There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

SI: Rooney's 100th Goal Helps ManU Down Chelsea

No, that didn't actually happen. Wayne Rooney scored his 100th goal in the Prem against Arsenal, the second score in a horrific 3-1 shellacking of the Gooners that left me sad and nauseated, but don't tell Sports Illustrated that.

I'm picking nits here but this carelessness is not only annoying, it also illustrates just why football will never gain a true foothold in American culture. The one medium that claims to do all it can to improve the game's popularity in the States (and the only one with the power to do so) can't even pull together the effort required to generate an accurate headline. And it's not just any headline. It's one that covers a massive accomplishment from one of the world's best players who happens to play in one of the world's best leagues.

Further, it was in the top stories for hours before cycling off the page, and in all that time, no one noticed. Or maybe they thought no one would notice who actually cared. Either way, it's ridiculous.

When Kobe Bryant scored his 20,000th point against the Knicks, the headline didn't read Celtics. When Ken Griffey Jr joined the 500 Home Run Club against the Cardinals, the headline didn't claim it was the Cubs. I know not many people care about football in the States and the media doesn't take it particularly seriously but have some respect. Chelsea and Arsenal have achieved too much in the world of football to be treated as interchangeable afterthoughts by some web editor who can't be bothered to read the article to which he's linking.

Spineless Ninny Heads to Goodison Park

LA Galaxy's Landon Donovan will join Everton in January on a short term loan. The Blues are bleeding goals and have an injury depleted roster and a woeful financial situation, so this is looking like a reasonably shrewd move by David Moyes. The loan market is loaded with rubbish, and while Donovan isn't a physical player, he can add skill, pace and versatility at no risk. He's like a Honda Civic, that one. Trouble is, he'll be a Civic on the Autobahn, and I don't think he has the heart, grit or tenacity for the ride. 

That Donovan can be a cracking player when his mind is right is a fact that cannot be denied. If he musters even half of Mikel Arteta's creativity while at Goodison Park, Everton will have scored a helluva bargain and Donovan will win a permanent job in Europe. But that's a massive if for a man whose career has been defined by them.

"If he'd been more mature at Bayer Leverkusen..."
"If he wasn't buried on the depth chart at Bayern Munich..."
"If he didn't disappear in the 2006 World Cup..."
"If he hadn't sailed that penalty kick into the night sky."
"If his head is in the right place..."

In a nine years as a professional, Donovan has spent the last five choosing comfort over sacrifice; whinging instead of leading; and choking when the lights burn brightest. Sure he's been quality for the last six months but that didn't stop him from flaking out in the MLS final - a match he should have owned. After a beautiful assist, he disappeared, only to reappear during the penalty phase and blow it. You know what he said about all that?

"I just put it in the air," Donovan said. "It's probably partially due to tired legs and not concentrating in that moment... "I'm not sure what happened on their goal. It was pretty sloppy. But in the end, they probably deserved to get a goal at some point."

There is a spineless weakness about this quote that makes me ill. Great players focus when others fold, and when they're beaten, all they can say is "too good. Get em next time" because they have no regrets. But then, Landon Donovan isn't a great player is he? He could be. He should be. But right now, he's just a good one who has flashes of brilliance against class competition. Sometimes he plays with tenacity and shocks the world. Other times you wonder if he left the match and got back on the bus.

Donovan will have but a few weeks to find his feet at Merseyside before he's fighting to be more than a fringe, bench player when guys begin returning from injury and the African Nations Cup. According to some, it doesn't matter because he has everything to gain and nothing to lose, but let's be real. This is his fourth try in Europe. He is well beyond fool me once, fool me twice. He's a footballer in his prime whose chance for a significant career outside the United States and true respect within it hinges on how he performs in 2010. He can't just show up and play in Everton. He needs to show out. That's a lot of pressure and adversity for a man with little experience with either one.

"What about Confederations Cup? What about his play in MLS? He rose to the occasion like never before!"

Donovan lead a team of underdogs in an improbable run to the Confederations Cup final and that should be applauded, but when was the team under any pressure to perform? And MLS, for all its improvements, remains a junior varsity league that he should dominate year in and out. That doesn't require much grit. But pressure and adversity will be there in spades when Donovan tries to make an impact on a squad that is not only perilously close to relegation but also must continue its push in the Europa League knockout stages against a Champions League castoff. And unlike the Confed Cup and the MLS season, this time, the entire world will be watching. The British tabloids will give them no choice.

The last time Donovan went up against a legitimate challenge of any magnitude on the European club level, he took his ball and went home. In a way, it was the right decision, as he's been able to stay in form. But what has his time in MLS done for his mental toughness? When has it really tested his tenacity? I wish Landycakes all the luck in the world on this one but I think history is about to repeat itself - not because he's lacking in skill but because he hasn't the spine. 

Cristina Ronaldo Destroys Progress

As an Arsenal Gooner and believer in the triumph of good over evil, I loathe Cristiano Ronaldo. He's a diving puss-in-boots that deserves a solid kick to the neck. As such, I'd like to think that if he ever crossed my path, I'd choke him out and break his knees but the truth is - he's a mesmerizing talent and the best footballer on the planet. It's not enough that his body is capable of doing things that others cannot; he pulls off moves that others can barely conceive of, let alone attempt. No one is as fast and agile, nor is anyone more inventive or cunning, and it's for that reason that he's rapidly becoming the face of football. 

But when you become the unofficial ambassador of a sport, it's important to remember that you're not just catering to over-tanned Euros who know that beneath the crotch-hugging Pepe jeans and Louis Vuitton man purse is a man that frequently has orgies with hookers. You're also serving Americans - Americans that are finally realizing how lame and fraudulent David Beckham actually is.. Americans that will snatch their kids off youth pitches and run for the hills upon noticing that their little boys are wearing the kit of a preening Mediterranean gigolo:

Come on, Cristina - we have to do better than this! You represent a sport that has long fought for credibility in a pathalogically hypermasculine country where "real men" speak with "you-talkin'-ta-me" pugnacity and do pushups with their dicks. And yet here you are, prancing around Hollywood with shaved legs, booty shorts and a fauxhawk. You are the greatest talent of a generation; not one of Ricky Martin's dancers. Do the game a favor and put on some cargo shorts and grab your crotch every once in a while. There are Americans to impress!

HT: Just Jared

South African Hookers Jinx The Three Lions

While having my senses abused by Joe Morgan during the Yankees/BoSux game last night, I noticed that Peter Gammons' teeth are an amazing shade of butter. I know he's this legend and all but he's not so big that someone at ESPN - or maybe even his bloody wife - can't force him to put a tube of Crest and maybe even some of those fancy White Strips to use. Being a Hall of Famer shouldn't mean that you can get away with having teefuses that, if pulled out and sold, can put Parkay out of business. Unacceptable.

--- 

But to the story at hand. It's well known that huge sporting events like the World Cup, Olympics and Super Bowl are boons for the skin trade. After the host site is announced, girls from far and wide grab their chinchilla coats, head to the destination like birds flocking south and get prepared for the influx of indiscriminating, drunken chumps with money to burn on cheap ass. You'd think they'd be unbiased about the fans coming in to cheer on their teams but it seems that when you're in the game of blowing and blanking as many men in possible, the nationality of your punters can be an important factor. At least, that's what these South African hookers believe. 

Meet Levola, Yolanda and Samantha [Note: moments before the interview, the trio was fined by police for exposing themselves to drivers] - three prostitutes from a South African shanty town that link England's success in World Cup qualifications to the prospects of escaping prostitution. According to them, the Army of the Three Lions (that's really what we should be called, you know) will bring in a wealth of cash:

“We just can’t wait. We only get paid about £10 for sex when drivers stop for us here. English men will pay a lot more...

Why, because they can't do better at home?

"We’ll probably have to fight over them with the girls who already have pitches in that area, but it will be worth it." - Yolanda Lorika

Now, a part of me thinks, "Hey! Maybe it's time you raise your games, you filthy mingers! Work harder, blow faster, incorporate something new. There are three of you - maybe you can put on a show! If you get creative over the next two years, you may not have to worry about having the jackhammer taken to you 1,800 times over by insane Englishmen and getting your hips broken. Besides, if that happens, then how will you make money??" But then I realize I'm just being a a foul asshole. So let's look at this realistically:

But when those good feelings come with a side of HIV, that's no good for anybody. You see, one in every two South African hookers is dogged with that pesky, fatal occupational hazard and no matter how much bad I wish upon our stupid hools, all that will happen is that these diseased bints will infect them and they'll bring the bug back to the Isles. How delightful.

Our only hope is that every single one of them chooses to forgo the hordes of toothless women lining the dirt roads and opts instead for 3 or 4 minutes with the chicks in this interview - modern marvels that have beaten the odds thus far by stealing heaps of condoms from the free clinic. 

“They would give us some for free, but not enough for our work,” said Lavola, who spurned paid sex with a Somalian man because a Nigerian man was willing to have sex in the comfort of his own home (and give her £7).

How very classy of the Nigerian man.

It's fantastic that these chicks are eager to get drilled into oblivion by the debauched nutters in our fanbase but let's be real here --- The Three Lions have left England in a state of perpetual pain and heartache since the 1960s, with each year more shameful than the last. The more people depending on this team's success, the worse they fail. So why these dumb bitches really think England is going to come through and help them get off the mean dirt streets is beyond me. If anything, we're more jinxed now than ever.

Thanks, South Africa! 

So Much for Harry Redknapp

About a half second after being considered a candidate to replace He Who Shall Not Be Named, Portsmouth boss Harry Redknapp was arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud and false accounting following Lord Stevens' football bung investigation.

Psst, Americans! Bungs are bribes - secret and unauthorised payments that agents make to club officials to help secure transfer deals. The club pays the agent a fee for arranging the transfer of a player, but the agent then illegally returns a cut of this sum to the club official personally as a "payment" for allowing the deal to go ahead in the first place.

In the biggest crackdown on football corruption ever mounted on a single day, the police also raided the homes of and arrested: former Portsmouth owner and current Leicester chair Milan Mandaric, Pompey chief executive Peter Storrie, Charlton player Amdy Faye (on loan at Rangers) and agent Willie McKay. This follows Tottenham defender Pascal Chimbonda's arrest for similar issues in September. McKay, who once named a racehorse 'Harry Redknapp', was involved in Chimbonda's £4.5m move from Wigan to Spuds last August. 

Well there goes the only legitimate English candidate for the England job and frankly, that's just fine with me. In an ideal world, we'd have an English boss but none of the available options have the desired talent or experience. So thanks but no thanks. All Redknapp did here, aside from become the first name to drop in what will likely be a rather eye-opening investigation, is save the FA from dealing with the thousands of jingoistic whingers that would prefer to sacrifice highest quality for preferred nationality.

Now, it'll be months or years before we learn if Harry Redknapp had any real involvement in this but one thing he is presently guilty of is being a freaking dumb ass. After being fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and kept at the Chichester Police Station all day before being released on bail, the Pompey boss had this to say:

"We all helped the police with their inquiries, but it doesn't directly concern me, it's other people involved. I've been answering questions to help the police. I am not directly concerned with their inquiries... "They have to arrest you to talk to you, for you to be in the police station. I think that's the end of it, it didn't directly concern me." 

They have to arrest you to talk to you. What in the hell kind of nonsense is that? The police just don't go around arresting witnesses all willy nilly. What they do is contact you and say, "Hey 'Arry, we've got an investigation going on. You mind coming in and telling us what you can? Yah? Brilliant." They don't fingerprint you, swab your DNA, raid your home, take your computers, detain you or release you on bail like a criminal unless, oop!, they suspect that you ARE a criminal! Dumb bastard.  

An additional thumbs down to Harry's son Mark, former model and failed football agent, who believes the arrest is a big conspiracy to scupper his dad’s chances of becoming England boss:

"Why is this happening now when the England job is vacant? There was no need for them to come around like this."

Smart chaps, those Redknapps. Someone in the English justice system has manipulated a multi-million pound investigation just to make sure Harry isn't as attractive an option to the FA as, say, Fabio Capello, Jose Mourinho or Juergen Klinsmann. That makes complete sense. About as much sense as the police arresting people in order to talk to them.

Your Move, Barwick

In about an hour, Brian Barwick and the rest of those daft muppets at the FA will conduct an emergency meeting on the status of Steve McClaren's employment. It's possible that they'll keep McClaren on but surely, even they aren't that stupid. After Israel threw England a courageous lifeline on Saturday, the Three Lions opted for suicide, displaying a horrifying combination of prehistoric tactical maneuvers and shoddy, school boy football that should mark the end of the McClown Error in England.

As the FA embarks on this next coaching search, no cock ups can occur or the whole of the British Isles will burn. Oh, you think I'm being melodramatic? I assure you, chaos and disorder will reign from coast to coast. With no country in our clinically depressed archipelago being represented at Euros next summer, it's not as if there will be much else to do but loot, riot and burn Soho Square to the ground.

For anyone that dares think Steve McClown is getting an unfair shake, lets recap the highlights in his disastrous, 12-game reign of disgusting mediocrity:

 England 0 - 0 Macedonia

Whether managing a squad of amazing talents or overrated punks, a manager can lead a group to relative success if he can motivate, instill discipline and put his players in a position to win. McClown could offer none of the above.

• As anyone knows, nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. With an electric home field advantage and national pride on the line, the lads walked out like a rectal exam awaited. "We only need a point after all... and we deserve it."
  
• Though extra discipline can go a long way in making up for lack of talent, the lack of it can siphon away whatever talent exists. In international football, it's usually the most disciplined players and teams that rise to the top. England's only discipline comes in the form of posturing for the next OK spread.
  
• Our players are arrogant, unmotivated and undisciplined and still only lost by 1. Too bad McClaren was more worried about staying dry than attempting to out-maneuver Slaven Bilic. His biggest effort was inserting Beckham - his only lifeline - and switching us from a 4-5-1 to a 4-4-2. That's what I call halftime adjustments.
  

As much as this result needed to happen to get McClaren shuttled off to the hills, the match was still excruciatingly painful to watch. Shame and horror do not even begin to describe how it felt to see our boys proved inferior in every level of the game. We're only lucky that the result wasn't worse.

But what pisses me off more than the way we lost is that McClaren begged to be judged on the whole of his campaign and then stubbornly refused to resign once it was all said and done. It's honestly too bad that there must be an emergency board meeting this morning. McClown should have been sacked AT Wembley - right on that jacked up pitch. And I don't mean fired. I'm talking literally sacked - black bagged Peter Creedy style and carried away into the rainy night. 

So long, Stevie Ginger, you no-skilled git. Good luck with your prehistoric tactics in Iraq or Kansas City or whatever sorry squad settles on you as their shaman of mediocrity.

Thanks for Nothing, Israel

England is officially boned. I'm not talking about prospects for Euro 2008 qualification - our chances to blow that remain as high as ever. I'm referring to our hope for future development under a manager instead of a wooden-toothed, ginger haired poseur. With the way things sorted out on Saturday, the State of the Three Lions would have better odds on a happy ending in a choose your own adventure book.

The England job is one of the most prestigious in international football; whoever serves as manager should be able to man almost any position in the world. But, amazingly, we are lead by a man that would struggle to be named manager at a mid-table Premiership team.

Suggesting McClown as a solution for managerial vacancies at clubs like Real Madrid, Barca, ManUre, Bayern Munich, AC Milan or Arsenal would elicit nothing but laughter. And when put in that perspective, his current job status is truly bizarre. I can't fathom - considering those things - how McClaren's current employment came to be. I mean, I know the facts but I'm still struggling to come to terms with how people that care about English football actually allowed it to occur.

I can think of no top flight manager in the world that would be a worse option for England. No manager worth his salt that the FA could say, "Meh... how bout McClaren?" Has he proven himself to be a good coach for high caliber managers? Yes. But is he a high caliber manager? Not even close! Steve McClaren is the personification of the Peter Principle, only he's been promoted to a position that outstrips his ability.

In that vein, perhaps the bulk of the blame shouldn't fall on his shoulders. It's up to the players to play, afterall. And they're spoiled, overrated punks that, on the whole, display little effort and passion, look at the opposing team as if they have no right to breathe the same air and then feign shock when things go wrong. But their failures notwithstanding, it is incumbent upon McClaren to do more than place our disparate collection of overpriced show ponies in a 4-4-1-1 and call it a day... isn't it?

"It's 4-5-1 today, gentlemen! Hargreaves and Barry: hunker down, guard the box and be ready for Cashley Cole to screw the lot of us when he gets smoked in no man's land. Becks: Ping 30 yarders into the box. Some will turn into throw-ins, 5 will become corners and one just might hit Crouch in the head. Crouch: Be ready."

"Didn't we do that when we were playing in the 4-4-2?

"Yes. Yes we did."

It's like he's not even trying. I know developing an actual tactical strategy and building a team of people that can work together to attack the upcoming opponent's weaknesses and defend against its strengths is a real time drain but damn. Does McClaren really have anything else to do? He's certainly not watching football. It's like those people that go to work all day and do nothing but shop online and watch YouTube videos. At some point, even they get bored and do some work to spice up the day. Surely, McClaren reached that point long ago.

But thanks to Israel, it may not even matter. Israel is my secondary national team and while I really appreciate the fighting spirit on most days, was the injury time goal really necessary on Saturday? Was it? Honestly? Now we're faced with the possibility of actually making Euros and I have to pray for Croatia to be completely inept... praying that England will be good is about as fruitful as setting a wad of $20s on fire.

Now, if we win on Wednesday, the ideal situation is that the FA gives Ginger a swift kick in the arse in favor of Martin O'Neill - or anyone really. But it's far more likely that we're left with the following two scenarios:

1. England falls to Croatia, making the managerial question somewhat irrelevant until the close of Euros.
   
• Result 1: A wiser, more patient FA brass conducts a legitimate coaching search and gets it right.
  
• Result 2: A botched search leads to the second debacle in as many years with an astonishingly terrible hire like Bruce Arena.
  
  
2. England wins and the FA does nothing but feel smug vindication against the criticizing masses. The whole of England will bitch and moan until the lads and their wags are shuffled out of the Alps in the quarterfinals. As McClown preaches about disproving naysayers and gunning for the World Cup, the Three Lions will slip further down the spiral. Mediocrity doesn't just beget mediocrity; it also begets inferiority and if we keep this up, English football will descend into the sort of junk that Americans largely view as a complete waste of time.
   

I'm betting on scenario #2. Why? Because we're English and whatever situation will create the most pain is what will end up going down. Thanks again, Israel. Jerks.

Arsenal Kinda Sorta Destroy Liverpool, 1-1

Before facing the Scousers, Arsene Wenger said that this match would be the true test in a long run toward the Premier League title. And William Gallas noted that "This is the day when we will find out if the boys have become men." After this match, it is abundantly clear that not only did the lads pass the test with flying colors but they are also man enough to contend for the title.

We came out in a 4-5-1 with Adebayor up top, Rosicky and Eboue on the wings and Cesc, Hleb and Flamini in the middle but we were on the attack from go. It was ridiculous. No hesitancy, no caution. It was, sorry to say, balls to the wall football. Absolutely magnificent. But Liverpool looked just as good and with only 6 minutes off the clock, Steven Gerrard ripped a free kick through a gap in the wall the size of Alex Rodriguez's ego.

