (Well plodding orders these days). Real win 3-1 and England's Euro hopes rest on Arsenal....
March
.... English clubs are out of Europe at the last 16 stage as Arsenal fail to overturn their 5-1 deficit to Bayern after the first leg. Celtic remain however after they defeat Juventus. 'Can they make the whole way?' manager Lennon is asked. 'Why not?' replies the confident Ulsterman, 'Chelsea won it last year and they were shite.'
England's two away fixtures in the World Cup qualifiers garner four points. England sneak past a plucky San Marino 13-0. But Montenegro (population 680,000) terrorise the everchanging England back four (population 312 over the last five seasons) and only a late equaliser by Seb Coe salvages a point.
David Villa wins the League Cup. On his own.
The University Boat Race is obstructed by a great white mammal bobbing around near Putney Bridge, braying out unintelligible instructions. Mayor Boris Johnson is sccoped from the water and the race is re-run, with who-the-fuck-gives-a-shit beating the other ones.
April
Bubba Watson returns to the US Masters at Augusta as the defending champion only to discover that Donald Trump has sent a hairdressing sniper to remove his stupid hair. 'Only one man gets away with that sort of coiffure in this here country' announces the billionaire nutcase.
Blackburn Rovers finally appoint a new manager - and it's some bloke Shebby Singh met in a pub.
New boss Peter Reid insists that it was in a Costa Coffee Shop 'as far as I can remember'.
The Formula 1 season enters its third race with it all looking just as exciting as last year's championship. Really thrilling it is... whatever... yawwwwwn...
May
Manchester United win the Premier League for the four hundred and fifty-sodding-seventh time and Sir Alex Ferguson announces his retirement (HOORAY!) in 2020 (GROOOANNN!). Rafa Benitez watches his Chelsea team lift the FA Cup, nods in the direction of Roamn Abramovich, and gets his coat.
The Champions League final is won by Barcelona, who defeat exhuasted opponents 3-0. Lionel Messi caps an average season with his 93rd goal. Later, Barca players are accused of animal cruelty after it emerges that four of them took the club's pet Jack Russell out for a walk and never once gave the poor mutt a sniff of the frisbee.
England's rugger players are warned as to their behaviour as they set off for Australia as part of the Lions squad. Chris Ashton is sent home early after throwing a female dwarf into his fifth pint of beer.
June
In the opposite direction the Australian cricket team arrive. England are favourites after beating New Zealand despite being forced to bowl underarm in the third test. Shane Warne follows Mike Hussey into the TMS commentary box, only to be told it's not that sort of hussy. It looks like it's going to be a glorious Ashes series, particularly now the flood-waters have receded and some of the Test Match strips can be properly looked at.
The French Open final at Roland Garros goes into a fifth day. Nadal beats Djokovic on a technical knock-out.
Pacquiao and Mayweather finally get their long-awaited fight on. Dereck Chisora is ringside but only up until Round Three when he can't help himself and climbs through the ropes. He's joined there by David Haye and after squaring up to each other, Pacquiao clobbers them with simultaneous upper cuts. It is a great moment for British boxing.
The British and Irish Lions win the three-test series against Australia 2-1; Manu Tuilagi throws himself into Sydney Harbour and a lot of Sydney Harbour throws itself onto the shore.
July
A month chockful of British sporting success.
Andy Murray beats Roger Federer in the Wimbledon final. It rains throughout but Judy Murray clambers on to the top of Centre Court and sticks her size seven stilettos into the roof to stop it closing.
Ian Poulter wins the Open Championship after being hypnotised into believing it's the Ryder Cup.
Chris Froome and Bradley Wiggins put their differences aside and win the Tour de France - on a tandem.
England's cricketers win the first two test matches, but whe Shane Warne reveals he's coming out of retirement, Ian Bell hides in the dressing-room and refuses to come out.
David Beckham announces that he's to play in the new Polar League. It's a great coup for Greenland's finest club, Nuuk United. He will join the other star signings Joey Barton and Nicolas Anelka in a strong looking team.
August
It's the World Athletics Championships in Moscow and Team GB - even now the phrase just sucks - is up against it. Jessica Ennis has a terrible heptathlon and cries a lot. Britain loves her even more.
Mo Farah gives up the Mo-Bot gesture as his daughters keep thinking he's inviting them to McDonalds and then get in a state when he offers them pasta and chicken with no sauce.
