There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

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.

+

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