Though you'd think that's a little late in the going for some magic, we should have won by a hatful. The lads  squandered at least four golden opportunities with blasts both wide of and off the post. But at the end of the day, you just can't be upset about walking away from Anfield with a point and a game in hand on ManUre.

The lads never panicked, never faltered and never surrendered - even with Eboue, Rosiky and Adebayor looking like they left the bulk of their skills in London. This match was a true measuring stick for this team and we showed we have what it takes to contend for a championship. I hope ManUre is paying attention... but that might be tough, what with the beautiful football they're playing lately... too bad. I guess they can't all be Tottenham, eh, Toxic? :-D

Oh, Americans... How I Weep for Thee

To be honest with ya, I'd weep for England too, but hey, Beckham or not, I'm gonna be doing that anyway. We can't play our way out of a paper sack.

All the same, welcome to the club.

You're more than welcome to shake your fist at the sky and curse David Beckham with me any day. Whether your reasons have to do with Beckham being the source of 12 years of sporting agony or his inability to get a sport going in your country because his legs keep encountering unfortunate accidents due to his passionate attempts to run more in the last month than he has in 10 years, it matters not. We are officially comrades in eye-rolling agony... unless, of course, you're still holding out hope for your Chosen One. If that's the case, you may as well throw yourself off a bridge because you clearly haven't a lick of sense.

Taking Back An Ex-Boyfriend

So here's the thing - since I didn't post a reaction to England's 3-0 victory over footballing juggernaut Estonia, I received a bunch of pictures of crows and other nonsensical messages insinuating that I was running away from "the Beckham issue." According to these poofs, I ought to admit defeat and face the reality that David Beckham is the mythical King Arthur resurrected to save the Britons from calamity.

It is abundantly clear to me that these jackasses still lack a grasp on the reasons why I don't want the bloke around. Further, it is quite obvious that they didn't actually see the game. And even though I've beaten this horse so dead that it's turned into glue all on it's own and sold itself to Elmer's, we're going to hash it out again. Additionally, since there are a lot of daft bastards out there, I may post this anytime Becks does anything of note for England from now on.

It's only been three years since England were poised to become the kings of Europe and David Beckham blasted a penalty kick into the Portuguese sky. Since then, our decline has been so disgusting and pathetic that after beating a team that has not scored a single goal in Euro qualifying, the English press and clueless moops have gone completely bonkers, namely over one David Robert James Beckham... It was Estonia. Get a fucking grip.

"But Beckham accounted for three of the four goals recently and all of your goals in the World Cup! Don't you see how important he is?"

Sure, I do. David Beckham is the best one-trick pony the world has ever seen but therein lies the problem. He trots around the fringe with ten-seconds of up close and personal time with the ball because the bloke marking him is debating if he should ask for an autograph. So when Becks swings that right peg from 40-yards out against Trinidad & Tobago, Ecuador and Estonia for a goal or an assist, the only thing that surprises me is that he can't do it more often.  But when we suit up against a real side  that  won't give Becks any time or latitude, he starts pinging long balls into the defense or the stands and all is lost.

That has been our story for at least three years but now that we are nearing our darkest hour, David Beckham can suddenly save us from the same crap he couldn't conquer when he was at the top of his game. So we're trapped even deeper in the mire of one-dimensional bullshit, where every ball passes through Beckham and every free kick is a carbon copy of the last. There is no creativity, originality or strategy beyond hoping Peter Crouch can direct one of those high-flying freebies (that often soar into the 54th row) into the net. It's classic Sven-ball, which, if you recall, was half the reason why we clamored for that rat-faced cunt to get fired. Sven-ball won't hack it against Russia home and away, the Euro 2008 field or the 2010 knockout stage. When we face a real contender (in more than a friendly) and inevitably go down in flames, all of these twats that wank for Beckham will be rioting at the FA headquarters for allowing McClown's last ditch effort to backfire and embarrass a nation. Can't wait for that.

I'll be honest, I wouldn't mind Beckham on the squad as much if McClown knew what he was doing and we were a balanced team, like, I don't know - the Galacticos. If England had pace, strong tactics and a left winger with speed that could pull the defense, Golden Balls' right foot would be a hell of an asset. But we don't. We have a sackless, tactical buffoon that voluntarily places an overrated bloater like Frank Lumpalard in the midfield as if it's a stroke of genius.

In the face of this, David Beckham, through no fault of his own, is limiting the development of the Three Lions. McClown has turned him into the ex-boyfriend you take back because even though he can't make you happy, he treats you better than everyone else. Sure, you left him because you were ready to grow, find yourself, and achieve more and you couldn't do it with him in your life but singledom is a harsh mistress. You had some bad dates. You couldn't spread your wings like you'd planned.

Then a few months later, you see him at the club... he still looks good. There's a beautiful girl on his arm but he walks away from her to dance with you. And as those old feelings rush back, you ask yourself why you ever left. Finally, you swallow your pride and take him home. You justify that night and those that follow by reminding yourself that you've been through it all with him and he loves you unconditionally. It's worth it. But as the weeks go by, you can see that nothing has changed. He's the same guy he always was and you've regressed to that former co-dependent sap that has resigned herself to a present and future of sex on Tuesdays, the bar on Saturdays and inane conversations in between... This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time.

In a dysfunctional nutshell, that is why Beckham has to go.

I want what is best for England and these days, he is not it. Beckham is a band-aid on a gaping, gangrenous wound that is standing in the way of progress and development. We can rely on that right foot for steady goal and chance production against the little fish in the international pond but if the Three Lions hope to advance beyond the quarter finals in the next 20 years, it's time to send him to the rec league across the pond and give our young players a chance to develop and gain experience.

I know that life these days is all about the quick fix and the feeling good for now, but I'll take short term pain for long term happiness. We're not going to attain Euro glory next year. Christ, we'll be lucky if we make the bloody tournament. But I'll take that in exchange for a developed, potentially balanced team going into World Cup 2010. At least then we might stand a chance against teams that matter.

The Three Lions & The Pits of Despair

"Everyone knows David's attributes and he's a big-game player who can help us win in Estonia... We've a very important game in Estonia, we need to win it."

Ah yes, Estonia. That old powerhouse where footballs are still made out of grass and animal bladder. Goldenballs, please save us!

What McClaren meant to say was, "Since this team can't accomplish anything due to my tactical buffoonery and inability to recognize the futility of placing Steven Gerrard and Frank Lumpalard in the same midfield, I'm calling David Beckham back on a hope and a prayer that he can keep me from getting run out of England on a shutter. Why Becks? Because, well, his right foot is a national treasure, right? Right, lads?" 

Pardon me while I vomit. 

I developed an ulcer and a migraine immediately upon hearing the news and for five days, had nothing to offer anyone but my own confusion. Sadly, not much has changed. All I've really managed to do thus far is shake my head, knock back a pint or 12 and wallow in England's continued misery. Contrary to belief, Becks' appointment doesn't make me angry. Not in the least. It makes me weepy and sad. Once again, the Three Lions are trapped in a rudderless ship that is captained by a witless, braindead git more concerned with his own hide than English football. Though there was never a day when I believed that McClown would return us to our rightful place on the international stage, there did exist a time when I had a glimmer of hope. A shiny, little glimmer. But hope, I'm afraid, is a Sysiphisian task.

What's sad is things started out well enough. Though ranked somewhere around 81 on the list of managers best fit to replace Sven, McClown still knew enough to sack Becks. Kicking his celebrity circus to the curb last August was a brilliant, necessary gesture that affirmed a commitment to ridding this squad of the taint left behind by the axis of naffness.

But alas. Here we are again - up to our necks in the circus - and as much as the media and McClown try to infect the masses with deceit...

("Anybody who has watched him closely over the past three or four weeks, and on Saturday [in a 3-1 victory over Deportivo la Coruña], must understand why David is in the squad.")

... David Beckham is no better now than he was 8 months ago. But don't expect McClown to have figured that out. Instead of watching his supposed saviour in the flesh, he has opted to judge Beck's resurgence on the scientific proof of statistical computer printouts and sensationalistic articles that fellate their subjects as only the footie media can:

"It is widely acknowledged in the Spanish capital that Beckham’s resurgence has been instrumental in Real Madrid’s move to the top of the table... His form is impossible to ignore – he has inspired his teammates."

Yah huh. Is Becks playing with more fire? Certainly. Is he actually running instead of jogging in place while waiting for dead balls? Yeah, sometimes! But is he so improved that he can lead us through the fire and into the Euros? Not a chance.

Of the past ten La Liga matches for Real - you know, the ones that he's leading them through - old Goldenballs has suited up for three. You got that? Three. And that, according to the delusional pollyanas out there, is all we need to send a little message up to Heaven that says: "Hit the road, Jesus. We've got Goldenballs."

Let me tell you something - a Galactico playing three league games at the level expected of his ridiculous salary is no saviour or beacon of hope for the future. Becks has made some nice plays in the last few weeks, but on the whole, he still plays football the way old people fuck. And though he might dead ball lead us through this monstrous battle against the mighty, winless Estonia, what will we do in the coming months? How will we fair against Russia home and away? Croatia? Israel? What will happen when we've traded in our last shred of dignity for a player that trains for international competition in various centers of excellence like Dick's Sporting Goods Park? Give me Aaron Lennon, give me David Bentley. At least they're youths working toward making England great and aren't plying their trade with the junior varsity league of football.

If we need David Beckham to get past Estonia - a team the Three Lions could beat if I were on their right wing - there's no reason to get on the bloody plane. We should hang up our boots for the season and focus on World Cup 2010. With 3 years to get ready, there's no way we can cock that up, right?

Septuagenarian Striptease for S.S.C. Napoli

As soccer seasons come to a close around the world, the harsh realities of promotion and relegation can be a gut-wrenching experience for fans. But with five games remaining, the citizens of Naples may finally have something to cheer as local club, S.S.C. Napoli, is poised to finish at least third in Italy's Serie B. If all goes well, they'll be promoted to Serie A, the top flight league in Italian flopping.

S.S.C. Napoli has fallen on hard times since winning their first Italian championship with Diego Maradona leading the charge 20 years ago, but it appears that more is at stake for the club and fans than a return to the top tier and millions of dollars in increased funds...

You see, it's time to wake up your grandpas, boys and girls! If Napoli is promoted to Serie A, the 72-year-old Sophia Loren is going to strip! Apparently, her assets aren't just for Walter Matthau anymore:

"I hope that Napoli win these last few games. You watch if we go up I will do a striptease," she told Gazzetta dello Sport in an interview on Tuesday.

"The fans have a total passion, the city deserves promotion... and a shot of my new bazooms. It's like 1962 all over again!"

Okay, so I added that last part. But a huzzah for Sophia Loren. Even if she is all silicone and dye these days, she's still workin it and I can respect that. Forza Napoli!

Mourinho Joins RAW Fan Nation

I know this makes for two Bank of Chel$ki posts in an evening, and, even more shameful, yet another with a youtube video but you know how I like to make myself feel better about Arsenal's issues by poking fun at those higher in the table. Actually, it wouldn't matter where Chel$ki sat on the table; if The Special One was leading that brigade of cunts, I would be nearby trying to have a laugh.

So a few nights back, I dozed off in the middle of USA Network's 14-hour stretch of Law & Order programming and when I awoke, RAW was on. It was horrifying but I had a great groove in my pillow and searching for the remote was not an option. Instead, I laid there and wondered if things would be more entertaining if I lived in a double wide or a house with a toilet sitting in the front yard. It wasn't a long debate. I was starting to doze off again when someone said, "That's Ho-zay Mo-rin-ee-oh!" Naturally, boos immediately rained down from the crowd. I sat up and focused just in time to see The Special One, in all of his smug effeminate glory, get faux-pwned by some random WWF (or is it WWE?) guy that likely arrived to the event in an 1987 IROC-Z.  Luckily, someone else saw it too:

I can't help but think that if this whinging arse spent a little more time coaching his subs in the art of penalty kicking instead of joining Snoop Dogg in the RAW Fan Nation, Chel$ki wouldn't have looked like Wimbledon c.1989 and screwed the pooch during penalty kicks against Liverpool today. Fancy lashing out £500M to watch that tat.

Reaching for Reasons to Bash Chelsea

Someone asked the twats from Chelsea who the best looking man was on the squad, which translated to who they'd fancy if, you know, they swung "that way." Most of the men hemmed and hawed, wanting nothing to do with the the question. But leave it to the usual suspects - Cashley Cole and Frank Lumpalard - to have actual opinions on the matter. Lumpalard, caught sipping some type of frappy latte mocha with foam and sprinkles while wrapped tight in a stylish muffler, fancied backup goalie Carlo Cudicini. The answer was given with a great deal of conviction. Meanwhile, Cashley Cole, who John Terry referred to as a "sweet boy... pretty boy with all his creams," chose himself. Who could've seen that one coming?

HT: Vin, Sportscolumn Blog 

PFA Award: Cristina Ronaldo > Snoop Drog

Cristina Ronaldo took home the double last night, winning the PFA Young Player of the Year and the Player of the Year awards. Though wholly lacking in testosterone and class, Cristina is in spectacular form this year but I still hoped the awards would go to Didier Drogba and Cesc Fabregas.

Cesc really had no chance but I kinda thought Drogba might. He had a storming season at the Bridge, saving Chel$ki's arses on numerous occasions. Cristina's brilliance notwithstanding shouldn't Drogba's season-saving efforts count more than what is accomplished by a prancing nancy that plays for the New York Yankees of the EPL?

The answer to that 100% serious question is yes. As such, Drogba's failure to take home the Player of the Year award must be unrelated to a supposedly brilliant season by Cristina and more to do with something tragic like this:

"CHELSEA’S DIDIER DROGBA looks set to be a hit-man off the pitch — with his own rap album.

The Premiership’s top scorer will release the SNOOP DOGG-style tracks under the alias DROGBACITE." (The Sun, of course)

No one in their right mind would knowingly vote for a raplete, least of all one who chooses to identify himself with a name that sounds like the bacteria eating away at Al Davis' brain. Oh well.

My real issue is this: When will the tragicomedy of professional athletes plying their trades as rappers come to an end? Haven't we all suffered enough? Having enough money to find a decent producer that can pump out some semi-catchy tracks shouldn't give one license to try to be Jay-Z but let's pretend that it does. How does one get the urge to cut a rap album or even a track?

I understand how it works when you're trying to rap your way out of poverty.. when your only lyrical fodder is guns, violence, and the tragic circumstances of your life. But when you're a professional athlete sitting on millions upon millions and, quite often, with championships to your name, how does the mood strike? Are you sitting in your Cribs-esque home (or dorm room), watching the three girls you just banged walk past your MVP trophy and think to yourself, "Damn. Being me owns. I oughta rap about it and tell everybody how hard I am." Is that how it works? Or is it just an extension of the theory that all singers want to be actors, all actors want to be Hamlet, and all comedians want to write novels? Whatever it is, it has to stop.

If you played any of these efforts at a party, your guests would mock you and leave in disgust. 

• Chicago Bears Shufflin Crew: Super Bowl Shuffle, nominated for a Grammy
• '86 Oakland Raiders Music Video
• Deion Sanders: Prime Time
• Shaquille O'Neal: Shaq Diesel, Shaq Fu: Da Return, Kazaam soundtrack... :(
• Kobe Bryant: Visions (with Tyra Banks singing the hook on the single K.O.B.E., sounded like a weak, latter day Will Smith)
• Clint Dempsey: Don't Tread
• Tony Parker: TP
  
• Terrell Owens: Eagles' Diss Rap
• Mike Ditka: that Grabowski crap where he wore those Zubaz pants
• University of Michigan's Measly Penny Crew
• University of Miami's 7th Flo Crew
• UConn basketball's Ed Nelson: Pickup Truck
• Ron Artest: My World
• Allen Iverson: Non-Fiction (homophobic anthem sung by A.I.'s alter-ego "Jewelz")
• Roy Jones, Jr.: Round One: the Album, Body Head Bangerz Vol. 1
• Jason Kidd, Gary Payton, Dana Barros, JR Rider, et al: Basketball's Best Kept Secret
• Ricky Watters: Eye of a Hawk
• Chris Webber: Too Much Drama
• Macho Man Randy Savage: Be A Man (rags on Hulk Hogan in a Rob Zombie sort of way)
• Hulk Hogan: posing as or living vicariously through Brooke Hogan; I can't figure it out
• Multiple WWF/WWE compilation albums
• Didier Drogba: Drogbacite

I'm all for exploring one's talents but at no time in the history of rapletes has any one of these blokes had a sodding lick of it that didn't involve hand-eye coordination. Now, if Tony Parker or Shaquille O'Neal or Clint Dempsey wanted to take up professional juggling or hacky sack, that would make perfect sense but rapping?

The fair majority of rap requires absolutely no talent. Anyone armed with a 3rd grade vocabulary and a pair of Timberlands can be one of millions paid to repeat asinine phrases like "skeet skeet skeet," "till the sweat drips off my balls," and "slap her with a dick." 

But rap done properly - the type where the voice is used as a rhythmic instrument instead of thuggish grunting and inane rambling for a club - actually requires talent, intelligence, and skill. So if you're a professional athlete, why subject yourself to the humiliation? Why be the guy music critics compare to a latter day, watered down Will Smith? Part of being a pro is having an ego the size of Wyoming but if you have a modicum of pride, why add yourself to the millions of faux-thug tools whose lyrical skill is based in telling you exactly why they're fly and precisely why you're not (the answer is:"I'm hot 'cause I'm fly; You ain't 'cause you're not"), and if asked not to use a verse that includes some Chronic 2001 cliche, their brains might explode?

It makes no sense to me.

Calamity James: Where Are the Gay EPL Stars?

In addition to his fortnightly column with The Observer, David "Calamity" James - current keeper for Portsmouth - has done a little sport blogging for the Guardian. In his most recent installment, he asks where the gay stars are hiding in the English Premier League. Normally, I'd be surprised that any prominent athlete would make such a lengthy statement but this is David James we're talking about -- a straight bloke so secure in his masculinity that he has strutted down Giorgio Armani's catwalk, modeled for H&M, and painted nude portraits of his teammates. If anyone in the EPL has the stones to write 2,000 words advocating for the tolerance of gay athletes, I'd place him at the front of the line.

James handles the issue in the context of general celebrity, thinking that if you can be out and proud in other forms of entertainment, then why not sport as well? If 1 in 10 people are gay, there should be at least one on every starting XI and at least a couple per team. And if those statistics hold true, there should be some gay or bisexual stars in our midst. As such, he asks:

Why should football be different? Are football fans really so incapable of watching a gay player without abusing him? 

Hmm... let's see here, Calamity. We are a sport with teams supported by psychotic, racist hooligans that actually travel for the specific purpose of physically assaulting opposing fans. We are a sport where a multitude of fanbases find it acceptable to bellow "paki" and "death to Arabs" chants, make Nazi salutes, and hoot monkey sounds and toss banana peels every time a player of African descent touches the ball. Gee, I wonder why a homosexual would be in fear of coming out. Sure, players aren't getting covered in boot polished and hided anymore but all the same, this isn't the figure skating crowd.