Usain Bolt beats Yohan Blake complete a 1-2 in the 100 and 200 metres finals and celebrate by going to play cricket for the West Indies one-day team. Bolt is out for a startling 31 runs off one ball (all run).
Alistair Cook completes his double hundred of the summer. It's a poor effort by Cook, who really should do better. Says Geoff Boycott. Some girlish toys are found left in the England dressing-room and Boycott suggests that England's cricketers are going soft. But it turns out it's just a lot of dollies that Monty Panesar dropped during the Test Match.
September
But wait I haven't mentioned the Formula 1 championship. Well it's absolutely thrilling stuff. I mean apart from the fact that all the races have been won by the bloke who gets to the first corner in the lead. And that all the interesting stuff happens in the pits. It's so exciting watching men change the tyres on a car isn't it? Vettel's winning by the way.
The football season has started off with a lot of intriguing transfer news. Arsenal have signed a five foot six inch midfielder with good feet and no engine. Stoke City sign an electric pylon to play centre forward (Sam Allardyce is livid). QPR, miraculously resurrected by Harry Redknapp hold a jumble sale in a church hall off the Goldhawk Road, and get £22.50 for Jose Bosingwa.
New Chelsea manager Pep Guardiola is under enormous pressure after his team win their first six matches without conceding a goal.
And newly-promoted Middlesbrough (ahem - did I forget to mention that heroic play-off victory at Wembley in May?) parade their last-minute captures. Gianluigi Buffon says he's looking forward to his first parmo; Didier Drogba is relishing the challenge. And Lionel Messi says he's hardly had chance to draw breath - which is pretty much true of everyone who lives here.
October-December
Look I'll be honest. I can't even be bothered to look that far ahead. I mean we could all be so screwed by Georgie Osborne's Austerity budgets that the national sport will suddenly have become piggy-bank hammering. Ah no, I'm going to be positive...
But by December, England are well on their way to defending the Ashes, GB win the Rugby League World Cup, Mario Balotelli finds inner peace, Michael Owen finds a personality, David Moyes finds a trophy from somewhere, Nick Clegg finds his balls, Roy Hodgson finds a team, Sepp Blatter finds a P-45, members of the NRA are all backed into a concrete cell by and locked in there forever by 'a good man with a gun', and David Attenborough is told he's allowed to live forever so long as he never stops making television programmes.
Happy New Year and up, up, UP the BORO!!!
Friday, 4 January 2013
Monday, 24 December 2012
Swansea Nativity
This is an extract from the Premier League Bible. It is taken from The Gospel According to Midtable Obscurity. I hope, like all of us who believe, that you enjoy it.
'Now in a corner of the country known as Swansea there lived a girl called Mary and one night when her fella was out and that, there was a bright light in her bedsit and Angel Rangel appeared before her.
'"Be not afraid" said he, but in a weird accent Mary didn't understand, "for I have been sent with great news. You shall carry a child and he shall be called Michu, and many opportunities shall he take. He shall be in a stable born. Not an unstable, that's where Mario Balotelli was born."
'"But it cannot be" said Mary, "for I am a Virgin."
'"In Swansea?" smirked Angel.
'"I am, you cheeky bastard" she insisted. "Although the Government would like me to be replaced by First Trains. Have you been sent by God?"
'"Yes, although He had to ask permission from Sir Alex Ferguson first."
'So saying, Angel Rangel vanished in a flash of light and wasn't seen in the first team for quite a while.
‘Now across the land, Word came that a Messiah was to be born, a leader of the line who would prove that from poor beginnings goalscorers do come. But lo, word did reach the lands in the East. Or the Eastlands.
'And there came an edict from he whose tresses look like a photograph from a hairdresser's window in the early 80s. And he did demand 'Bring me this mother of Michu that we might make him ours, and drape him in blue as blue as the sky, as we always do with blokes who have made their name in funny little places, ha ha!'
'And soon the cry rang through the ears of all mothers of prospective footballers and those with any sort of pride and loyalty fled before they were captured by the Abu-Dhabi Lucre.
'Mary was heavy with child and so her husband, a bloke who so loved footy and carpentry that in his spare time he made wooden centre-backs called Williamson and Bramble. We shall call him Joseph or Joe-Cole for short (and I mean short).