That said, all of these negatives certainly haven't stopped Cristina Ronaldo. If only more players could have such courage. Louis Vuitton manpurse, snakeskin Prada belt, frosted tips, and an eye for the goal.

Bravo, Cristina. You're a bloody pioneer...

Hat-tip: Can't Stop the Bleeding

Woe is England - We Are Lions Led By Donkeys

So the Three Lions managed to stay in the hunt for a Euro birth last night with a woeful victory over a ski resort posing as a country that might be able to fit comfortably within the confines of Wembley Stadium. Since I've beaten the McClaren thing to death, I'll do my best to avoid dwelling on the fact that he defies belief with his managerial ineptitude. This is not to say that all of England's woes should be placed at his feet -- he can't do anything about the lack of player development or depth of class -- but since the Almighty granted us free will and all (at least, that's what they tell us), McClaren should be going out of his way to stop being a daft bastard and he refuses. And as far as I'm concerned, such a hellworthy trespass is worthy of swift, repeated kicks to those plywood teeth... so are remarks like this:

"What I say to the fans is stick with the players, they are giving it their all and they are out there doing it."

Interesting. I guess I missed that angle when their mockery of the game was making my eyes bleed. Shame on me for complaining, McClown... I didn't mean to miss the 24 minutes out of the last 540 that the lads were actually out there "doing it."

In any case, I would like to extend a heap of gratitude to Fluke Lampard who apparently fractured his wrist. Though cleared to play, he was mysteriously left out of the Andorra match lineup, and after 45 horrifying minutes of typical English football, Steven Gerrard came out of the bloody woodwork for a brace before David Nugent popped in the third. Amazing what happens when Super Steve is allowed to roam in his rightful place at center with his back guarded by Owen Hargreavs, isn't it?

I'm not one to wish injury upon others but with all of our upcoming matches falling into the "must-win" category, is it possible to pull Jeff Gillooly out of the trailer park he's rotting in to send him after a fat, entitled bastard like Fluke? Frankly, I think an O.B.E. would be in order for such meritorious service to English sport.

Maybe I Can Manage England

So I've been out of touch with sports and my own life in general for quite some time and I'm not really sure how I've been getting along. I woke up this morning and felt like I had one of those "three weeks later" subtitles sitting over my bed and all I've really determined thus far is that Robert Parish's dad is in the Final Four, Sangina Malakar is still on American Idol, and my bracket imploded on the first Saturday of the NCAA tournament... I'm in something like 53rd place in my own goddamn league. In any case, I suppose it's time to start fresh.

Last week, ginger-haired dandy, Steve McClaren, told the English masses to expect the Three Lions to deliver a performance against Israel full of passion, pride, power, and pace. You know, the usual web of lies. And whaddya know, the lads set an astonishingly new low for shame. We were lacklustre and pathetic from kickoff, drawing with bloody Israel for our fourth scoreless outing in five. Not bad for the country that invented the goddamn game, eh?

Yet another shoddy performance puts McLaren's present record at 3-3-2 and officially makes him the worst manager on the face of the planet. What's worse is we will have to toil with his fraudulent "leadership" until faced with the embarrassment of not qualifying for Euro 2008.

Why would McClaren take the job if he didn't have a lick of a clue as to what he was doing?? Why not just fess  up to the FA and say, "Sorry for getting in the way, mates; I guess I don't know dick. Please replace me with Martin O'Neill or Terry Venables. Spanking Wayne Rooney? Dropping Fluke Lampard? Shifting Steven Gerrard to his rightful position? No... I never considered any of that. Player discipline? Whaaaaa? Would that have been good? Well, all the same, my bad, chaps. I suppose I should have told you that my brains were comprised of shits and biscuits BEFORE I lobbied for the job."

Go throw yourself off a bridge, McClaren. You stupid fuck.

So, David Beckham Was Actually Running?

David Beckham is injured yet again. During the second half of a 1-1 draw with Getafe on Sunday, Goldenballs pulled up lame with a ligament strain in his knee. Unlike his last mid-match injury where he shamed the whole of England with his sissypants, touchline tears, Becks left the pitch of the Bernabeu like a bit of a man and sparked panic amongst the LA Galaxy's 8,000 fans.

It looks like the injury is going to cost him a month of downtime, the Galaxy's season opener, and a chance to make the Three Lions squad for our match against Israel next month. The England bit is of no concern to me; I live in a perpetual state of doom and gloom no matter who mans the squad. We could suit up a FIFA All-Star team in Her Majesty's colours and still find a way to go down in flames.

But back to Beckham. I'm a bit confused by this. It doesn't take much to injure an ankle like he did at the World Cup. Divots, tackles, missteps.. it's amazing how little it takes for an ankle to breakdown. But to tear a knee ligament means that you probably: a) made a move that your knee couldn't handle; b) tore after the ball and screwed yourself when stopping momentum; or c) got tackled and tangled while doing a or b.

I've watched Becks his entire professional career and that bloke hasn't made a move or torn off in mad pursuit since 1998. Dead balls aside, David Beckham plays soccer like old people fuck. Don't get me wrong - I don't blame him for it anymore; he's not at fault. Few know it but an invisible force field about 10 meters in diameter lives on the right side half line of every pitch. When Becks crosses the touchline, this phenomenon envelopes him and holds him captive for the duration of the match. It's really quite fascinating. Defenders are able to get into the forcefield; he just can't get out. Should he try to cross the plane, he's zapped back to the center... that's also why he looks so confused all the time.

With that in mind, how did he ever hurt himself?? I call shenanigans. David Beckham is either faking this injury to stick it to Fabio Capello or he's been screwing England over for years. Who knew this bastard could move quickly enough to get an injury when he wasn't celebrating a goal?

Oooooh To Be A Gooner!

Whoever you may be
Theres no-one as fast as our Henry
And you'll be seeing red and nothing of the ball
Cause we are the Fucking Ar-sen-al!!

-- 

So here's the scene - United is trying to nab their first league title since 2003 but Chelski is on their tail and The Arsenal and Liverpool aren't (too) far behind. 

We smoked em in September 1-0, but taking all six points in league play, especially at home, was going to be a serious undertaking.

The lads came out tense and Manure was all over the pitch, stringing passes through our defence with relative ease. Crunching tackles were in abundance, space was at a premium, and clearcut chances were almost non-existent. The best chance of the half came when Emmanuel Adebayor curled a beauty to King Henry who managed to head it right into the arms of keeper Edwin van der Sar.

Big Game Henry remained a myth. 

But then the second half got under way and the tide shifted... but rather than post thoughts, I have recounted the important details of The Mighty Arsenal's glorious 2-1 Premier League victory over Manchester United through "artistic expression." Cheers!

The Game (Rapper Not Sport) Will Kick Beckham's Arse

It's been widely believed that soccer circles aside, David Beckham's arrival in the United States would go largely unnoticed. If anything, the buzz created would surround the obnoxious numbers of his transfer deal and in a week's time, the story would fade away. But it appears that the erstwhile England skipper and Galactico has attracted the (what I believe) unwanted attention of gangster rapper The Game, aka Jayceon Taylor, who, is probably quite hard.

Having run out of rappers to feud with and potentially gun down, The Game - who refers to himself as the "ghetto Bill Gates" and the best rapper in the world - was not entirely effusive about the arrival of the face of Gillette razors in his hood.

"I'd kick David Beckham's ass on any given day," the Game said when asked about Beckham. "I'd just pick the ball up and kick the shit out of the stadium, game over."

Bricks, mortar, metal. Kicking the shit out of the stadium sounds like a plan, The Game, you pissing tosser. 

Okay, maybe I'm being a little thick here. "The shit" is probably identifying the ball but who knows - it could actually be Beckham or the entire Home Depot Center. Last week, the guy was threatening to destroy the whole of the WWF because wrestler Triple H also calls himself "The Game."

"I'm much stronger than (wrestler The Game) is. I was 'The Game' long before he came about. He's on TV wrestling and it's pretend, made up. I wrestle in real life and I win."

In any case, The Game was on less steady ground when a follow-up question was put his way. When asked his thoughts on Beckham's ability as a footballer he responded simply: "Pretty good."

In related news, witnesses reported seeing The Game lurking near the Hollywood sign late last night.

David Beckham Continues to Hurt My Soul

I've made my opinion of ESPN (and everything falling under the ABC Sports umbrella) quite clear throughout the life of this blog. But I have to admit that there's one feature of the network that I've long appreciated -- no David Beckham.

While growing up, I was always bummed when we weren't in England because there was absolutely no televised soccer coverage. No Soccer Saturday or Soccer Special, no highlights, and no indication that Americans even knew the game existed. Naturally, things changed when we became a home with the internet and satellite tv; I had all the football that I could ever handle. But then came World Cup 1998 and the United treble... suddenly, I had all the Becks I could handle as well. It was like having a 24-hour orgasm while being consistently cracked in the head with a hammer. His pensive "Beckham... David Beckham" face was all over the telly, be it through advertisements, football analysis, or commentary on the excruciating minutiae of his sordid personal affairs. It was painful. I hated him. By the time Euro 2004 was over, I wanted to end his life.

"Thank God, I have ESPN," I actually said to myself once. "At least that twat isn't there."

But as they say, all good things must come to an end. On Thursday, Beckham signed a deal to receive $250M over 5 years in exchange for looking good, feeding dead balls to the heads of LA Galaxy strikers, and replacing the fraudulent, sackless Landon Donovan as league savior. He and his hideous wife, Posh Spice, are upping sticks as I type, and soon, we'll be inundated with their excesses, none of which can be forgiven by the magic of his golden foot.

The tabloids will chronicle his every move - from the ridiculous outfits, hairstyles, and manpurses to his fancy parties and A-list friends. Commercials, billboards, and magazines will feature smirking ads for razor blades, sunglasses, and cologne. At least being a big fish in a tiny pond will save us from his sulking and occasional histrionics but all the same, my permanent return to England may come sooner than planned.

Watching David Beckham over the years has driven me to ulcers and a Lithium dependency but I recognize that even now, he passes, crosses, and takes free kicks with extraordinary brilliance and can win games at a stroke. Though useless against real competition, Goldenballs will flourish in the MLS, which will be the equivalent of scrimmaging with the Crystal Palace reserves.

That said, I have complaints:

• "It's not about the money." What a steaming pile. Beckham can leave no greater legacy to football than the conversion of Americans to the world game. He's the only player that can do it (if it's even possible) and he knows it. But with a net worth in excess of $130 million, building soccer in America is something he could do for minor duckets and yet he's just signed the most lucrative transfer deal in sports history. Stop trying to trick people into believing it's all about good will.
• Unlike other top-flight professional sports leagues, the lowly players in the MLS (as many as 5 or 6 per team) make a salary that puts them below the poverty line. Another 8 or 9 players per team pull in less than 50 grand. When signing on to play in a league where some players take second jobs in the off-season to survive, having the nerve to downplay your multi-million dollar payout just seems a little cunty to me.
  
• There is only so much money laying around for aging footballers looking to exit the game with a little grace. The ridiculous figures associated with DB7's contract may make it difficult for retiring stars to come in droves. 
• I've played at the highest level for 15 years, and now I think I need another challenge." He'd better be talking about the advancement of the game and his soccer academy; if he's speaking about playing the Columbus Crew and the Kansas City Wizards, then he's just being a condescending tart.
  
• Taking advice from Tom Cruise - "I talked with [Cruise] for about an hour last night and an hour the night before... I asked him for his advice. ... He's a very wise man and a very good friend of mine. To have his experience and have him explain some things to me, that's a big favor. He couldn't speak any higher than what he was saying about L.A." Posh and Becks aren't braintrusts. I doubt they realize that they're seeking advice from someone looking for a wider audience for his cult. With Becks primed to become a stockholder both in the Galaxy and MLS, it may only be a matter of time before we're watching highlights of the LA Thetans on Sports Center.

Who knows.. in 5 years, maybe MLS will be a rival for the Coca-Cola League.

Croatia 2 - 0 England

Is it too soon to purchase FireSteveMcLaren.com? I'm a livid fan and have to take one of two cliched paths to make my feelings known to all of England. I'd pen an impassioned petition to rally the furious, overreacting masses but I simply haven't the time. Then again, I could cancel this post... that could free up a tick or two.

For the Americans who last heard "soccer" during the World Cup uninformed, the Three Lions went down in horrifying fashion to Croatia at the Euro 2008 qualifier in Zagreb. This loss comes on the heels of a dismal performance in the goalless draw against Macedonia at Old Trafford last Saturday.

Before Saturday, we were all but assured a stroll into the 2008 Championships but thanks to Steve McLaren's tactical jackassery and our squad playing like a team from MLS, we are now in for a fight.

On the eve of Zagreb, "Graham Taylor, The Revenge" preached about "character... pride... passion... attitude... an English performance." And though the lads failed to accomplish four of the goals, they came through in the "English performance" department in typical fashion, setting a new low for shame.

With a switch to a 3-5-2, we were likely doomed before the match began. No player had a real grasp or level of comfort in the nuances of the formation. We were tentative, predictable, and treated the ball as if it was infected with plague. Meanwhile, Croatia, who remains undefeated in competition in Zagreb, ripped and ran all over our bumbling defense.

The horror show began early on, as Brazilian-born striker Eduardo pounced on a through ball, evaded Jamie Carragher, and ripped a strike into the hands of Paul Robinson after only six minutes. Somehow, Robbo, our only saving grace in this debacle (no pun intended), held on for the duration of the first half and kept the score at nil.

But in the second half, the home side continued to turn the screw and in the 61st minute, John Terry was caught in no-man's land as Eduardo got a head on the ball. It looped over Robinson and nestled into the net for a one-goal lead.

I'd like to say that things went down hill from there but the game was an aberration long before the Croats took the lead. 

In the 68th minute, we suffered a savagely unfortunate own goal from - brace yourself - Gary Neville

Neville - the only bloke with 100 caps who couldn't hit the ocean from the beach - finally managed a score in England colours and it's an own goal.

His seemingly innocuous backpass hit a divot in the pitch and bobbled just as Robinson moved in to clear it.

Robbo, along with the rest of us, could only watch in horror as the ball trickled across the line.

From there, the outcome was sealed. In a move smacking with desperation, the skipper made a triple substitution, sending on Kieran Richardson, Shaun Wright-Phillips, and Jermain Defoe for Peter Crouch, Scott Parker, and Jamie Carragher. Predictably, nothing changed.

At first, I was positively vexed by this result but now taking Saturday into consideration, I suppose we should have seen foreseen such a disaster and lubed up and bent over ahead of time.

New era, my arse. 

Even during the Sven-Goran Error, we had four years of relative contentment in qualifiers before facing abject humiliation at the hands of Northern Ireland. How long have we had McLaren? Four months? This rat bastard's overhaul was supposed to produce a faster, feistier England! Where is it? In five matches, we have had two palsied efforts in a row, proving to me that he remains part of the problem, not the solution. 

While it's true that McLaren can't score the goals and make the tackles himself, the tosser promised us a gameplan that would replace conservatism and pussified finesse with the power and speed of true English football.

Instead, all he has brought Britannia is tactical incompetence.

What were we doing with three central defenders in Rio Fredinand, Jamie Carragher, and John Terry, and Gary Neville and Ashley Cole out wide?? Why were our wing-backs, full-backs? They were as threatening as a rubber hose. Why were Frank Lampard and Michael Carrick (Manure's £18m man could only show less urgency in possession if he actually fell asleep on the ball) playing heavy defense instead of trying to attack? We're not Italy! If you're going to run a three-man defense, make it with the offense in mind! Give us a central defender that works in tandem with two fullbacks, while two others float on the wings. Is that so wrong, you know, to try to score?? And where was the width? Where was the attack, pace, and penetration? Why was a fit Shaun Wright-Phillips on the bench until it was too late? And where was the bloody 4-4-2? Saying we played 3-5-2 is complete bollocks! It was 5-3-2 at best and 8-1-1 when we were bending over for a proper rogering!

WHY WHY WHY, STEVE MCLAREN?!?! 

Croatia is a second-tier European football club with top-tier racist fans and we made them look like world-beaters.

Robin Van Persie Made Me Weak in the Knees

The Mighty Arsenal defeated Charlton United yesterday courtesy of a brilliant brace from Robin Van Persie. His brilliance overshadowed what can only be described as a curious mixture of the sublime and the ugly that could have easily been 2-2 as 1-6. As it happens, thanks in part to van Persie and Charlton's own ineptitude, it was neither and the great Arsene was able to celebrate 10 years in charge with a win to haul the lads out of the mid-table ruck.

As you can see here, the Dutchman's strike was technical perfection. Van Persie, arriving like a man late for work, had two options: manage a speculative header or go for the impossible by bringing the ball under control with a shoulder-high volley from short range.

He went for the impossible and Scott Carson had no chance.

To hit the ball that cleanly with that pace while flying through the air like Carl Lewis is an incredible skill, but to do so with such a supreme measure of accuracy and level of control is positively sublime.

The Arsenal Trounces ManUre, 1-0

Arsene Wenger was quoted in The Observer as saying, "You never win the championship if you lose against Man United, Chelsea and Liverpool. You can forget it." I can't think of any Championship year where we on the wrong end to these three and thanks to some positively brilliant play from the lads, we have one of the filthy cunts out of the way.

Given our performance thus far, I wasn't sure how we would fare but from the whistle on, the Gunners decisively outplayed ManUre on every part of the pitch.  Even more remarkable is that we did so without the services of Thierry Henry, proving that even when he is on the bench, The Arsenal can still reach the highest of peaks.

Though most of our players had incredible showings (the exception being a quiet, often useless Freddie Ljungberg), the match was highlighted by the genius of three players: Cesc Fabregas, Emmanuel Adebayor, and Jens Lehmann.

Since we were playing without Henry and Robin van Persie, Arsene flooded the midfield with five men and we were handsomely rewarded with a dominant display in which Cesc Fabregas was outstanding. With 5 ticks in regulation, Fabregas robbed Cristina Ronaldo and worked his way back upfield. After a little trickery, he slipped an inspired, perfectly weighted pass to Adebayor, who flicked his shot past Tomasz Kuszczak to give the Gunners our first win at Old Trafford since 2002. It was master class and sucked any remaining hope of victory from the United side.

Equally brilliant was Mad Jens Lehmann. He saved a rocket from Cristina Ronaldo quite literally with his face in the first half but it was his play in the second that assured him of legend status in my mind. Just moments after Adebayor's goal, he made the save of a lifetime, turning away Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's late effort. The strike came through a sea of legs and was heading for the bottom corner when Jens managed to get his fingertips on the ball and pushed it wide of the goal. He's a god. He is a legend.

And with that, mates, here are the clips!

Cheers!

Niko

Pot & Kettle Files: Chelsea Accuses Gallas of Extreme Douchebaggery

Starting Friday, I was wrapped up in job duties that carried into the late hours of Saturday night and didn't fly back until early Sunday morning. After a brief nap, it was back to the work place.. gotta love the fall. 

As a result of these happenings, I neglected to report on Arsenal's state of affairs following the close of the transfer window last week. And to the 5 people around here who actually know what the transfer window is, I apologize :)

Pascal Cygan is joining Bobby Pires at Villareal. It'll be a great place for him; I wish him the best. As for the big moves -- Jose Reyes is out, Julio "The Beast" Baptista is in, and Cashley Cole is off to Chelsea in exchange for the disgruntled William Gallas and £5m. Overall, I'm pleased. Arsene has been wooing the Beast for over a year; the Brazilian midfielder's power in the air and wealth of goal scoring ability will be a welcome addition to the lineup.

Where the Spanish Mama's boy and Cuntley are concerned, however, nothing but "good riddance" and a few f-bombs come to mind.

A little more than a year ago, Reyes was outed as having wet dreams about the Galacticos after a Spanish disc jockey tricked him into believing he was speaking to the Real Madrid Sporting Director on the phone. Reyes gushed with praise for the club, going so far as to say the Arsenal clubhouse was full of bad people. This fake interview sparked a year of "will he/won't he" speculation, largely fueled on both sides by Reyes himself. It is believed that his mother's dislike of London fueled his desire to return to Spain. Pussy.

And then there's Cashley Cole, a worthless piece of shite no longer worthy of respect. After being groomed into one of the best left backs in the world under Arsene Wenger's watchful eye, he became the epitome of disloyalty by selling out to Stamford Bridge. This all began innocently enough when the Arsenal management refused to give him a £5,000/week raise to pay his agent. Chelsea vultured its way into the situation, sparking up a tapping-up row that landed the Blues and Cole in hot water. Like any pansy unable to take accountability for his foolish mistakes, he placed all the blame on Arsenal. So now he's gone... he has his raise, freedom to publish a tell-all book where Arsenal is the root of all evil, and high hopes that he and his C-list cunt of a wife will become the next Posh & Becks. He is a total disgrace. Arsenal never treated Ashley Cole with anything other than dignity and class and this is how we are repayed. If he's thrown off a bridge or nailed in the heart by a stingray tomorrow, I won't shed a tear.

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In related news, Stamford Bridge released a comical statement to fans "explaining" why they gave up one of the most popular Blues in a cash-plus trade. It seems that they had no choice. Though it is no secret that William Gallas sought a transfer for many months, if you listen to the Bank of Chelsea, he was a terrifying beast that held the club for ransom.

"He went on to threaten that if he was forced to play, or if he was disciplined and financially punished for his breach of the rules, that he could score an own goal or get himself sent off, or make deliberate mistakes."

Apparently, this reprehensible behavior is what caused them to move the French defender. And ya know, that would make total sense if this statement was released, oh, way back in May when this madness first began. But nope. It seems that a club that can buy and sell any player in the world, allowed its best defender (who didn't have the salary to match the honor) to punk them until the final minutes of the deadline. It wasn't their fault, Chelsea fans! Don't you see? The evil Gallas took over the Bank and made them sell to Arsenal!

Naturally, Gallas denies these claims, expressing shock and surprise:

"I never said that I would score own goals if I had to play for Chelsea again... I was firm about my wanting to leave, that is true, and I will explain in due time why I wanted to. But I never went that far. But if people want to hide behind false accusations in order to give a reason for why I left so they can calm down the club's supporters then they can."

Gallas has been a right prick during this process but no matter what he told Jose Mourinho - that he was going to score own goals, intentionally cock-up, or play poorly - is of no consequence, as there is no way he would have been allowed to do so. When a player makes threats of this nature, you cut that player or sit them until he or she can be shipped off to the highest bidder. You don't offer them a new four year deal, you don't beg them to join your American pre-season tour, and you don't try to negotiate. You work out a transfer before the cancer infects your clubhouse.

The truth is, these cunts are airing their dirty laundry in a weak attempt to save face. William Gallas was one of the most popular players at Stamford Bridge and if you can make him out to be a greedy wanker that was hawking himself to the highest bidder, it might make picking up of the biggest, money-grubbing scoundrel in England just a little more acceptable.

Time for Mourinho to Bitch

Theo Is Real (And the Draw)

And so the Premier League starts once again. This time of year used to be one of extreme stress for me... when I was 15, my mum sent me to the doctor for what she called my "August ailments."

I suffered from migraines and severe stomach pain nearly every August and it got worse with each passing year. They ended up sending me to a therapist who determined that I was just a little too serious about Arsenal's prospects and was, in fact, making myself ill with worry. I did all these relaxation techniques that accomplished nothing at all. As it turns out, I'm just keyed up about everything.

I don't suffer from the August ailments these days, as I've found other ways to exorcise the demons, but I still get a little anxious. And Saturday morning was no different, as I tortured myself wondering how how well the lads would play, having transitioned from the narrow confines of Highbury to Emirates' broad acres. Would we be match fit? Would we be sharp? Were we in mid-season form, I wouldn't have given this match a second thought but this is a renewed Aston Villa - a team now managed by Martin O'Neill. His teams are always well organized and tough to break down. Given our collective match fitness, this could have been a disaster.

It almost was.

Despite an embarrassment of possession (including 18 corners to 1), Arsenal were only seven minutes from defeat in Premiership cherry popping at Emirates Stadium. You'd think that'd be a sign of bad play but in terms of constructive football, we blew Villa off the pitch with strong attacks, angled drives, and the typical speed, verve, and imagination. Trouble is, we couldn't convert to save our lives, as our efforts were blunted time and again by the tireless protection from Villa's back four.

It wasn't until early in the second half that Villa mounted an attack worthy of the name and their lone goal eventually came on their only corner. In a moment of foolish arrogance, Jens Lehmann came out against Steven Davis but couldn't reach the ball in time. Olof Melberg caught up with the inswinging corner and nodded the ball into the net, unguarded, in the 53rd minute. For the next 20 ticks, things were a little tense. But then came a revelation...

Theo Walcott!

The youngster, greeted by a standing ovation, immediately showed the promise that I was beginning to think Sven-Goran Eriksson had imagined. He settled wide on the left of a reshaped 4-3-3 and terrorised Villa with his touch, working one flank while Emmanuel Eboue relentlessly drove down the other. With time running out and Villa now double-marking him, Walcott took Aleksandr Hleb's pass and chipped cleverly to the far post, where the ball skimmed off Jlloyd Samuel's head on its way to the unmarked Gilberto Silva. At a sharp angle, the Brazilian volleyed it home with fierce delight.

Though this wasn't the three points we would have wanted, I'll take a draw. Considering our current state of match fitness and the fact that this was a season opener, it could have been a lot worse and we'll be looking good in the coming weeks.

In other news, Cuntenham got thrashed by Bolton, which is high comedy. Fucking rotters.

I Remain Unconvinced, Steve McClaren!!

It's been 47 days since the misery of Germany, 47 days since I vowed never again to be excited about English football, and 47 hours since a small, foolish part of me began to think, "Hey, maybe we're not doomed after all." But then I remembered 2001 when England, under the new management of Sven, smoked Spain 3-0. I then reviewed the 2nd half of play against Greece.

The small, foolish part of me that had a brief flash of hope crawled back into the abyss.

On Wednesday, McClaren's lads ushered in a new era with a 4-0 thrashing of Greece. After dropping David Beckham and making a host of changes from the Sven-Goran Eriksson error, it was definitely a step in the right direction, at least, in the first half.

Big John Terry opened the scoring after 13 minutes, glancing a header past Greek goalkeeper Antonios Nikopolidis. The goal had more to do with Nikopolidis being awful than anything else. At the 29th minute, Frank Lampard lucked out to make it 2-0. And then twice before the half, Peter Crouch managed a brace... how he keeps doing this is beyond me. The guy is awful. Now, I know I'm not supposed to complain because he has 8 goals in 12 caps and that should be acceptable but the Liverpool striker is a damned disaster. Had he not been around, David Beckham (and now Steven Gerrard) wouldn't have taken 80 pseudo dead ball kicks from the halfline in weak attempts to feed Crouch the ball.

On the plus side, the lads played with some zip and many of the elements missing from Sven's teams like pace and energy were present through the first 45. But it must be noted that the reigning European Champions were absolute shite.. they were like a JV squad out there. It was almost baffling to see how bad they were. So while it's great that England didn't play to the level of the competition as has become typical in the last 6 years, there wasn't much going on in the way of competition either.

That said, Greece's inability to truly challenge the lads was of no concern, as McClaren stated the purpose of the match was to work not only on our level of intensity but the style of play as well. He encouraged an up and down tempo that called for quick pace, as well as quieter spells that allowed players to recover their strength. In the summer heat of the major tournaments, England have never been capable of recuperating in that manner... it would have been a brilliant call had it extended past the interval.

As far as the players go, the dropping of David Beckham proved somewhat beneficial this time around. Steven Gerrard was moved to the Beckham role on the right, which allowed for a complementary partnership of Owen Hargreaves and Frank Lampard to be established in the center. Who knew Gerrard and Lampard could be on the field at the same time without the abilities of both being completely destroyed? It's a revelation, I tell ya!

But I guess that's all I have to say here, as I'm depressing myself with this. There were some definite bright spots but Steve McClaren and our "new" England can't be adequately evaluated until we play a team that does better than improve from shite to not so shite after the interval. There is a lot of work to be done and improvement made, so we'll see how things progress.

Aston Villa Finds Its Fairy Godfather in Lerner

Sometimes I wonder what will happen when I die. Will a guardian angel with wings and a harp scoop me up and take me to the light? Will I reincarnate as a tapeworm or something else befitting all the shitty karma I've created? Will Death show up a la Family Guy to escort me straight to hell? I'm putting my money on the hell scenario and as such, I try to imagine what Death will look like.

All my questions were answered last night when prior to kickoff of Monday Night Football, the camera got up close and personal with Raiders owner Al Davis. I know I've said that he's the undead on previous occasions but he really took things to a new level last night. To make matters worse, it looked like someone carved his teeth out of a bucket of Parkay. Gross.

On the plus side, the Raiders managed another victory thanks to decent defense and Seabass' suddenly accurate leg. As usual, however, we were peppered with 4,000 penalties on both sides of the ball and the offense only had one moment of brilliance courtesy of Andrew Walter. Walter, who may be "waiting in the wings" until the End of Days, threw as beautiful a rainbow as you'll ever see in an indoor stadium.

Raise the total of bright spots in the Raiders offense thus far to one.

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In other news, Aston Villa has found its fairy godfather. Cleveland Browns owner, Randy Lerner, is following Malcolm Glazer to the English Premier League, but unlike Glazer, he won't be met with harsh opposition. Long-suffering Villa fans exasperated by the miserly reign of "Deadly" Doug Ellis will welcome Lerner to Villa Park with open arms, as the promise of a major new transfer kitty will boost their hopes for the season ahead.

"It is my belief and the basis for my bid to acquire Aston Villa Football Club that it can compete at the highest level within the Premiership and in Europe... "The club has a rich history and a long tradition of passionate fan support." - Randy Lerner

Lerner is buying Villa for £62.6m and with the way he has turned around the Browns in such short order, it begs the question... could the Villans be on their way back to the middle of the table and a record hovering around .500 as well? It's anybody's guess!

I kid, I kid. Aston Villa were founding members of not only the Football League in 1888 but also the Premier League in 1992, and are one of the oldest and most successful football clubs in England. The Villans are also one of an elite group of 7 clubs (Arsenal, Aston Villa, Chelsea, Everton, Liverpool, Manchester United and Cuntenham Hotspur) that has played in every Premiership season....

As a Gooner, I couldn't care less about any of that nonsense. I hope they all choke and die. But from the perspective of an English football fan, the success and strength of the Villans is good for the game; the same can be said for Chelski, Liverpool, Manure, Cuntenham, and Everton. When these clubs are down, the EPL landscape just isn't the same and it sure isn't as much fun, unless, of course, you're a senseless tosser. [Yes, I know I just ripped myself off]

So good luck to Lerner and congratulations to Villans around the world. I can't wait until you self-loathing fucks are good again. It'll make the taste of victory that much sweeter when the Mighty Arsenal beats the hell out of you!!!

Huzzah for Evolution? Beckham Gets Dropped.

In his second brilliant decision in as many days, Steve McClaren has dropped David Beckham from the English squad.

This morning's press conference revealed McClaren's attempt to shape a lineup that displays a verve so lacking in Eriksson's England, so it seems almost fitting that the first head to roll would be that of David Beckham - the sacred cow of the Sven-Goran Eriksson Error.

David Beckham used to be a mesmerizing dead-ball talent with a right foot widely regarded as an English national treasure. Though he has always been useless in defense and wholly lacking in the quickness required for short passing in close quarters, it is with the whip and menace of his right foot that England has had so many opportunities for glory.

This was all well and good when he was in his prime, as we could forgive his one-dimensional style in exchange for him making a little magic.. the draw against Greece where his stunning last-minute free-kick sent England to the 2002 World Cup was one of the most thrilling sporting moments of my life and only David Beckham could have delivered it... avenging the misery of '98 with a penalty kick blasted home on the stroke of half-time; thrashing Germany 5-1 to make up for the crushing defeat at Wembley; the brilliant free-kick that salvaged an abject performance against Ecuador in Germany.

The memories of these great moments will be with me forever but they'll always be tainted by Becks-induced disappointment and heartache. And when I think Beckham, I don't think Greece 2002. I think Portugal at Euro 2004.

I'll never forget that moment for as long as I live. When the ball sailed past the goal and into oblivion, I was so shocked that I couldn't react. I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad. I wasn't even confused. I was just there, standing firm in spectacular amazement. It was like my brain had put itself on pause to avoid meltdown. A few moments passed before I said anything at all but when I did, I turned to my cousin Shiloh and said, "But..." He replied, "Fuck?" Unable to articulate ourselves, we stared at each other in disbelief before turning back and simultaneously shouting, "YOU FUCKING CUNT!!!" Shiloh added wishes that Beckham would die but my brain shut back down after cunt, so I had nothing else to add. The rest of the night was a bit of a blur; the abject hatred and anger for Beckham and that moment set in the following morning. It hasn't subsided.

"Having spoken to Steve McClaren this week I can fully understand that a new manager should want to make his mark on the team and build towards the next World Cup... "I'm proud to have played for England for 10 years and my passion for representing my country remains as strong as ever."

Whether Becks is determined to fight for a roster spot or is merely offering token statements remains to be seen.. the story changes with each media outlet.

Watching David Beckham over the years has been as joyful as it has been maddening (actually, it's 90/10* in favor of maddening) but one thing is clear - he still passes, crosses, and takes free kicks with extraordinary brilliance and can win games at a stroke. Though he is no longer useful for a full 90 minutes in international play, the boost he can provide in a limited role will likely be ignored. McClaren told the former skipper that he "will never close the door," but it's likely that the statement was a simple courtesy for 10 years of duty.

I'd say so long and thanks for some of the memories but despite all the lip service McClaren is paying to evolution, the youth movement, and the future, I suspect we haven't seen the last of Becks in an England shirt.

*Edit!* I initially said 60/40 because I was out of it and suffering the remaining traces of being under the influence. I'm fine now and I want David Beckham to fuck off and die.

John Terry Replaces Captain Metrosexual for England

The skipper's armband was up for grabs following David Beckham's decision to stand down after six years in the job. Nearly every high profile English player - from Frank "I think I deserve a little bit of respect" Lampard to our rageaholic boy wonder - campaigned for the job but in the end, only Steven Gerrard and John Terry were worthy candidates. But as strong as both players are neither is without his faults.

Though grossly misused by Sven-Goran Eriksson in the 2006 World Cup, Steven Gerrard is one of the best midfielders in the world. The Liverpool captain almost single-handedly resurrected the Reds on the night of their Champions League victory over AC Milan in 2005 and the recent history made at Anfield could not have been written without the influence of his magnificent driving force. Without Gerrard, the Reds are ordinary but with him, they are primed to succeed simply because he is on their side.

It is his ability to take the game on his shoulders and lead his team to victory almost by force of will that has made Liverpool one of the best teams in the EPL. He has been a mainstay in the English midfield for some time now and his leadership, experience, and steely resolve would be a welcomed change to the English captaincy... but we see how well Gerrard functions when the team isn't built and managed around his strengths. Though he managed two goals in the World Cup, Gerrard has yet to make a significant impact on the world stage. It'd be easy to cast blame of Gerrard's international shortcomings on Sven but given all the the time he's had to prove himself, some fault must lay with the player. Perhaps the added pressures of a captaincy would be too much for Stevie G to bear.

John Terry is the Chelski skipper who shed a bad-boy image to develop into a world class defender that commands respect from the footballing world. He's lead the Blues to two Premiership titles in a row, serving as the indomitable linchpin of their first league title in 50 years. He is also one of the few English players who bothered to bring his heart to the 2006 World Cup.

Though he had some dodgy moments, Terry was a relentless, fearless competitor on a team of prima donnas, egos, and overhyped talent that couldn't be bothered to give a damn. And while our "Golden Generation" went through the motions, content to rely on their talent and reputation to see them through, Terry worked himself ragged to pull the Three Lions out of the jaws of defeat again and again. It took Rooney's dismissal against Portugal to bring about the first sighting of the traditional English values of character and bloody-minded determination but by then it was too late and all was lost.

All things considered, I'm not sure if there was a "wrong" choice here. Both men come with pros and cons but who's to say which decision brings out the best for everyone? I mean no disrespect to Gerrard but I am overjoyed that McLaren chose Big John Terry to lead England back to prominence (Gerrard will be vice-Captain).

Terry can be erratic and his World Cup performance aside, he hasn't truly established himself as the dominating presence in the English backfield but the ability to lead is my biggest concern. Leadership is forged in the fires of adversity and Terry has been through the thick of it to become not only the heart of the English defence - where he managed the seemingly impossible task of rocking the Rio-Sol central partnership that formed the stingiest defence of the 2002 World Cup - but also the soul of the Chelsea Blues.

The 25-year-old plays with a pure passion that fuels his love of victory, hatred of defeat, and unwavering belief that the game deserves everything he can give it. His positioning and distribution are consistently first class and he plays, for lack of a better phrase, balls to the wall - a style that has made him a monster in the air and a beast on the ground. As such, it seems only fitting that Steve McClaren is "convinced he will prove to be one of the best captains England has ever had."

McClaren said: "John has all the attributes an international captain needs: leadership, authority, courage, ability, tactical awareness and a total refusal to accept second-best... "He has been an inspiration for Chelsea and is at his best in adversity."

If there was a time when the same could be said for David Beckham, I must have been in a coma and missed it. John Terry will lead the Three Lions into the Steve McLaren era next Wednesday, as we take on Greece in a friendly at Old Trafford. Though we'll need more than a new captain to return to the top level of football, this feels like a proper start.

Gary Charles Beats Woman Over Man U Snipe, Escapes Jailtime

Remember Gary Charles? The talented but disgraced right back that never realized his potential because he was too busy getting injured and drunk?

Well, last September, the twice-capped 36-year-old flew into a drunken rage and handed out a severe beatdown on a woman after she mocked his career.