'Joe-Cole managed to get hold of a tatty old donkey and then this Tony Adams carried Mary much as Robin Van Persie had carried Arsenal for two seasons, or Steven Gerrard Liverpool for full seven years, the poor sod.
'Eventually they arrived in a town called Bethlehem. Now all the inns there were taken up by rich holiday-makers, two of whom, Messrs Berbatov and Sturridge, were over-relaxing by the pool.
'The inn-owner said they had a stable with a few animals in there but the Leeds fans would be gone before dawn. So Mary and Joe-Cole lay down with the Oxlade-Chamberlain and Joey Barton (the ass).
'And that night, to the WAG a baby Michu was born (once the doc had turned up to perform the elected caesarean). And glory shone all around.
'Meanwhile above the town and up in the hills, three shepherds were playing keepy-uppie with a sheep's bladder. It was one of those new sheep's bladders that moves unpredictably through the air.
'Angel di Maria appeared to them and they were sore excited cos he was, like, almost as good as Ronaldo... on his day... but not very often for Argentina.
'"Be not afraid" spake Angel "For know that an excellent striker has been born this day."
'"But why tell us?" said the older shepherd. Moyes was his name. "We won't be able to afford him."
'"Nor I" said Redknapp, the second shepherd (although to be frank, he had a bit of cash stashed away and was more than ready to put a bid in).
'"Nor I" said the third, who had only really dallied with shepherdry and knew naught of it, despite his name of Shearer.
'"But this striker may yet be cheap, as little as a fifth of a Giroud and yet in truth twenty times his worth."
'"We shall come to see this miraculous sight" said Moyes optimistically, even though the Kenwrighting was on the wall.
'And then in the East there appeared a star. And not long after that, Manchester City bought it. It would've gone to Chelsea but the star wasn't sure he liked what their captain said about stars. It's quite possible he was starrist.
'But three wise men followed this star (at least until Kia Joorabchian became its agent). And the wise men were called Hansen and Lawro and Andy Townsend (and yea, verily, the word 'wise' was used ironically... c.f. Little Peter Crouch, Upright Luis Suarez, Squeaky-Clean Sepp Blatter.)
Yea, and many opinions had they of this star, many of which were so fucking obvious they didn't need saying but they said them anyway.
'They never made it to the stable. But the Three Kings did.
'That's 'king Chelsea, 'king Manchester City and 'king Manchester City.
'And they found the infant forward lying in a manchego and they offered it gifts: gold, gold and more gold. Just loads of gold really. And Frank, incensed, Lampard in part exchange.
'And though the Mary Mother of Michu hated the thought of it (she was from Croxteth originally) she felt unable to resist and finally allowed the newborn king to go to one of the Big Three for a six-figure salary.
'And lo he of Man U did hold the baby aloft from his Manchego, cried Hosanna Bless the Lord and placed the child upon a lowly bench where it sat like Andy 'Christmas' Carroll for a whole year and a half and the poor lad and his Mum wondered why they'd left Swansea in the first place.*
Happy Christmas To One And All!!! I shall be knocking back an extra hot toddy for you Villa fans out there.
Up the Boro!
*In later chapters Michu finds himself in the wilderness for a whole season. When he returns he is crucified for missing a penalty, before finally managing to get on the end of a decent cross.
'Now in a corner of the country known as Swansea there lived a girl called Mary and one night when her fella was out and that, there was a bright light in her bedsit and Angel Rangel appeared before her.
'"Be not afraid" said he, but in a weird accent Mary didn't understand, "for I have been sent with great news. You shall carry a child and he shall be called Michu, and many opportunities shall he take. He shall be in a stable born. Not an unstable, that's where Mario Balotelli was born."
'"But it cannot be" said Mary, "for I am a Virgin."
'"In Swansea?" smirked Angel.
'"I am, you cheeky bastard" she insisted. "Although the Government would like me to be replaced by First Trains. Have you been sent by God?"
'"Yes, although He had to ask permission from Sir Alex Ferguson first."
'So saying, Angel Rangel vanished in a flash of light and wasn't seen in the first team for quite a while.
‘Now across the land, Word came that a Messiah was to be born, a leader of the line who would prove that from poor beginnings goalscorers do come. But lo, word did reach the lands in the East. Or the Eastlands.