While in the booking office of A2B Taxis in Clay Cross, Derbyshire, Charles got into it with an office employee and eventually asked her, "Do you know who I am?... I'm the juggernaut, bitch!" The victim quipped, "You can't be that good - you never played for Manchester United." That's when all hell broke loose. Charles punched her to the floor and then took kicking practice with her head until a passing taxi-driver dragged him off.

A jury found Charles guilty of assault, so you'd think the court would jail this bag of shit and ship him off for a few months to pound me in the arse prison. Sadly, this was not the case. As such, I can only assume Mr. Charles presented the Court with the same query as the victim and instead of making jokes, they went down like a cheap hooker.

Using the excuses that the former Aston Villa defender is working hard to combat his alcoholism, has a low risk of re-offending, and did not inflict long-term injury or disability on the victim, Charles was fined £500 and 100 hours of community service.

A high school friend of mine received a $700 fine and 120 hours of community service for possession of marijuana. I guess these crimes are on the same level.

Outside court, the footballer was unrepentant and refused to apologise for his reprehensible actions, stating "I still deny it happened. I could have appealed against the verdict, but I decided against it."

I still deny it happened? I could appeal?! I cannot begin to fathom how someone in Charles' position could make comments that reek of such indignance. I could appeal... The nerve of this cunt. I don't know about the rest of you but as far as I'm concerned, it's about time we go back to 'eye for an eye' justice for violent crimes. Someone needs to kick this asshole in the face with steel cleats and then throw him off a fucking bridge.

I Can Finally Hate Bill Simmons

I wasn't turned on to Bill Simmons until early 2003; I was late to the game. His stuff was okay.. enjoyable and sometimes funny but nothing I was pining to read. The first problem is that he was nothing special. He was a dork with a forum.. hell, I know my own kind; his nerdery wasn't hard to spot. The second issue is that he frequently devoted 10,000 words to two things in which I have zero to little interest - Boston Sports and reality tv. Maybe if he was into bottom-barrel VH-1 "celebreality," I could have come around but on the whole, I was indifferent to his work... just another ESPN flunky trying to hard to prove to the audience that he's always the funniest and most clever guy in the room. I wasn't buying it and I tuned out. Nearly a year passed before a friend encouraged me to check out his archives and see what the true Boston Sports Guy was all about. He assured me that I didn't know what I'd missed.

He was right. I was awestruck.

Simmons displayed a passion, love, and understanding of sports that completely blew my mind. They let this guy share his opinions with the masses? I couldn't believe it and couldn't figure out who he blackmailed into giving him a job. The Boston Sports Guy went against everything I knew sports writers to be. The sports media doesn't have original ideas! They're not witty or insightful or meaningful, and they certainly don't know how to turn a phrase, so someone must've fallen asleep at the wheel on hiring day. Simmons was a breath of fresh air and I couldn't apologize enough for not seeing the light sooner.

I am a junkie for two things - sports and the passionate, written word... Bill Simmons manufactured my drug of choice.

"Consider me a convert," I later wrote to my Simmons pusher. I felt like a hyped up, new disciple getting ready to board Jesus' Messiah train [I bet those were happenin' times]; I was ready to witness to the masses... but there was a problem - as time went by, I found myself hating the majority of the columns.

He complained about work and the tedious monotony of book signings, as if he was some worn out factory worker that'd been on the line for 15 years. He talked about his personal life, whined about his beta-male approach to women, and offered up "wild and crazy" anecdotes on poker-playing in Vegas and nights out with the boys.. stories that reminded me of my high school days when friends would come home from Spring Break bragging that they had 5 shots of rum and kissed a boy. Suddenly, I was nonplussed and uninterested. I hit such a high reading his archives that I couldn't understand how the new stuff could level me so quickly. Now, don't get me wrong - I understand that Simmons evolved not only as a writer but also as a personality. I understand that he uses material from his personal life and pop culture to craft metaphors and analogies about sports. But there seemed to be a subtle turning point where, well, he shifted into this neutered shell of his former self. Maybe it's the result of having his hand in so many baskets - writing books, giving speeches, being a family man, battling Isiah Thomas. Maybe the fame had gone to his head and he mistakenly believed his new life was so cool and interesting that it'd be criminal not to treat the masses. Or maybe it's the sad effect ESPN has on its free spirits over time. I don't know. All I can really confirm about my second break with the Sports Guy is that I unfairly resented him for no longer being the same writer with which I'd recently fallen in love.

I didn't return to Page2 until a friend, the same pusher mentioned above, advised that Simmons was getting into World Cup coverage and I should check it out. I had a feeling that if he was exposed to enough, he'd fall for the game, and maybe, just maybe, he'd begin to cover the sport. I imagined this whole "Well the Sports Guy is into it, so...." reaction from the public that would serve as a jumping-off point toward lessening the almost intentional hatred and ignorance that Americans have for the beautiful game. My hope was realized. Not only has Simmons become a fan of the game but he went in search of an English Premier League team at which to throw all of his devotion. When I heard about his endeavor, I feared that he'd latch on to Chelsea or Manchester United as American bandwagon jumpers are want to do but he took a different approach... he weighed celebrity fans, jerseys, locations, history, table location, reputation, and bandwagon potential to settle on a team that was just right for him. And while he gets many things right and quite a few others wrong [I had some idiot call me a bandwagon jumper yesterday because I was wearing a Thierry Henry jersey and Simmons has incorrectly lead the masses to believe that Arsenal has a bigger bandwagon than Chelsea or Man U... Looks like he's an authority on Arsenal and the EPL now that he's done 1 week of "research"], he went about this process about as well as could be expected. Then he revealed his new team...

Bill Simmons settled on Tottenham Hotspur.

Let me explain something to you ... I hate Tottenham Hotspur. It's not just a petty fan thing where I say I hate them because I love Arsenal; it's deeper and far more serious than that. I'm consumed with rage and bitterness for our North London neighbors and hate Hotscum in a way that is reserved for killers and rapists and the morally corrupt. I hate that club, I hate its fans (except you Toxic!), and now, I hate Bill Simmons. Until this Scum revelation, I wasn't interested in what Simmons had to say but for this reason alone, I've been pushed off the fence of Sports Guy indifference. I'm out for blood. Because of this, I'll now read more of his work now than ever before, as I'll have an insatiable need to take in every letter that he sees fit to print in order to shred it to bits and shake my hand at the sky and shout "Damn you Tottenscum!" I'm about to become a Bill Simmons obsessive once again and for all the wrong reasons. It's an exciting time. Are you ready for it? I know I am! One day, someone is going to stuff copies of that no-talent, bleeding rotter's musings down his throat. And I hope I'm the one to do it. I hate Bill Simmons and one day, that dorkball cunt will realize what a grave error he's made.

HAIL ARSENAL!

Mama Zidane: I Want Materazzi's Balls on a Platter

Zidane (n): A Frenchman of Kabyle Algerian descent widely recognized as the greatest football player of his generation
Zidane (v): To snap and go all battering ram on another person, ex. "He went Zidane on me!" "I'm gonna Zidane that motherfucker!"

Zinedine Zidane broke his silence to reveal that Marco Materazzi "pronounced very tough words about my mother and my sister. I tried not to listen to him but he kept repeating them... "I would rather have taken a punch in the jaw than have heard that."

Zizou has a history of reacting savagely to slurs on his family and race. In his first week as a professional, he was sent to cleaning duty for punching an opponent who ridiculed his origins. In the 1998 World Cup, he stomped on Saudi Arabian captain Faoud Amin after being insulted. And while playing for the Old Lady in 2000, he head-butted Hamburg's Jochen Kientz and received a five-match suspension.

Given the intensity of the game and the nature of soccer players in general, it's likely that Zidane was was focusing moment to moment and went on auto-pilot when Materazzi opened his mouth. The likelihood that he had any conscious awareness of the consequences is probably slim. Zizou indicated as much in his live television interview this afternoon.

One theory goes that Materazzi said: "We all know you are the son of a terrorist whore." Tragically for Marco, that this theory has reached Mama Zidane and though ailing in a hospital bed, she, too, has gone on auto-pilot. Malika Zidane has made it abundantly clear that she is out for blood.

While speaking in a fury to the Daily Mirror, Mrs. Zidane warned the Italian defender that she wants his "balls chopped off" for igniting the ugly row with her son, The Battering Ram. She further maintains that Zizou was simply protecting her honour when he knocked Materazzi into next week and she supports his actions.

"No one should be subjected to such foul insults on or off the football pitch and I don't care if it was a World Cup Final. I have nothing but contempt for Materazzi and, if what he said is true, then I want his balls on a platter... Our whole family is deeply saddened that Zinedine's career should end with a red card but at least he has his honour. Some things are bigger than football." - Malika Zidane

Maybe we shouldn't throw such blame at Zizou... can you imagine what his mother would have done to him if he hadn't turned his noggin into a battering ram?

In other news, FIFA will soon meet to decide if Zinedine Zidane will be stripped of the Golden Ball. If this occurs, I hope FIFA will be smart enough to bestow the award upon Fabio Cannavaro, whose masterful efforts saved Italy on more than one occasion.

+

Speaking of golden balls (or maybe shrunken ones), Shane Igoe of The Wade Blogs recently completed a video interview with Jessica Canseco.

Jose's ex tells a wide variety of stories and hits on topics like Jose shooting up in the bathroom with other players, the slugger's request for her to "name names" in her recent book, and his method of seduction when picking her up at a Hooters (hint: it's all in the eyebrows).

The former Mrs. Juiced also bares all on her spread with Playboy and much more. As a side note, what is there to elaborate on with a Playboy shoot? I don't mean to hate..well.. maybe I do.. but you take your clothes off, you get oiled, you look like you're aching for it, and then they cut you a check. If something like this ever happened to me (not like it actually would) and I was asked for the lowdown, all I could possibly say is, "Hey, I got naked and then bought a new car with a portion of my 'Goddamn, I've got a hot ass!' money." I'd probably slap my arse just to put a little exclamation on my comment but that's all that would occur. I don't know if that'd be worth the interview.

Anyway kids, check out the video.. Ms. Canseco's a pip.

Zizou Momentarily Appealed to my Hooligan Nature

*Disclaimer: Violence is not good, even when provoked.*
*Zidane, The Game - play it!*

Even if you didn't watch the World Cup final (what were you watching, Left Turns?), you've seen the Madness of Zinedine Zidane replayed again and again...

Though I can acknowledge the wrong of Zidane's actions, this strongly appealed to my hooligan nature and a part of me got a little giddy. Remember when Jermaine O'Neal threw a haymaker with his fist coming in for the kill on some random Pistons fan from like 8 feet back? That's what Zidane did - except with his face! I've headbutted people before because I'm a shithead and when the refs aren't looking, just about anything goes. But those were close-range contacts. Zidane went in like gangbusters and blew somebody out of his shoes... but he also cocked up France's last opportunity for victory.

Italy was playing for penalty kicks; had Zizou held his head for another 10 minutes, maybe France makes a final run and gets the score before time runs out. But if Les Bleus couldn't manage a goal, the result would have been the same. Fabian Barthez isn't just crazy, he's not the keeper Gigi Buffon is. Even if Zidane was around for PK's, my money was on Buffon to make the game-deciding stop before Barthez and his eccentric, insane, mentally defective style of goal management came within 3 feet of the ball.

Maybe the French were doomed anyway.

Zinedine Zidane was named the winner of the Golden Ball, given to the best player in the World Cup even though he was brilliant for 2.5 games out of 6 and Fabio Cannavaro was brilliant all Cup long. Hopefully, he'll put that up on his mantle next to his brass ones

The outrage of the blast notwithstanding, I truly believe you could see this coming from a click away. Apparently, Marco Materazzi (who replaced Nesta in brilliant fashion) got a little loose with the racial slurs in the late stages of the game, an action that provoked Zidane to go all battering ram into his chest. Given the overabundance of racism amongst fans and native players in Italian football, this isn't beyond the realm of possibility. And with Zidane's ethnicity being Kabyle Algerian, I'm sure there are plenty of slurs to throw in his direction.

Reacting to slurs is something you either need to let go or take care of when no one's looking. But just moments before, Zizou made an impossibly nasty header, only to see Gianluigi Buffon make an impossibly magical save... it was the save of the tournament; one where a legend imposed the complete force of his will on another and was fully and totally denied. It was truly breathtaking. Zidane screamed both in frustration and disbelief and it was then that you could see something a bit off with his demeanor.

The maestro had the type of look in his eye that if a fly landed on his shoulder, he would've torn off his shirt, beat up his teammates, and run into the streets of Berlin going Incredible Hulk on cars and buildings. The word is that Materazzi was stupid enough (or smart, depending on your perspective) to call him an Algerian terrorist but as offensive as that is, I have a feeling it wasn't gonna take much anyway.

I suppose it's only fitting that the last minutes of this Cup - one marked by 3 great games and a multitude of bad ones, melodramatic flops, low scores, and questionable officiating - were played out in a cacophony of whistles and jeers.

The sending off of Zinedine Zidane was at once justice and a travesty; it was an exit unworthy of someone whose artistry so often lit up the beautiful game. But while I'm sad to see him go maybe it's best that, in the end, he showed us he's human afterall.

Crying with Cristina Ronaldo and Brooke Hogan

Even though Cristina Ronaldo was absolutely dazzling when he actually had the ball, this flopping cunt embodies everything that is wrong with football and needs to be thrown down a well.

As a a result of his diving antics (not to mention his part in the sending off of Wayne Rooney), Ronaldo finished second to Lukas Podolski of Germany for the FIFA World Cup Young Player Award. The FIFA technical committee nominated 6 young players for the award - Ronaldo, Podolski, Luis Valencia, Cesc Fabregas, Lionel Messi, and Tranquilo Barnetta. From there, fans were allowed to vote for their favorites and the FIFA would choose the best player out of the top 3 results. That player would not only need to possess the best technical skill and performance but he would also embody the positive aspects of the game like good sportsmanship.

Naturally, the Portuguese winger was leading the Fifa website vote by a huge margin but an email to England fans encouraged them to vote for Luis Valencia instead. Why? Because we're a shitty, spiteful lot :) This move lead to a an incredible 24-hour turnaround and Ronaldo lost his lead but still finished in the top 3 of young players. When FIFA made the decision, they gave the coveted prize to Podolski, a player who, though not nearly as magical on the pitch as Ronaldo, wasn't a fucking cunt either.

In other news, Brooke Hogan, daughter of Hulk Hogan is fashioning some sort of pop sensation music career. You can pre-order her sure to be hit cd "This Voice" on amazon.com... expected release date?

2010.

Brooke Hogan - marketing genius. Ya know, I was thinking -- maybe Brooke can lend her marketing expertise to Christiano Ronaldo. Now that the World Cup is about over, I imagine he's looking to market himself to erotic shops whose customers are looking to come with him in their spare time. I imagine he'd make a killing on Cristina pocket pussies.

[HT: Cozmo, Matt Geiger]

A Delicious Left-Curler Got Me There

Since I haven't written anything since ever so subtly noting that USC's Brian Cushing needs some estrogen suppressants, I suppose I should get back on the horse and talk to you about something... or, at the very least, make a couple sniping comments:

• The Seattle Times reports that "Ronnie Fouch, a 6-foot-2, 185-pounder who will be a senior this fall at East Valley High in Redlands, Calif., committed to Washington coach Tyrone Willingham on Monday night, only a few minutes after having been officially offered a scholarship. ouch, who is the fourth commitment for the Class of 2007, said he also had offers from Texas-El Paso, Boise State, Nevada and Wyoming." .. Considering those four offers, ouch is right. I wonder if Tyrone Willingham was on the golf course when the kid committed.
• When Frank Lampard missed the first penalty kick (and 80th shot on goal), I wept for I knew the end was nigh. And 10 minutes later, it was. I remain inconsolable about this loss, so to those of you that keep trying to make me feel better and/or discuss the match, please... just stop. While I appreciate the effort, I'm an angry, bitter, and spectacularly immature girl and there is no use in trying. I cannot handle an objective discussion about this issue nor do I wish to. It is simply too painful. I know all of this makes me a small person; I can live with that.
• Cristiano Ronaldo can eat a dick. Whatever fascination I had with his more superficial features is officially kaput. I hope he dies from a swift kick to the jimmy... I hope I am the deliverer of said justice kick.
• Germany and Italy put on what I believe to be the game of the World Cup. They played 118 minutes of adventurous, chance-filled football and no game as thrilling as theirs deserved to be decided by penalty kicks. It seemed to me that though Italy dominated possession, the Germans were the aggressors.. I assumed they'd pull out the victory but when Grosso whipped a delicious, left-footed curler around Jens Lehmann in the 118th minute, I had an orgasm. A big one... the kind that gives you aftershocks. Bravo, Italia.

That's it for now. Cheers!

SVEN-GORAN ERIKSSON!

TAKE YOUR 4-5-1, MEDIOCRE TACTICS, DEMOTIVATING TECHNIQUES, & SCANDAL AND GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU RAT-FACED CUNT. I HOPE SOMEONE RIPS YOUR BOWELS OPEN AND STABS YOU IN THE FACE TONIGHT.

THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES, FUCKBAG. BURN IN HELL.

Dickin' Our Way to the Quarters

*Disclaimer: I will continue my trend of waiting a day or so to decompress before commenting on England's World Cup happenings until we either play better or lose*

So the Three Lions are in the quarters. Someone asked me if the reason I can't fully enjoy this result is due to my being a natural cynic or just English. I suppose it's a little bit of both, as you can't be English and not be a cynic. Well, it's possible, but at some point, almost every English youngster has a horrifying sporting experience that sparks a lifelong, largely unjustified outlook of doom & gloom.

Mine occurred on June 22, 1986. I was 4 years old and England was facing Argentina in the World Cup quarterfinals. My father and uncles were in Mexico City for the Cup, leaving us wee ones in Gloucestershire with our mothers. That was the first time I remember being keyed up for English football, and after my nap, I got to put on my Gary Lineker jersey. I wore it with pride even though I really didn't know who Lineker was.

The match began and all was well until five minutes into the scoreless second half. Diego Maradona attempted to play the ball into the penalty area but Steve Hodge beat him to it. And when he tried to hook the ball clear, it screwed off his foot and into the danger zone. Maradona swooped in and knocked the ball away from the grasp of keeper Peter Shilton and into the net. He did all this with the back of his left hand. The handball replayed on the telly again and again. Back and to the left... back and to the left... back and to the left... the referee called it a goal under the belief that Maradona headed the ball. The Argentinian would later claim that the goal was scored "un poco con la cabeza de Maradona y otro poco con la mano de Dios" (a little with the head of Maradona and a little with the hand of God). Hand of the Devil is more like it.

This was my first feeling of anger and frustration where the English are concerned. It was also the first time I saw my mother cry. Five minutes later, Maradona put on the greatest goal-scoring display of all time... our last line of defense on that play was Linekar - my jersey hero. I suppose I never recovered. And with that, let the bitching begin:

A couple days have passed since our win over Ecuador and while I'm thrilled to be in the quarters, I remain unhappy at another semi-comatose performance. This is our third unconvincing win in four results and we played well for about 15 minutes... during that brief span, David Beckham was useful for about 15 seconds.

Ya know.. hearing Beckham's name makes me angry and watching him preen and skip about the pitch without a thought for productive contribution makes me ill. It is almost impressive how excruciatingly superfluous he manages to be in open play... he ought to pay the FA a gratuity for the amazing seat he has for every match. For 89:45 against Sweden he had no tackles, no shots, no dribbles and couldn't pick up a man at corners if he offered some head after the game. But the thing that pains me is all these negatives notwithstanding, it is the whip and menace of his right foot that has permitted us (and our 70 minutes of quality football) to remain in this tournament... if you deny that, you're blind.

As much as I want the captain's band ripped off the arm of our faux skipper and see him relagated to bench duty, he has set up or scored three of our five goals. And the score against Ecuador reminds me that even though he is little more than a decrepit hood-ornament until the ball goes dead, we wouldn't have gotten this far without him. The drop and curl on his free kick Sunday were nothing short of uncanny.. it was vintage Beckham - pre-2002 World Cup cock-up Beckham - and short of, maybe, Roberto Carlos, no one in the world can do it better.

As for the rest of the squad, there's nothing wrong with them that a swift kick to the collective arse by Vinnie Jones can't cure. I imagine he's in some trailer on a Hollywood set somewhere scaring co-stars and production assistants but if someone can track him down, fly him to Gelsenkirchen, and have him waiting for the Three Lions when they enter the lockeroom for halftime on Saturday, I'll give you anything you want.

Wankers Run Nike's Marketing & Design Departments

I was mortified yesterday when a friend sent me a disturbing image of Wayne Rooney, drenched in blood-red paint in the image of St. George's cross/Christ/Crusader and screaming a war cry. It's more than fair to say that if our team is going to make a run in the World Cup, it will be due to his presence but Savior of English football or not, this is this is offensive on so many levels. As one would expect, it has provoked fierce condemnation:

After the Rooney ad, I was pretty sure Nike couldn't top itself... then I saw the unveiling for the new Oregon Ducks uniforms. Thanks Nike, for making my eyes bleed. These things are fucking wretched. But where should the mockery begin?! Perhaps we should start with the diamond plate trim that's better served on a truck with a gun rack and a Dale, Jr. sticker in the back than a football uniform. [Side note - get a load of the tattoo on #86. Rather than stick to the cliched barbed wire, this git went for the entire barnyard fence. You talk about intimidation!]

Maybe Oregon can suit up some of its players in this get up and form a team for the next remake of Rollerball, or better yet, have them pose as extras in the next installment of Mad Max.

Maybe the Sky Isn't Falling, Afterall

Sven-Goran Eriksson is a wanking fuck and I want him to die a slow, horrible, grisly death. Death by Bongo seems an oddly appropriate option here. I just had to get that feeling out of the way. Now, moving on...

The first half against Sweden went extremely well. Our lads were creative, they were lively, they were smart. And it started with the largely unappreciated Joe Cole, who was positively exquisite. His looping strike after the 35 minute is easily one of the top goals of the tournament. Ashley Cole held solid, as did Owen Hargreaves, who proved many critics, myself included, quite wrong. For once, he played like Hargreaves the Bayern Munich player, not Hargreaves the England imposter. And Wayne Rooney ran with an energetic directness and impressive power that raised the level of the whole squad. When compared with our performances against Paraguay and the Rooney-less hour against the Caribbean islanders, the difference was so extreme that it was maddening.

Though it wasn't our best half of football, our men put forth the level of performance I expect to see in group play. The only thing most world powers want in the early going is to survive the dregs of the group stage without serious injury or disaster (more on Michael Owen later). If they advance while playing like shite, fine - it's a 7 game tournament right? Sure. But that attitude is rubbish and I'm tired of seeing it from the Three Lions.

I want to see signs that my side is bursting at the seams to get after it in the knockout stage. I want to watch our lads and know that when it comes time to own a team, they'll be ready to bust some heads. So I was pleased to finally bear witness of such in the first 45. Had our side performed with this level of energy against Paraguay and T&T, I'd have saved my Chicken Little suit for next week. But alas.

When halftime sounded, Sven, the master demotivator, cast the usual sleeping postion and our boys returned to the match like they'd just hibernated through a Swedish winter.

Almost immediately, our much-vaunted defense became a sieve and our most damaging habit reasserted itself... we proved unable to hang on to a hard-won lead. Paul Robinson couldn't direct the troops, John Terry couldn't attack the cross, Sol Campbell - who replaced Rio after a miserable season as a Gunner this year - couldn't grasp the concept that you don't let the ball bounce when it's in the 6. Frank Lampard looked great and was extremely active but couldn't find the back of the net if it blew him. And David Beckham is still allowed on the pitch during matchtime. We're a team that relies heavily on crosses and free kicks but that worthless cunt is slow on offense, non-existant on defense, and manages to get lousier by the day. Now we've lost Michael Owen for the duration of the Cup. But is the sky falling? Ehh... no more than it was 3 days ago.

It's apparent to all that had we a suitable coterie of strikers, we wouldn't be having this discussion, but with Owen out, only Rooney, Peter Crouch, and Theo Walcott (who has yet to see time) are in good health. It can be argued that the loss isn't so tragic.

Owen wasn't fit and firing to begin with, as the only thing he'd brought to the pitch thus far was the potential for magical goal scoring. Before he went out with that grisly knee buckle, he'd not shown us a thing... in fact, his play worsened since facing Paraguay. In a strange way, the best thing that happened that night was his departure. Our lads showed an instant and positive reaction, as if they'd finally found their rallying cry. As odd as it sounds, maybe this is what we needed... Maybe the absence of Owen will force Sven to make lineup and formation changes that he would have lacked the courage to do otherwise and our mouths will water upon witnessing Lampard and Gerrard backing up Rooney without restraint... Maybe this is one of those situations where an accident steers a team towards the discovery of its true form and nature... Maybe, just maybe, the sky isn't falling afterall.

Mickelson Channels Jean Van de Velde

Before we get moving, I'd like to offer a job well done to the United States. If their ball skills matched the heart displayed, they would have won by 4, but that was a spectacular effort from end to end and precisely the type of fighting spirit that was expected against the Czechs. It's anyone's guess how Jorge Larrionda's blatant cheating affected the game's actual outcome. The US hasn't scored a goal of its own in 180 minutes... would they have found a way against Italy were Larrionda not such a barrier? Who's to say? The speculation will continue until 2010, especially if the US fails to advance, but who knows - it could be a good thing.

Nothing rallies Americans together for a cause than better than their national teams getting screwed over by foreigners.

As an aside, I was talking to Chad on Saturday and he said that Larionda is lucky he screwed over a country that doesn't give a damn, otherwise, he'd probably be dead by now. I couldn't agree more. He wouldn't have survived the night.

----------------

They're calling it one of the greatest collapses in the history of the U.S. Open. I call it the return of Sunday Mickelson. If you didn't see this exercise in choke, you missed out on quite a show. After I saw Mickelson in share of the lead with Ferrie, I stopped watching the coverage. See (for the newbies around here), I have this petty, immature hatred for Phil Mickelson that is based solely in my dislike for his his FIGJAM attitude and the "I just took it up the pooper and no one knows" look on his face... oh, and the fact that he doesn't like Tiger Woods [For some unknown reason, I take this as a personal afront, much in the same way that I did when Gary Payton said Michael Jordan "isn't that good."] I hate him and I root for his demise at every turn.

So I got word on Sunday that Colin Montgomerie was preparing to take the lead and likely, the championship, at Winged Foot, but by the time I tuned in, the Scotsman had already choked away his chance for greatness by picking out the wrong club in the middle of the fairway, hitting a second shot into deep grass short of the green, and then finishing with a double bogey. So had Jim Furyk - he missed a five-foot putt for par at the 18th. And Padraig Harrington, only a shot behind with three to play, bogeyed his last three holes. All that was left was Phil Mickelson and he was teeing up on 18.

I was about to change the channel when Johnny Miller (who should be a commenter at every sporting event) said, "He better be hitting a 4-wood." When Johnny Miller is on somebody's case, I make it a point to hang in for a listen. And with that, the fat bastard took his drive over the crowd and onto the hospitality tent, a move that, according to Miller, had Ben Hogan turning in his grave. And from there, Philthy clipped a freaking tree and the ball landed around the point his original drive should have.

The amazing thing is Hefty still had a chance to pull off the Mickelslam and knowing my luck when it comes to a hated sports persons [the term "athlete" does not apply in this case] doing well, I refused to get my hopes up. I just knew he'd lay up on the green and hole it out for certain victory and smugness. Bu it didn't happen. Hefty landed dead in the sand trap. By that point, Johnny Miller had completely lost his mind, putting millions of viewers in hysterics:

"This is a nightmare. You couldn't have worst decisions on this hole. I know you all like Phil, but come on, all you have to do is make par on this hole. Just hit a 2 or 3-iron and another long iron onto the green (easier said than done) and see you later. You don't have to run down the stretch on a white stallion. You can limp in there and say 'thanks for the trophy'."

But why? What could have gotten to him?

Mickelson had one double bogey in the tournament and it happened on the 72nd hole. Did he not want to be apart of the conversation with Tiger in the way of being a true rival? Was he not prepared for the heap of expectations going back to back to back in majors would inspire? I haven't the slightest clue but Mickelson, and his record for most second place finishes in the history of golf can reclaim his seat in the Pantheon of Chumps. The only thing missing from a final like this was Tiger Woods returning to glory... Oh well. Maybe next time.

We Are Shite But We Have Six. Huzzah?

Well mates, we are through to the next round and for that, I must rejoice. But if you don't believe we could be home this time next week, you have a serious mental dysfunction.

Prepare yourselves, I'm about to get my whine on but first, some bright spots -- Paul Robinson has a clean sheet. Given the slew of opportunities that we've allowed our opponents, the fact that he's gone largely unchallenged is a fantastic result. It's fair to say that he owes John Terry a week of free meals for so bloody magnificent. Aaron Lennon is a dream sub come true and Michael Owen may want to take a lesson. Lennon blew by his defenders without hesitation and the attention he drew directly affected our looks on goal. Late in the game, we started creating actual chances - though we often finished poorly, at least we had something. Sven made substitutions that, for the first time ever, worked to OUR advantage and not the opposing side's. The spark provided by Rooney and Aaron Lennon was a key to our victory.[/positives]

Though the score was flattering, we were one-paced, pedestrian, and without a scrap of creativity well into the second half. a result, I was sure that we were dead as fried chicken this time yesterday. But after mulling it over, nothing has changed.

• Through no fault of their own, three of our key players are desperately unfit. Rooney is out of sync, Owen hasn't played in 6 months and moves about as slow as molasss, and Ashley Cole returned just before the Champions League final. Rooney will be fine. Though ineffective, he played like he was shot out of a cannon. But the same can't be said for Owen... he's slow and sloppy... the World Cup isn't the time to get your body right after 6 months on your arse. Part of me wants him out there because he's the most natural striker we have but Christ - he's got to get himself together by Tuesday or it's not happening. And then there's Ashley Cole... I understand that he's only now getting into competitive shape but he plays as if the World Cup is getting in the way of something better and that is unacceptable. He needs a swift kick to the arse.
• Where is Frank Lampard and why can't he bloody finish?! He kicked a shot into Shaka Hislop's gut that would have been suited for a game of catch in the backyard.
• Peter Crouch is hurting this team. That may sound crazy but hear me out -- I believe that his presence is a detriment because we have settled on him as our only possible source for goals. Forget being creative - feed the ball to Crouch! What, manufacture a goal with some crisp passing and working defenders off the ball? That's crazy talk - let's try for a header from Crouch. I would like to see a few minutes of football where Crouch was not on the pitch just to see if Sven could formulate a real strategy. I understand wanting to utilize the Cyclops hanging out in the box but he was worthless until his 7th attempt at a score... even the sun shines on a dog's ass every now and again.
• Give T & T all the credit in the world for a hard fought contest. Their men played with a level of passion and desire rarely seen on the English side and I envy that. But the Soca Warriors were fundamentally weak and went down in flames courtesy of one thing -- the whip and menace with which David Beckham strikes his crosses. The sad part about that is the whip and menace are seen, maybe, three times per game. The rest of the time, the filthy git is struggling to prevent the ball from skidding on the ground and hitting the wall. He's like a field goal kicker who gets it right 2 times out of ten. David Beckham is England's Martin Grammatica.

Right now, most of you are probably mocking me (if you even bothered to read this far) -- my side has their ticket to the 2nd round; I'm complaining for the sake of doing so, etc. That's fine - mock away but it won't change the fact that England is in dire straits.

Some say that we always start slow, that we'll get it together because there's too much talent not to, that we're just a couple games with Rooney back from getting things right. But those people don't realize that England rarely finds a way to raise the bar and perform beyond expectations. More often than not, we are content to play to the level of our competition. We can survive with that kind of bull when playing friendlies and teams in the group stage but when it's time to face a class side like Ecuador or an Argentina, Italy, Czech Republic, or Brazil, we are going to get our arses handed to us because we won't be used to playing passionate, solid football.

People that have engaged in competitive athletics understand that you can't just turn it on and off. You can't coast one game and come out guns blazing the next. You make your attitude a habit, so when you walk out on the pitch, field, or court, you don't have to worry about getting your mind right. Your mind is always right. It's pretty easy to blame our listless, US-like play on Sven - he's a crippled tactician and a master demotivator. But in the end, the players have to take it upon themselves to set it off or go home. And I fear that unless Rooney or John Terry captains that effort, it won't be done and we'll be out.

US Soccer Needs A New Logo

Because Tomas Rosicky and the Czech Republic pissed all over this one.

When the only World Cup team that you can manage to outplay is Iran, you have a serious problem. Iran's JV-level keeper had a reaction time like my Nana. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the selection committee ran out of real players and fielded half the squad with random folk that they picked up off the road. But you know something? They played with heart. They got after it. They did everything in their power to bring a little pride to their nation and that's something one can respect.

But not the United States.

Anyone with half a clue knew they were overhyped and overrated going in but never has a team had more to gain and even more to lose in World Cup competition. The fervor for US soccer could not have been higher and the hype and anticipation had more Americans than ever ready to embrace the game. But rather than seize the moment and show this nation just what their ignorance has caused them to miss, the squad walked onto the pitch and wet themselves. And it wasn't just inexperienced players, as Claudio Reyna would have people to believe in the post-game. It was the veterans - Reyna, Pope, Gooch, Donovan, McBride, Beasley. And when the chips were down, the ones fighting so hard for soccer's legitimacy were no where to be seen.

When they get home and wonder why no one gives a damn about this sport, they can point the fingers at themselves. Winning it all wouldn't have moved footie to the mainstream but a great showing could have been the jumpstart US Soccer has needed for so long. Instead, they reminded the majority of Americans exactly why "soccer sucks." 

But enough of that. In my SportsbyBrooks update today, you can find a comment on the above (shortened by about 1,000 words), as well as 10 other bits, which include:

• Ben Roethlisberger learns the motorcycle helmet lesson the hard way
• Real men "LUV" tennis
• Gamers lobby to become the new Olympic demonstration sport, aiming toward Beijing '08
• Who's the hottest fan at the World Cup?
• Notre Dame's Tommy Zbikowski makes his pro fighting debut

England Comes Through in Typical Underwhelming Fashion

And when we are underwhelming, that means all is right with the world. For if the Three Lions ever manages to play end to end under Sven, the laws of nature would be turned on their head. Then again, we'd also win the World Cup were that to occur, so here's hoping.

In any case, what began as a party was in danger of turning into another case of our men making heavy weather of inferior opponents, as England put forth yet another of the lackluster, nauseating performances that have come to typify the Sven-Goran Eriksson era. After a fairly impressive first half, our boys collapsed. We lacked cohesion, the players began to tire, and Sven displayed his prowess in making the worst subsitutions of all time. As Alan Hansen noted, his moves in the 2002 World Cup were poor and at Euro 2004, they were appalling; against Paraguay, he got it completely wrong again. What're you gonna do? This is par for the course. Though I can't express surprise at our outing, I never believed Sven's woeful selection policy would be exposed so soon.

Michael Owen is the most natural striker in England and has played about an hour of Premiership football this year. To say he is short of match fitness might be the understatement of the year. Even when Rooney is back to speed, Owen is still our number 1 goal-scoring option, so considering his state, it seems only reasonable that there'd be a fitting replacement somewhere on the squad - right?

No. Not when the charge is lead by Braindead Swede.

Say what you will about Tottenham's Jermain Defoe but the striker is the only proper replacement for Michael Owen in the whole of the British Isles. And rather than add a player of his ability to the team for insurance, Eriksson proved himself a true mental defective by severely limiting our strike force with the selections Michael Carrick, Jermaine Jenas, and Owen Hargreaves. I can probably let Carrick and Jenas go [Jenas' dad is from Albuquerque, so I can almost defend that from a biased standpoint]. But adding Hargreaves while Defoe sits at home picking his toenails might be the worst roster decision in the history of English football.

Last week a friend asked me why England fans were so insensed at Hargreaves placement -- he'd seen a couple of our warmup friendlies and determined that we were all crazy. Hargreaves was a good player! He has 30 caps and so what if he didn't surge until the final 12 or so games of Bayern Munich's season? I let the comments go for fear of unleashing rage. It's not like he knew any better. Hargreaves is a nice player and admittedly, our best holding mid, which works nicely with Sven's bullshit method of scoring first and holding on for dear life. But those qualities aren't special enough to warrant Jermain Defoe's absence from the team. And on Saturday, it became abundantly clear that his presence crucially tilted the balance of the squad in the wrong direction.

I'm not laying blame for our second half performance at his feet. He actually played pretty well - but we don't need players to hold. We need players that can score, and England has a strike force of FOUR players due to his presence. That is unacceptable.

Should we play a real team when Hargreaves is inserted while Owen is out of the match, England should do said team a favor and stick the forks in themselves.

That said, a win is still a win and I'm happy for the three points. In 2002, we started out with a ghastly draw, so I suppose, in a way, we're getting off on the right foot. I continue to hold out hope that once we exit the group stage, Rooney's return will energize the lads and create some type of magical jelling power that will have them all playing as a unit from end to end... but that hope is fueled by massive amounts of ale and I need to return to that state of drunkenness to feel better about our chances.