'And there came an edict from he whose tresses look like a photograph from a hairdresser's window in the early 80s. And he did demand 'Bring me this mother of Michu that we might make him ours, and drape him in blue as blue as the sky, as we always do with blokes who have made their name in funny little places, ha ha!'
'And soon the cry rang through the ears of all mothers of prospective footballers and those with any sort of pride and loyalty fled before they were captured by the Abu-Dhabi Lucre.
'Mary was heavy with child and so her husband, a bloke who so loved footy and carpentry that in his spare time he made wooden centre-backs called Williamson and Bramble. We shall call him Joseph or Joe-Cole for short (and I mean short).
'Joe-Cole managed to get hold of a tatty old donkey and then this Tony Adams carried Mary much as Robin Van Persie had carried Arsenal for two seasons, or Steven Gerrard Liverpool for full seven years, the poor sod.
'Eventually they arrived in a town called Bethlehem. Now all the inns there were taken up by rich holiday-makers, two of whom, Messrs Berbatov and Sturridge, were over-relaxing by the pool.
'The inn-owner said they had a stable with a few animals in there but the Leeds fans would be gone before dawn. So Mary and Joe-Cole lay down with the Oxlade-Chamberlain and Joey Barton (the ass).
'And that night, to the WAG a baby Michu was born (once the doc had turned up to perform the elected caesarean). And glory shone all around.
'Meanwhile above the town and up in the hills, three shepherds were playing keepy-uppie with a sheep's bladder. It was one of those new sheep's bladders that moves unpredictably through the air.
'Angel di Maria appeared to them and they were sore excited cos he was, like, almost as good as Ronaldo... on his day... but not very often for Argentina.
'"Be not afraid" spake Angel "For know that an excellent striker has been born this day."
'"But why tell us?" said the older shepherd. Moyes was his name. "We won't be able to afford him."
'"Nor I" said Redknapp, the second shepherd (although to be frank, he had a bit of cash stashed away and was more than ready to put a bid in).
'"Nor I" said the third, who had only really dallied with shepherdry and knew naught of it, despite his name of Shearer.
'"But this striker may yet be cheap, as little as a fifth of a Giroud and yet in truth twenty times his worth."
'"We shall come to see this miraculous sight" said Moyes optimistically, even though the Kenwrighting was on the wall.
'And then in the East there appeared a star. And not long after that, Manchester City bought it. It would've gone to Chelsea but the star wasn't sure he liked what their captain said about stars. It's quite possible he was starrist.
'But three wise men followed this star (at least until Kia Joorabchian became its agent). And the wise men were called Hansen and Lawro and Andy Townsend (and yea, verily, the word 'wise' was used ironically... c.f. Little Peter Crouch, Upright Luis Suarez, Squeaky-Clean Sepp Blatter.)
Yea, and many opinions had they of this star, many of which were so fucking obvious they didn't need saying but they said them anyway.
'They never made it to the stable. But the Three Kings did.
'That's 'king Chelsea, 'king Manchester City and 'king Manchester City.
'And they found the infant forward lying in a manchego and they offered it gifts: gold, gold and more gold. Just loads of gold really. And Frank, incensed, Lampard in part exchange.
'And though the Mary Mother of Michu hated the thought of it (she was from Croxteth originally) she felt unable to resist and finally allowed the newborn king to go to one of the Big Three for a six-figure salary.
'And lo he of Man U did hold the baby aloft from his Manchego, cried Hosanna Bless the Lord and placed the child upon a lowly bench where it sat like Andy 'Christmas' Carroll for a whole year and a half and the poor lad and his Mum wondered why they'd left Swansea in the first place.*
Happy Christmas To One And All!!! I shall be knocking back an extra hot toddy for you Villa fans out there.
Up the Boro!
*In later chapters Michu finds himself in the wilderness for a whole season. When he returns he is crucified for missing a penalty, before finally managing to get on the end of a decent cross.
Monday, 10 December 2012
Tackling the Tossers
Maybe Manchester City's fans have as much money as the owners these days. Certainly throwing loose change at the likes of Wayne Rooney is a genuine waste of time. Wayne probably smiles to himself when he remembers the days when he'd have gladly picked it up and toddled down to a lady of the night for some entertainment. Word has it when Wazza first visited Turin and heard he was to playing the Old Lady he took some extra Euros with him.