Cheers

PS - For the non-English and generally uninformed, this post is effectively over. For the rest of you, here are some entertaining (and valid) questions posed by my friend Toxic over at his place:

• What does Sven do at half time, are his speeches the verbal equivalent of GHB, is this how he snags the women?
• What's the point of taking Walcott if you don't want to play him and would rather waste Joe Cole's talents putting him inside.
• Why take Jenas if you're sad that Defoe has to leave.
• Why does Ashley Cole always tuck in giving the wide opposition player all the time and space in the world? Why does Ashley Cole cut inside with the ball when everyone and his dog knows he can’t kick it with his right foot ? Why does Ashley Cole always fall over at important times? In fact why Ashley Cole?
• Is Gary Neville less than one dimensional? Or does the fact he can do a whole 3 things with the ball make him 3 dimensional? Because there's the slow everything down back pass, there's the pass to marked man so that he can't possibly keep possession and there's the aimless chip down the line to no one in particular.
• Can David Beckham actually find an England player if it's not a dead ball situation? Actually seeing as it was an own goal can Beckham pass it to an England player full stop. In this situation I’m not counting over hit balls that only skiff the top of Peter Crouch’s head because he’s so tall, yes they found their target but a lot of fucking use they were.
• Will Gerrard ever play for his country the way he does for his club, or is he going to join Barnes, Hansen & Dalglish? Will he realise after the first attempt has flown over or by the intended player that if he takes a bit of power of the “glory/Hollywood ball” he might actually play Owen or Crouch in.
• Was Frank "Man Of The Match" Lampard playing?
• Will England ever score in the second half of a game at a major championship ? Will Sven realise we aren’t an Italian side when we are 0-0 or 5-0 up but especially not when we are winning 1-0?
• Why do England drop so deep when Terry is playing? Does he have no faith that Rio isn’t going to pull the old lazy boy routine?
• Who at FIFA picked an over-officious Mexican to referee between England and a South American country and will he get another game after that pompous display ?
• Can it get better? Well it couldn’t get worse could it ?

Rule, Britannia!

Greenlight Rooney! The 20-year-old that carries the hope of a nation on his boots.. [his flawed, craptastic, amateur hour Nike boots].. flew to Germany last night to join the English squad after receiving the go-ahead from doctors.

That's right kids - England are back and my time of pouting is over (at least, for a couple days:).

Medical teams from Manchester United and the FA examined Rooney while an independent orthopaedic surgeon supervised to prevent shenanigans. Though it was clear that United's team was far more cautious in its reading of results, at the end of the day, the scouser was released on the advice that he not play the group stage and be monitored �very carefully� before re-taking the pitch.

Though the news was cause for celebration across England and with ex-pats around the world, the results couldn't have come as a bigger blow to Sir Alex Ferguson and United. Though Rooney shows no signs of any injury, the Scotsman believes that any further damage to Rooney's foot could amount to a "career-threatening" injury. To make matters worse, United are preparing to claim substantial compensation should the �27M forward break down on England duty.

[That'll be a classy move, Glazers. Injury is the risk you run when allowing players to engage in international competition and since Rooney is completely without injury (something with which United doctors agree), there's no need for threats of this nature. It is a sour grapes response from a collection of wankers and cunts. We should expect nothing less.]

Naturally, Rooney isn't required to follow the advice but he's expected to miss the Group B matches (games we don't need him for anyway), thus allowing him two weeks in which to become match fit... not like he needs it. As we all know, Wayne Rooney is seven feet tall and kills men by the hundreds. And when he takes to the pitch, he'll consume the Germans, Brazilians, and Czechs with fireballs from his eyes and bolts of lightning from his arse.

As such, I have officially reached the point of being irrationally and rabidly assured that the Three Lions are destined for glory at the 2006 World Cup. What, you weren't expecting me to reach this conclusion with reason and logic were you? Shame, shame. You know better than that.

The Three Lions will roar mightily to the heavens and while our opponents quiver with fear, I shall rise and honor our men by doing the Peter Crouch.

Woe, Britannia

David Beckham and Ashley Cole didn't practise in England's 90-minute session at the Mittelberg training camp yesterday. Luckily, their maladies aren't particularly serious - Beckham is out with an ankle knock while Cole has a thigh strain. As such, Sven held them to light activity and physical therapy as a mere precaution.

Having said that, with Wayne Rooney's metatarsal still under review and our World Cup match just 3 days away, I'm not really in the mood for these "let's hang out in our knickers and be sassy" shenanigans.

At any other time in the year, this is perfectly acceptable behavior. In fact, I'd have trouble not showing my full appreciation with a few inappropriate comments about how I wouldn't mind personal entry to the tent. But it IS World Cup time and instead of leading our men through training (or at least being nearby for support and encouragement), Beckham is 100 meters away being naked and pensive and sexy with this "Beckham. David Beckahm" look on his face.

To make matters worse, he and Cole have leg injuries; why their shirts are off is beyond me. This display does nothing to quell my fears that England is about to go down in flames.

Update - I've given myself time to mull this one over and have decided that no matter what Becks and Cole are up to, it is perfectly acceptable. I have faith in my men and our Captain and if they need to rehab half naked in a tent while their teammates practice so that they're better able to shine in the coming weeks, that's fine with me....... Was that last part believable? Fuck :-(

World Cup Themed Vibrators Upset Kahn and Ballack

One can never have enough sex in soccer, so I was giddy fired up amused to find that Beate Uhse, a German erotic retailer, has launched a line of vibrators (along with other World Cup-themed merchandise) featuring various international soccer stars.

Three in particular - Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn of Germany, as well as English skipper David Beckham, are "represented" as Michael B, Ollie K, and David B... cute, huh? The red "Michael B" model is 16 cm long (6.3 inches) and costs £50; its ad claims: "The players' muscular torsos arouse women’s fantasies. They dream about spending an hour between the sheets with their fantasy man."

At least there isn't a Cristiano Ronaldo model.
Someone could get hurt!

 And they're right! There is no way to blame Beate Uhse for marketing a vibrator in this fashion. No matter what you think about soccer players [if you're American male, something ending in -ussy is might come to mind], they have incredible bodies, great legs, and thanks to their intensity, never fail to impress in the bedroom... at least not that I've found. Plus, their extraordinary physical conditioning ensures a certain Energizer bunny-type quality that leaves one worn out day after day. Associating a product with these types of men (especially when marketing to European women) is a genius move by the sex chain. Trouble is, Ballack, a recent Chelsea signing from Bayern Munich, and German keeper Kahn are seeking injunctions on the product.

According to Kahn's laywer, "This is a clear violation of image rights. We will take action." Ballack's lawyer agreed, claiming that it was an objection to his client's honor.

Pure bollocks, I say.

No soccer player has honor. "Honorable soccer player" sits in the same realm of oxymorons as military intelligence and jumbo shrimp. And while they may get on like diving, flopping, crying "gentlemen" on the pitch, they're a bunch of twisted, dysfunctional slags off it. So all I can assume is Kahn and Ballack's injunction isn't the result of a damaged sense of honor. This is a pursuit that revolves solely around money and reputation. The simple fact is that their precious egos are bruised by being associated with a 6.3" (16 cm) piece of work; a size that is more than sufficient for a good time.

Had Beate Uhse introduced the 9" Ollie K with attachments, rechargeable batteries, lube, and a multiple orgasm guarantee, Kahn would have sanctioned an autographed "limited edition" to be sold in his honor. And his cheesing, brutish face would have been on the bloody box complete with two thumbs up and some quote like "Now you can take ME home!" Bah.  

I don't know if the request for injunction will go through but why should it? The surnames of the players aren't used, the "products" aren't fashioned after the players' bodies in any way, and as are as I can tell, no pictures of the players are associated with the marketing.

But if Kahn and Ballack's request is granted and Beate Uhse has to cease and desist with the soccer vibrato, fans interested in "support-minded" pleasure can happen over to various English shops that are selling the "Victory Vibe." According to the website, it'll keep the ladies left at home during the World Cup shouting, "G-oh-oh-ooal!!"

My God. Something about that is just so, so wrong. That said, with Wayne Rooney's likely absence, the English will need something to keep their spirits up.

Premiership Merchandise: Saving Lives One Fan At A Time

It is often said that the FA Premier League is the best league in the world as a spectacle for pace and goals. It is also said that it is the best league to watch if you're looking for a 38-game schedule that will raise the incidence of depression and alcoholism in your life.

(Actually, don't take that seriously. My liver and I are the only ones saying that.)

My personal problems notwithstanding, it comes as a surprise that the EPL has recently become the best league in the world to be a fan of if you find yourself in a life-threatening situation due to your own stupidity. I present the following as proof:

Case 1: A couple days before Arsenal FC went down in a 10-man flame to Barcelona in the Champions League final, a 10-year-old English boy tried to climb his neighbor's fence in order to scope out the new trampoline sitting in the backyard. Apparently the sight was a bit too much to behold and in his excitement, the kid lost his footing and got impaled on a metal spiking a top the fence.

Though his chest wound was fairly substantial (three inches), the spike missed all vital organs. Now this happens to most people and they think that God intervened or there was a guardian angel or maybe they're just the luckiest tosser around. But not these people. This kid owes his life to the modern day chain mail known as the Commemorative 2005/2006 Arsenal Home Strip.

Yeah, my thoughts exactly.

It seems that the magical shirt saved the boy from certain doom by cushioning the spike's impact. Had it been cotton instead of Nike DriFit, the shirt would have ripped, thus allowing the metal to plunge deeper into the boy's chest. It would have been curtains for the young fan.

A young life being saved is heartwarming and all but can you see the headlines NEXT week?

"10 Year Old Tries to Stop Bullet with Magical Arsenal Kit, Dies."

This situation will end in nothing but trouble... messy trouble.

*Grain of salt warning: Article from The Sun*
Case 2: Our other fantastic EPL life-saving tale takes us to the mountains of strife-torn Yemen where an Englishman named Tony found himself in the weeds while helping the Yemeni government set up a free-trade zone.

(Yemen trades with others? This was news to me.)

While at a roadblock with his bodyguard, Tony's car was ambushed by tribesmen wielding AK-47s who, according to Tony, "descended upon me like a pack of wolves." Having never been jumped by a pack of wolves, I don't know if this is a right comparison to his situation but were I in his shoes, I probably would have said something ridiculous like "they swooped down on me like crazed buzzards," so I'll let that go. In any case, the bad guys went into mating peacock mode and started waving their guns around and squawking about in a language no one could understand.  I often wonder why these lunatics don't learn a few English phrases so they can communicate their death threats in an efficient manner but in this case, it wasn't necessary.

"In my limited Arabic, I understood that they wanted to use me as a hostage to extract money from the EU and if I refused would kill me." [Limited Arabic, my arse. Limited Arabic is "I heard them say water and to die," not all of that!]

Anyway, Tony and his bodyguard were dragged to the back of his car where the bandits noticed a Portsmouth FC club badge. Since the badge uses the crescent moon and star, both symbols of Islam, the hostiles assumed Tony was a practicing Muslim, put him back in his car, and told him to hit the road.

Huzzah for Tony and his useless bodyguard, but what's he going to do when he's attacked by bandits that can read English? "Oh, uh, well, uh, by posing as a fan of, uh, the worst team in England, I'm actually helping Muslims against the West. Let me go?" Nice try, Tony. His good Samaritan ruse is going to wind up in a messier situation than the day the above-mentioned Arsenal fan realizes his kit isn't magic. 

So as it stands, Arsenal kits prevent impaling and Pompey stickers stop roadblock attacks. Tune in next week when a man uses a Chelsea-sanctioned football to foil an assassination plot like he's Jack Bauer. In the meantime, you might want to pick up some other EPL squad merchandise. With all the metal fences and terrorists out there, one never knows when a life-threatening pickle could arise.

Dirk Nowitzki & There's Something About Mary

Sometime during the Great Depression my great-grandparents shelled out a few kids, eventually calling it a day after tyke #4. Well, my great-grandfather was, and still remains, a frisky cat and wound up in the same bed as my great-grandma's younger sister. She got pregnant, which resulted in the Jerry Springer situation that is my Great Uncle/2nd Cousin Sean. He prefers to be called Uncle Sean but only he believes this. Anyway, my great-grandmother got pregnant with child #5 as some type of weird revenge... though I've never understood her logic on that one since she's the one that went through all the pain and annoyance of pregnancy and labor, I can only assume she wasn't thinking clearly. In any case, 50-odd years of familial awkwardness ensued and now, finally, my grand aunt has passed. She shuffled loose last Wednesday, about a minute after Jens Lehmann was sent off during the 18th minute of Arsenal's losing effort to Barcalona FC... I like to think that his bonehead move did her in but according to her nurse (who was watching the match so how could she really know), she heard that eerie death rattle start up at least a 20 minutes earlier. Anyway, we're leaving for Israel tomorrow to bury her... In an odd twist, my great-grandfather is giving the eulogy for no other reason than to stick it to my great-grandmother just for kicks.  

In any case, on to a few bits and pieces... 

• Do Dirk Nowitzki's teefuses remind anyone of Matt Dillon's capped job as Pat Healy in "There's Something About Mary" or is it just me?
• The World Cup tv schedule has been released. Even if you don't like soccer, jump on the bandwagon and use the U.S. vs. Czech Republic match on June 12 as an excuse to take a 4-hour lunch.
• In other World Cup news, health experts are giving warnings that cardiac arrests, wife-beating, binge drinking, smoking, and suicide surge during the world's most-watched sporting contest. During the '98 World Cup, the number of heart attacks in Britain rose by 25% when England lost to Argentina in a penalty shootout. According to a study in the British Medical Journal - compared with admissions for the same day in previous years - 55 more people were treated for a heart stoppage. It seems that depression, violence, and self-harm are also well-known outcomes of football matches and they peak during World Cups... maybe I've finally found a valid excuse to do all the nasty things that I've been dreaming about these many years...
• Some guy went nuts on an airline the other day and was restrained by none other than Dr. 90210 himself (I don't know who this guy is but the article seems to indicate that he's tres cool). The crazy hopped out of his seat in coach and marched into first class about 15 minutes before the flight was going to land. The passengers watched the madness unfold for quite some time but when the hostile pushed a stewardess, Dr. 90210 sprung to action. "When you get a black belt, at that stage your brain just clicks into action. I restrained this gentleman in a very aggressive way without hurting him." Very impressive. Too bad he used his kah-rah-tay to take down a "very frail" 80 year old man whose only weapons were probably a bottle of Metamucil and a pair of Depends. Someone needs their brain to click into action and kick Dr. 90210 in the teeth. Stupid bastard.

Oh To Be A Gooner!

I've been in an Arsenal-induced depression for a couple days now. Earlier today, I was told that if you're upset over sports for more than an hour, you need a therapist because something is wrong with you. I've never denied that something is wrong with me. I'm a fanatic and I have never felt more devastated or emotionally drained (when it comes to watching sports) than I did on Wednesday night. The truth is, if you gathered up all the heartbreaks suffered by people that are Buffalo Bills/Atlanta Braves/Buffalo Sabres fans like Matt, fashioned them into a Louisville Slugger, and then busted me bloody for three days, the pain would not begin to equal that which was felt after Arsenal's loss to Barca. The only thing that brings me solace is that my boys played their arses off and with 9 men and Manuel Aluminum Almunia [Arsenal's *Pat Dillingham], hung with the best team in the world until they had nothing left. And even though that loss brought me to tears, I'm nothing but proud of the Gunners.

In other news, no need exists for further sorrow -- Thierry Henry has signed on to be a Gooner for life (er, the next 4 years anyway)! From Arsenal.com -- Thierry Henry’s decision to stay at Arsenal was made in the wake of the Champions League defeat. This afternoon the French striker finally ended a season of speculation by putting pen to paper on a four-year deal. And, amid a myriad of factors, the brave yet agonising defeat at the Stade de France had a major influence.

"The game reassured me of one thing I wanted to know - how far I can go with that team,” said Henry. “I know we lost but they showed me they are a team with heart and lots of quality. We can be so proud of what we did.

"I said my decision would come before the World Cup.  But I also said I wanted to concentrate on pegging Tottenham back for fourth spot and then the Champions League Final. After that was done I was very quick to make up my mind. As a guy that is how I am.

“There were other things that made me stay — my family, London, the fans here and away from home, the press, everyone. All those little things help to make my mind up.

"I always refer to Arsenal as my home. I have been welcomed with open arms, the love I receive here - sometimes from non-Arsenal fans - is something I can't forget about." 

 *Pat Dillingham: minimally skilled walk-on and backup quarterback at the University of Notre Dame. In 2002, Dillingham entered the Boston College and in a panic, all but handed the ball to a BC defender who scored a touchdown. Notre Dame lost 14-7. This loss marked the beginning of the looooong end of the Tyrone Willingham Error.

I'm Off to Stade de France

Today's the day.. In just a few hours begins the match of a lifetime, as FC Barcelona and Arsenal FC square off in the UEFA Champions League final at the Stade de France in Paris. I can hardly contain myself. Actually, "can hardly" shouldn't enter the equation. I simply lack a handle on my emotions and in the past few hours, I've run the gamut from elation to nervousness to arousal and anger (yes, I have felt the tingles!). I can't make heads or tails of it but I doubt there's any use in trying. I've spent 18 years as a conscious fan of the Mighty Arsenal (years where I was slobbering all over myself and eating pennies while living the contented, toddler life with my Arsenal pacifier don't count) and I can't think of a time greater than now. This is the biggest night in our club's history and given everything written by journalists and Joe Blogger these last few days, I can't offer anything that hasn't already been said... except this -- I'll be at the match, living and dying with every strike of the ball; please pray that the riots are kept to a minimum, at the very least, until I can get back to the airport. Cheers!

Iran Says No to Girlymen in Sports

First issue: How will we ever get Paris Hilton to kill herself (or go away... I guess that's less harsh) if we keep giving her forums like this for her ego: "Fightin Over Me featuring Fat Joe & Jadakiss"? While I think the lyrics should actually say something like "Every time I turn around, boys are fightin' over my herpes" instead of "fightin over me," what upsets me is that aside from her voice, the track isn't completely horrible. What upsets me even more is 2 months from now I'll be shaking my arse in a club and this rubbish will play. But instead of boycotting the song and sitting down or doing something equally productive, I'll just keep dancing. God help me.   

Real issue: I know this will be hard to believe but it seems that Iran is acting like a rag about more than its nuclear program. The hardline regime is setting a new policy in sport because they've had it up to here with metrosexuals in sports -- then again, I suppose it has to be sports because I don't know if you're allowed to be a metrosexual and an residential Iranian citizen at the same time. Athletes, football (soccer) players in particular, that sport long hair and plucked eyebrows are the primary concern of Mohammad Ali-Abadi, the head of Iran's Physical Education Organization who says, "even though they get away with it now, they will be disqualified in future." He also offered these gems:

Bayern Munich star midfielder Ali Karimi and other Iranian athletes could be banned from World Cup play if they can't find a way to maintain an "Islamic look" ... I'm sure they'll appreciate that rule when they're passing out from heat stroke due to wearing full beards under the summer sun. On the plus side though, I suppose I should be happy that England isn't taking such a stance, right? God forbid we be forced to play in the World Cup without the service's of Europe's best choke artist, a tosser that's been disrespecting society since 2002.

Happy St. Totteringham's Day, Hotscum!

A week ago, I was inconsolable and had, admittedly, lost my way. As proud as I was of the squad for reaching the Champions League finals, I was equally as frightened that we would finish behind Tottenham in the Premiership. While my hopes aren't through the roof against Barca, our position left us short on insurance, as the Gunners trailed the cunts of Tottenham by 7 points. Barring a monumental collapse, the Arsenal would not finish fourth in the Premiership, setting in motion a series of disastrous events: No automatic Champions League bid  --> Henry signs new contract with Barca --> additional maddening yet random unfortunate events --> 30 Years of Tottenman-esque Purgatory. And to make this overdramatized possibility a reality, all the Scum had to do was best a team that had nothing to play for... they'd qualify for Europe's premier competition for the first time in 44 seasons and the Arsenal would be left with fuck all. But on a day for romanticists, dewy-eyed sentimentalists, lovers of the beautiful game, and conspiracy theorists, Arsenal's delight became Tottenham's misery.