Love of your club and hatred for its rivals are two sides of the same coin, which may well be a metaphor too far for the knobhead who lobbed one at a celebratory Rio Ferdinand. There are always those who take things too far and once again it's the honest Johns who swear quietly into their half-time Bovrils who are getting lumped in with the louts.
It's a shame cos the Manc derby had much to admire in it, apart from Mario Balotelli. I dunno if it's the haircut but increasingly Mario plods about like a truculent dinosaur, and probably finishes about as well as your average deinonychus n all. (I have a 9-year-old son, I know about these things).
Whatever you think about Carlos Tevez - and that'll be many more thoughts than the little gaucho has had in his entire life - you can't deny that he's ten times the player Balotelli is, which means he's half the player Balotelli thinks he is. Why Mancini persists with his fellow Italian is one of the great conundrums of British football.
(The others are: 'How Come The FA Aren't Imposing Retrospective Three-Match Bans On Diving Little Cheats Like Santi Cazorla?' and 'Jordan Henderson - Why?')
That aside it was end-to-end stuff and Fergie's positive team selection had a lot to do with that. Every season feels like it has to be his last and yet he still manages to get most of the important decisions right. It's infuriating. You do feel that whenever he does leave - and despite huge and grudging admiration I'll be on one end of the lever - that the next bloke is going to have the toughest job in football. Well, apart from being Roman Abramovich's manager-finder general.
If you want to understand the difference in commitment between the two, you could hardly do better than look at the Citeh wall for United's winner. Samir Nasri, a gifted mercenary who joined the millionaire swells last year, was just another prick in that wall. And a loose prick at that. It realy was the most effeminate attempt to block afree kick I think I have ever seen.
In fact women's teams are much more slid when they line up a wall, I reckon. Although that's possibly because there's less to protect. Nevertheless, Nasri deserves a thorough dressing-down by Mancini if only to discover whether he actually has any balls.
Lescott must be wondering quite what he's done wrong too to be replaced by Nastasic, and then Kolo Toure when Kompany came off. The big wardrobe was very good at the end of last season.
But it all led to a typically Fergiefied finish. He's like a latter-day Fagin, isn't he, leading a team of arch pickpockets as they nick win after win.
Perhaps the man most likely to succeed him upped his chances on Sunday too when Everton snatched a last-gasp win. Everton under Moyes have become a second favourite team amongst many fans simply because the manager's stuck with 'em and his team play football the way we'd all like our teams to.
Jelavic glad-handed every player on the bench when he left the park after grabbing the winner and frankly that's not a sight you'd ever see on the bench at Eastlands. That's probably why I begrudge every point Citeh get at the moment. It really is a flagrant assembly of self-interested wealth-creators, that squad. So for once I was happy to see United win.
I still don't reckon on United strolling to the title from here on in. They've got the Champs League still, which happily Citeh don't, but more than that they're not so much better than every other candidate out there - unlike, say, Saltburn's own James Arthur (he won X Factor by the way).
Mind you if Teesside could be bothered we'd win every talent competition going, man. The walls of our buildings are dripping that kind of raw soulful brilliance it's just we don't like to go on about it. NB there's a bit of irony in that statement.
Of course the throwing of missiles by the fans is going to be the main subject of conversation for the next few days and I have to say it drives me tonto. I've no doubt that much of this is laced with naked jealousy for the preposterous amounts of money these blokes earn. But that's giving it too much credence as some sort of protest.
Yes, they're overpaid. Yes, they behave like children. Yes sometimes their celebrations could be termed as 'provocative' although given similar circumstances I'd be sliding on me knees and raoring with delight too. And yes, sometimes, as with Cazorla (who seemed delighted by his deceit) they don't deserve even the minimum of respect.
But for Chrissakes most of us stopped throwing stuff at other people when we were seven years old (that school window costs my Dad a fortune to fix). I've no desire to see Rio Ferdinand's blood unless it's been delivered to drug-testers (and a good thing that would have been, eh?)
Let us not forget though, that the vast majority of footballers, even the ones wading through wonga, simply get on with the game because they love it. And in the case of both Glen Johnson and Joe Cole, they remember that fans have long memories and do the decent thing when they score against them.
All Citeh can do is find the tossers and ban them. Otherwise we'll go back to the days when Dads stopped taking their kids along and we'll all be even further in hock to Rupert Murdoch if we want to get our football kicks.