The Spurs were dreadfully flat against West Ham after 10 players suffered food poisoning off bad lasagna. Just 10 minutes in, their day went from bad to worse, as Carl Fletcher smashed a superb opener to put the home side in the driving seat. But an equally stunning Jermain Defoe strike saw Spurs level just after the half hour and for a while, it seemed like those rotten cunts would pull it off. But with 10 minutes remaining came the moment that killed the dream... it was a goal of exquisite beauty where Nigel Reo-Coker backheeed Shaun Newton's pass on for Yossi Benayoun, who skipped past Michael Dawson before slamming his finish into the top corner. But while Hotspur's world was falling apart, the Arsenal played trademark football that saw Thierry Henry - the greatest striker to grace Highbury's field - fire home the ninth treble of his Gunners career. All that was missing from the action was a goal for the retiring Dennis Bergkamp, who came on near the end and almost provided the icing on the cake with a wonderful chip.

We're now off to Paris with a place in next year's Champions secured while the Spurs will again lament what could have been. I can't imagine a sweeter, more dramatic way to bid farewell to the marble halls of Highbury, to the Clock End, the North Bank, and Herbert Chapman’s bust, than a night like the last. I've been attending Arsenal matches since I was a tot and Highbury is the home of some of my greatest memories; I couldn't be happier to see her distinguished 93-year history end on such an appropriate note.

The Hooligan League: Polish Soccer Thuggery At Its Worst

“We will come together for our national cause. We think only of beating the ‘hools’ from Germany first — because we hate them — and the ones from England because they have the reputation of being the best hools, because they invented it. If we beat them we will be considered the best.” - Marek, 29, a father of a year-old child.

“Tell the English fans we are coming to Germany to hunt them down. We will come for them silently and quickly. We hate the Germans and we will fight with them. We admire the English because of their reputation. That’s why we will fight with them. We want to take their reputation as the best fighters.” - A second hooligan who carried a knife with a 5in blade and a rubber hosepipe filled with sand

The Sunday Times of London is reporting that violent Poles armed with knives, axes, and three foot truncheons have established a "hooligan league." I know it may be hard for you to believe but the hooligan league is not all fun and games. It's basically a fancy name for mob violence, as crazy Polish fans go out of their way to terrorize and assault unwitting fans from rival countries for five weeks during the World Cup. Amazingly enough - they actually have a chief target. And no, it's not the Italians, whose fascists and neo-Nazi rowdies are known the world over. It is England... the Hooligans are seeking "pre-arranged fights" with the pride of Brittania because of their reputation as "the best of the worst." [Allow me a moment to shed a tear out of pride.]

These props are all well and good but one group of thugs has warned that if the English "ignore invitations to fight, they will be attacked anyway."

Hmm. I wonder where the Polish learned that way of thinking. In light of that, it's ironic that a group like this is heading IN to Germany, isn't it? In any case, check out my Wednesday update for SportsbyBrooks where you can catch this little diddy and:

• Airborne porn with FHM models
• Atlanta Braves fans petition Selig to disallow Time Warner's sale of team to Liberty Media
• Football 101 for Women with the Oklahoma State staff
• Kansas City Royals fan sells his loyalty on eBay and still can't afford an X-Box 360
• and more...

Conspiracy! Nike Ruins England's World Cup Hopes

Looking back at the draft, I don't think the Raiders did a great job but they didn't do a bad one either. There were a couple picks that I found to be absolute reaches -- small school project, Paul McQuistan (Weber State) in particular -- but I'm pretty happy with the way the Shell-Davis machine addressed needs rather than draft players based on their 40 times and combine workouts. There are some players I would have preferred - Brodie Croyle instead of McQuistan and a full back instead of McMahon from Maine but I can't complain too much.. Marcus Vick was NOT the Raiders final selection and Mr. Irrelevant, and we got Huff, Howard is looking like a solid pick, and Darnell Bing in the 4th round is a bargain pickup. It's my understanding that he's converting from safety to OLB, so that'll fill a great need. But now that the draft is finally complete, I can put aside my frustrations with the Raiders until September. I'm sure random player news will seep out of camp from time to time this summer and I'll have random rage flare ups, but on the whole, the lot of you are safe for the next four months.

In other news, Nike's craptastic football boots have ruined England's chance at the World Cup. I'm sorry... was that too dramatic? In my experience, Nike's boots are the worst in the world. They're uncomfortable, the padding is minimal, and I tore my first of three ACL's in a pair after the blades hooked into the grass and juked myself out of my own knee. Luckily, my life/job situation loves Adidas and I no longer have to worry. But the same cannot be said for United/England star Wayne Rooney. Last Tuesday, he unveiled the Nike Air Zoom Total 90 Supremacy and four days later (the first time it was worn in a competitive fixture), Nike's new boot was involved in injuries to two England players. First, Rooney accidentally raked his studs against John Terry's leg, causing a cut that required 10 stitches. Later, Rooney broke his fourth metatarsal after a seemingly innocuous challenge involving Paulo Ferreira. They say Rooney could be out 6 weeks but we all know that's the unlikely best case scenario.

Modern lightweight boots have been blamed by some for the spate of metatarsal injuries, which used to be relatively rare. Adidas tweaked the design of its Predator boot in 2004 to provide better cushioning at the front of the foot and give the metatarsals more protection but Nike has gone the other way. They've been running their mouths about how their redesigned outsole improves boot-to-ball accuracy because it's "derived from a new side-lacing system that provides a cleaner strike." Apparently this will enhances precise powerful shooting, dribbling and passing. Those things sound great but not when wearing the bloody thing puts seasons and WORLD CUP TITLES in danger!! In what world do you try out new equipment in 6 weeks before the greatest tournament in your sport? You don't catch Roger Federer strokin out some new racquets the week before Wimbledon nor do you see Tiger Woods trialing new clubs 8 days before the Masters. Only a bunch of corporate dicks like Nike would suggest it and only a mental defective like Wayne Rooney would go along with it! Wait, it's not just Rooney. Several internationals have signed up to wear the new Nike design at the World Cup, most worryingly for me, Rio Ferdinand and José Antonio Reyes. Should be a great time this summer. As a result (cue the JFK consipiracy music), I'm compelled to believe that Nike is slowly but surely taking out key internationals with their shoddy boot in order to bolster American hopes come World Cup time. I'm on to you Nike! You and that bullshit "Don't Tread" on Me campaign! It's all fixed. I knew it would happen sooner or later!!

.............................. I'm gonna take a walk and get myself together.............................. 

As much as I want to believe that victory doesn't rest on the feet of a foul-mouthed child with a penchant for cougar hunting, I can't convince myself of it. Rooney could have won the Golden Boot and while we're not completely sunk without him, I don't know who will provide the extra spark we need. It certainly won't be our preening buffoon of a Captain.

Halftime: Arsenal 2 0 Juventus

Playing the same 4-5-1 as was used against Madrid, we dominated every area of the field. But it was Cesc Fabregas that was a true wonder to behold. The 18-year-old's battle with Vieira, the legend that he was signed to replace, was as fascinating to watch as it was symbolic. Much was made of his tussle with our former Captain in midfield, but the Spanish boy wonder was a clear winner on the night and the Frenchman’s booking means they will not lock horns in the second leg next week... One commentator even had the temerity to suggest that his foul may not have been entirely accidental but I think too much of Patrick Vieira to entertain such madness. The second half was more exciting than the first, as rather than sit on our lead, the Gunners charged ahead. Penetration from Eboue and Flamini was brilliant and the harder The Arsenal pressed, the faster Juve unravelled... they ended with nine men after Mauro Camoranesi and Jonathan Zebina were sent off in the final minutes but by that time the game was won.

Though the night was Arsenal's, it's only "half-time," so I'll save the breadth of my thoughts and opinions for the completion of the Turin leg. We head to Italy with an utterly deserved 2-0 lead. As a result of the bookings, Juve will be missing three players (Vieira included) but the Old Lady has the tools to turn things around. It's not over yet.

Arsenal 2

Fabregas 40, Henry 69

 

The Arsenal Triumphs Over Real's Battlestar Galactico

It took me two days to recover from the Arsenal's mighty triumph over Real Madrid on Wednesday but having watched it a second time, my feelings have only grown stronger. Wednesday's clash is simply the greatest nil all I have ever seen and it occurred on what might be Highbury's last great night.

Though Real's onslaught was immediate, our back four, only one of whom was a first choice at the start if the season, soaked it up and never wavered. And though chances went missing and the ref was a cunt all the way, the Arsenal showed the guts, focus, and vision of a squad that you'd think had played together for years. Our young lads have shown an aging bunch of ailing stars just how its done. They cared more, it's as simple as that, and Real Madrid's galactico era has ended a sham, as they exit the Champions potless for the third time in as many years.

In two weeks, Patrick Vieira comes home, as Juventus, the old lady of Italian Football, visits Highbury for the first leg of the quarters. Powerful and experienced, rather than past-it like too many of Real’s big names, Fabio Capello’s team are ranked second favourites behind Barcelona. But though a hugely difficult task lies ahead, our hopes of European glory are alive and we carry Englands hopes as well. Once again, a brilliant job well done to the lads. I love them. I love football. And I love the Arsenal.

Ronaldinho & The Catalan Giants Bounce Chelsea from the Champions

I missed the first run of the Chelsea - Barca match yesterday, so I figured I'd have to rely on FSW highlights. I nearly fell over in shock when I saw that ESPN2, of all channels, was airing a taped version around 1 am. The first half featured some nice plays but nothing of note occurred. It was a tactical half, as Chelsea employed their typical, mechanical style of "we don't have the balls to do something first" counterattack and Frank Rijkaard's side passed and moved forward with their familiar flourish. However, things changed in the second half when Ronaldinho delivered on a strike in the 78th minute that was nothing short of sublime. I'm struggling to find words to describe this run but he slithered through the the Chelsea backfield and at the final challenge, juked John Terry out of his boots... the bloke may need to go back to the pitch and look for his kneecaps, as well. I'm fairly certain they snapped out while he was being schooled. But Ron's strike was breathtaking and I was feeling the vapors. From there, Mourinho's boys tried to exert some attacking urgency but it was of no use - the Barca resistance wasn't broken until a Frank Lampard penalty strike so late in the game, the Barca players were already mentally celebrating in the clubhouse.

After the match, I thought - "well maybe this will quiet Jose Mourinho" but I was fooling myself. The Captain of Douchebaggery left the Nou Camp pitch blowing kisses, as if he was confused about the outcome. And in the subsequent press conference, he didn't praise Barca or Ronaldinho or come close to acknowledging that his team simply got thumped... instead, he pointed to the red card handed to Asier Del Horno in the first leg as the telling factor behind Chelsea's 3-2 aggregate defeat.

ITV asked The Special One if the better team had won:

I don't think so. We have played against them four matches in two seasons. [With] 11 against 11 they never beat us. That is the reality. We had a very difficult job to do, because we were losing 2-1. Knockout is about two ties. In the first, we lost in strange circumstances. If we had had a little bit of luck; if we had scored before the last minute we would have had a big chance - but we only scored in the last minute.

If if if, blah blah blah. Did you win? Are you still in the Champions? Yeah, that's what I thought. All the moaning and groaning in the world from this tosser won't change the fact that the Blues got chumped at home and embarrassed in Catalonia. Good riddance.

As for the Mighty Arsenal, we square up against Real Madrid in the second leg today. I know we have a 1-goal cushion but it's going to force Zidane, Beckham, Ronaldo, and Carlos to go at us with all they have. Out of fear, I've hit every diety in existence to pray that the away goal will be enough to sustain a victory. Hail Arsenal.

Chelsea's Web Thugs Target Ref

While Thierry Henry and the Mighty Gunners were putting the wood to Real Madrid, the Chelsea Oligarchs were going down in flames in a Champions League match against Barcelona. After a questionably fierce tackle, official Terje Hauge sent defender Asier del Horno off with a red card. Chelski lost 2-1 with 10 men on the pitch and now their bandwagon fans are gearing up to rip shit. And no, they're not preparing to riot and set things aflame like normal fans. See, Blues fans are internet toughs... last year, they managed to force official Anders Frisk into retirement after he sent off Didier Drogba in the first leg of Chelsea's tie last season and now they're back at it again.

On Chelski's official fan site: "I hope the death threats pour in. Has anyone got the email address of Terje 'dead' Hauge?" Another said: "I promise you that you will receive a lot of death threats. Congratulations on your last game as an international referee."

Now, we all know that most demented, unstable fantypes are most easily found spewing hate and biased, misinformed opinions on message boards, so it may not be surprising to some that they went off like this but this is Chelsea we're talking about [cue conspiracy theory music].. this is Roman Abramovich's team and you don't become Roman Abramovich without learning how to "get to" people. I discussed this briefly in my post about Chelski & The Big Red Sports Machine. And in this situation, if I'm a ref, I'm running for the bloody hills lest I fall prey to Red Mafia scare tactics! Should Chelsea get bounced out of the tournament, I hope Hauge manages to flee to safety... and if he doesn't, I hope they leave him with, at least, one good leg. 

One-nil to the Mighty Arsenal! All Hail!

Madrid may be the wealthiest club in the world but the Croesus of Castille lacks the priceless talent that is Thierry Henry. The Frenchman scored a goal of the richest beauty and lead Arsenal to football history as they became the first British side to defeat Real Madrid at The Bernabeu. It's only fair to say that the Spanish side was in less than proper form but injuries to key players and departures of senior leaders have crippled the Arsenal, leaving us long on youth and short on experience. But quality was to be found in every area of the field, young and old alike. Fabregas was magic, Eboue was different class, Gilberto shut down Zidane while Flamini held off Beckham, and Henry was nothing short of dazzling. His goal was as stunning as it was significant... as painful as this season has been, it goes without saying that eclipsing Real in such fabulous form brilliantly demonstrates that youth is a superior alternative to investing in declining oldsters. Though it would be foolhardy to draw too many conclusions from this one victory, I think it's a relieving sign that the tide could soon shift for the Gunners and a return to glory lies ahead in coming seasons.

Complete list of English clubs' competitive ventures to the Bernabeu:
Apr 8 2003 Champions League Manchester United (Lost 3-1)
Mar 3 2001 Champions League Leeds United (Lost 3-2)
Apr 4 2000 Champions League Manchester United (Drew 0-0)
Mar 20 1985 UEFA Cup: Tottenham Hotspur (Drew 0-0)
Nov 5 1975 European Cup Derby County (Lost 5-1)
Oct 3 1973 UEFA Cup Ipswich Town (Drew 0-0)
May 15 1968 European Cup Manchester United (Drew 3-3)
Apr 11 1957 European Cup Manchester United (Lost 3-1)

George Best, 1946-2005

Times Online Obituary: George Best was the most talented British football player of his and arguably of any generation. He appeared to play and read the game at a different pace from those around him. He possessed dribbling skills which, in the words of his team mate Pat Crerand, could leave opposing defenders with “twisted blood”, and a balance which enabled him to ride or avert the most ruthless tackles, which his reputation and ability to humiliate the hard men of the game inevitably attracted. His goal-scoring record was phenomenal for a winger. Best was quick, brave, and a sublime passer of the ball when he could curb his natural inclination to hold onto it for as long as possible. At his best, he gave the impression that thought and execution were a seamless whole, and at all times he approached the game with the passion and excitement of a young boy. Even the incomparable Pelé once called him “the greatest footballer in the world”.

George Best Tributes - Premier League
Football Mourns George Best Death - BBC Sport
Best Man - BBC Sport
Football Legend George Best Dies - Financial Times

Chelsea and the Big Red Sports Machine

Two bits of wisdom are thought to apply across all sports: Defense wins championships and meddling owners lose them. And though many owners are hands-on types that like to fiddle and tinker, there is another group that takes interference to a new level - The Meddling Owners Brigade. To be a member of the M.O.B., one must be a wildly wealthy, brazenly corrupt megalomaniac who fails to understand that his/her job is to stay out of the way, sign the checks, and let the football/baseball/basketball/soccer people in the front office do their jobs. It seems the crew, which includes Dan Snyder, Jerry Jones, George Steinbrenner, Marge Schott, Al Davis, Eddie DeBartolo Jr., and Jerry Reinsdorf, have invited a new owner to their sandbox of unwanted intrusion: Roman Abramovich.

According to the Daily Mirror (translation: take this with a mound of salt), the owner of the Chelsea Football Club (also known around here as Chelski, slags, tarts, whores, wankers, c^nts, and any other derogatory adjective that comes to mind) launched an official investigation to get to the bottom of the side's recent dip in form. After surviving 40 games without a loss under the guidance of Jose Mourinho, the Blues have suffered three draws and two successive defeats - one to Real Betis in the Champions League and then to Manchester United in the Premiership. It's being reported that Abramovich sent his key advisers to the club's training ground last week to interview manager Jose Mourinho's staff about the losses. The reported purpose of the investigation is to "ensure the dip in form was temporary and that problems with some players... would not become a major issue." But come on, this guy is an oligarch. It's only natural for him to believe that when things go awry, a conspiracy is afoot. As such, he likely believes that it's time to engage in old school Soviet sports machine terror tactics. Though I doubt this method will be useful in the English Premier League, at least he's being proactive. I'm a bit jealous.

*Update - "Tomorrow's press conference (Friday 18th November) with Jose Mourinho has been cancelled due to a number of untrue reports in some of today's newspapers." Yah huh, sure. Jose's in the hospital courtesy of a case of the broken legs delivered by The Red Mafia.

Jay-Z and the Mighty Arsenal? Say It Aint So

"Jay-Z loves football - he thinks the whole scene is very bling. He has also met Henry and thinks he is really cool. Jay-Z is a man who gets what he wants - and he wants a portion of a premiership club." - A source from the Sunday Mirror

Day Off

Thanks to bye weekends, I have the day off. And thanks to Frank Lampard and the Three Lions succeeding in spite of Sven-Goran Eriksson being a supreme wanker, England has picked up a much-needed 3 points.

Cheers and a Happy Saturday to all.

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Original Comments

Patrick Vieira Sold to Juventus FC

The 29-year-old, who has been a member of The Arsenal since 1996, will join the Italian club on a five-year deal if he agrees to personal terms.

"When you spend nine years at the club, like I did, it is a difficult decision to leave. But in the end you have to make a choice for your future. It was a very difficult decision, but I am happy with it. I made the decision to leave because I felt it was time for me to have a new challenge. But that does not mean I was unhappy or that I was having a problem at Arsenal. It was just that I had the feeling I needed to grow and meet a new challenge, and I feel Juventus was the best challenge for me."

Glazer Buys Manchester United, UK to Riot Soon

Glazer will borrow £540m to complete the deal, £265m of which will be attached to Manchester United's assets.

Minor Complaints of Sport. Argh!