Love of your club and hatred for its rivals are two sides of the same coin, which may well be a metaphor too far for the knobhead who lobbed one at a celebratory Rio Ferdinand. There are always those who take things too far and once again it's the honest Johns who swear quietly into their half-time Bovrils who are getting lumped in with the louts.
It's a shame cos the Manc derby had much to admire in it, apart from Mario Balotelli. I dunno if it's the haircut but increasingly Mario plods about like a truculent dinosaur, and probably finishes about as well as your average deinonychus n all. (I have a 9-year-old son, I know about these things).
Whatever you think about Carlos Tevez - and that'll be many more thoughts than the little gaucho has had in his entire life - you can't deny that he's ten times the player Balotelli is, which means he's half the player Balotelli thinks he is. Why Mancini persists with his fellow Italian is one of the great conundrums of British football.
(The others are: 'How Come The FA Aren't Imposing Retrospective Three-Match Bans On Diving Little Cheats Like Santi Cazorla?' and 'Jordan Henderson - Why?')
That aside it was end-to-end stuff and Fergie's positive team selection had a lot to do with that. Every season feels like it has to be his last and yet he still manages to get most of the important decisions right. It's infuriating. You do feel that whenever he does leave - and despite huge and grudging admiration I'll be on one end of the lever - that the next bloke is going to have the toughest job in football. Well, apart from being Roman Abramovich's manager-finder general.
If you want to understand the difference in commitment between the two, you could hardly do better than look at the Citeh wall for United's winner. Samir Nasri, a gifted mercenary who joined the millionaire swells last year, was just another prick in that wall. And a loose prick at that. It realy was the most effeminate attempt to block afree kick I think I have ever seen.
In fact women's teams are much more slid when they line up a wall, I reckon. Although that's possibly because there's less to protect. Nevertheless, Nasri deserves a thorough dressing-down by Mancini if only to discover whether he actually has any balls.
Lescott must be wondering quite what he's done wrong too to be replaced by Nastasic, and then Kolo Toure when Kompany came off. The big wardrobe was very good at the end of last season.
But it all led to a typically Fergiefied finish. He's like a latter-day Fagin, isn't he, leading a team of arch pickpockets as they nick win after win.
Perhaps the man most likely to succeed him upped his chances on Sunday too when Everton snatched a last-gasp win. Everton under Moyes have become a second favourite team amongst many fans simply because the manager's stuck with 'em and his team play football the way we'd all like our teams to.
Jelavic glad-handed every player on the bench when he left the park after grabbing the winner and frankly that's not a sight you'd ever see on the bench at Eastlands. That's probably why I begrudge every point Citeh get at the moment. It really is a flagrant assembly of self-interested wealth-creators, that squad. So for once I was happy to see United win.
I still don't reckon on United strolling to the title from here on in. They've got the Champs League still, which happily Citeh don't, but more than that they're not so much better than every other candidate out there - unlike, say, Saltburn's own James Arthur (he won X Factor by the way).
Mind you if Teesside could be bothered we'd win every talent competition going, man. The walls of our buildings are dripping that kind of raw soulful brilliance it's just we don't like to go on about it. NB there's a bit of irony in that statement.
Of course the throwing of missiles by the fans is going to be the main subject of conversation for the next few days and I have to say it drives me tonto. I've no doubt that much of this is laced with naked jealousy for the preposterous amounts of money these blokes earn. But that's giving it too much credence as some sort of protest.
Yes, they're overpaid. Yes, they behave like children. Yes sometimes their celebrations could be termed as 'provocative' although given similar circumstances I'd be sliding on me knees and raoring with delight too. And yes, sometimes, as with Cazorla (who seemed delighted by his deceit) they don't deserve even the minimum of respect.
But for Chrissakes most of us stopped throwing stuff at other people when we were seven years old (that school window costs my Dad a fortune to fix). I've no desire to see Rio Ferdinand's blood unless it's been delivered to drug-testers (and a good thing that would have been, eh?)
Let us not forget though, that the vast majority of footballers, even the ones wading through wonga, simply get on with the game because they love it. And in the case of both Glen Johnson and Joe Cole, they remember that fans have long memories and do the decent thing when they score against them.
All Citeh can do is find the tossers and ban them. Otherwise we'll go back to the days when Dads stopped taking their kids along and we'll all be even further in hock to Rupert Murdoch if we want to get our football kicks.
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