Our regular mauler David Sweeney is away in Lisbon (the last we heard he’d lost his passport and was e-mailing us from the British Embassy) so this week it’s been entrusted to me to get my claws out and take a swipe or two at the inept and the woeful.
This is a difficult task when all I really want to do is gulp down paracetimol like a goth who’s just been dumped because yesterday my team surrendered the league title.
Seeing City succumb to the Welsh Barcelona was bad enough but to then immediately discover that there wasn’t another ten games to play as previously assumed and that the season was now effectively over was a bolt from the blue.
Damn you Twitter and damn you Facebook for not breaking this shocking news to me gently.
The show however must go on – I must resist the medicine cabinet or the urge to tell the premature ejaculators celebrating a 20th title triumph in early March to go fuck themselves where the Surrey sun don’t shine – because there is still other important Premier League business to conclude.
In the frantic race for a Champion’s League spot Spurs slipped up largely due to an over-rated midget up to his old tricks again while at the foot of the table there were shambles aplenty in the relegation fight.
The Cutter’s resident mauler may be currently offering sexual favours to Portugese sailors for a passage back home while the editor is so depressed I’m presently writing this in my pants whilst joylessly shovelling Cheerios into my gob but people must, and will, be mauled. With so much clusterfuckery around over the weekend it’s nothing short of our duty dammit.
When Defoe was born a linesman immediately flagged him offside and it’s been the same old story ever since.
He is a player who does not stray into such positions but rather inhabits them, prowling with all the intent and menace of someone who is actually within the laws of the game, ready to pounce onto any through-ball that finds it’s way into his self-created no-man’s land. Thereupon the hapless dickweed either injures a spectator in row Z with a wayward blast or occasionally manages to keep his foot marginally over the ball and somehow find the back of the net.
Whichever it is the result is always the same – a brief moment of celebration almost instantly turning to perplexion and outrage at the inevitable ruling out of his illegal strike.
On Saturday evening Spurs were enjoying a period of sustained pressure that conceivably could have resulted in a priceless equaliser late on. The ball broke to Defoe who hammered it past Howard who threw himself at it more out of obligation than necessity. This was because the diminutive poacher was so far advanced of the last defender you could have fit his annual pay packet in the gap.
Pity poor Redknapp as he spends hour after hour trying to explain the complexities of the offside law to Defoe using salt shakers and pepper mills from the canteen only for the 4ft sex-hound to be too distracted with sending a saucy pic of his knob to whichever large-breasted nonentity he is currently banging.
Clint Hill’s header from a Barton corner has been measured as being a full 18 inches over the line.
Anyone who saw the sublime documentary QPR: The Four Year Plan recently will know all-too-well the years of struggle the club endured to finally reach the promised land of the Premiership. While it was impossible not to sometimes chuckle at the astonishing mismanagement – and breath-taking insanity – of the previous consortium as they sacked gaffers with impunity and royally fucked up at every given turn this ultimately is a historic and respected club we’re talking about here; an institution that employs hundreds of full-time staff and holds the cherished dreams of thousands of loyal and devoted football fans.
For their hard-earned achievement and genuine opportunity to progress into a prominent top flight outfit to be jeapodised by yet another farcical goal-line miss-call is nothing short of criminal.
Clint Hill’s header from a Barton corner has been measured as being a full 18 inches over the line yet incredibly the linesman somehow missed it and, despite vehement protests, no goal was given. It was a legitimate goal that would have ensured a point at the Reebok against Rangers’ relegation rivals Bolton and kept the West London club out of the bottom three. Instead the Trotters – with their ill-gotten win – leap-frog above them as the pressure builds for Mark Hughes’ men.
It is tempting to describe the goal – were it rightfully awarded – as ‘priceless’ but that’s not strictly true. A value can be placed upon it, starting with an initial loss of £30m should the drop befall them followed by God knows how many more if they’re unable to bounce back. Plus of course there are the unseen ramifications – the cut-backs behind the scenes that result in jobs being lost. Lives being damaged. Dreams being slayed.
All because – in a game awash with fortunes and watched by a multitude – FIFA have stubbornly refused to consider a simple measure that would eradicate this situation occurring as it infrequently does.
In July the organisation are said to be taking a final decision on the possible introduction of goal-line technology.
By then the QPR staff and players might well be nursing relegation hangovers on a foreign beach thinking it’s all too little too late.
Following yet another reversal and with the side in disarray Wolves are in desperate need of an experienced coach who can forge a backbone and spirit into a beleagured set of individuals and possible ward off the seemingly inevitable drop.
May we suggest Mick McCarthy? We hear he’s available at the moment and would do a splendid job.
At one time or another we’ve all had to resort to this. Granted, it marginally beats listening to an excited hyena on the radio who gives you palpitations with his high-pitched orgasm at every half-chance but watching a game on your lap top never fails to be anything other than an exasperating experience.
The Swansea/City game was always going to be a nerve-wracking 90 minutes at the best of times but with buffering occurring at the most inopportune moments I was climbing the walls by the end of it.
At one stage Danny Graham crossed low and hard into the City box with two Jacks strikers looking to pounce. The screen froze and kept me in suspense for so long I’d chewed my fingernails to the knuckle. Play resumed a full minute later in the opposing corner as if nothing remotely of note had happened. Meanwhile I remembered to breathe again.
Why do we always have to be punished for doing something illegal? It’s a question Jermaine Defoe ponders on numerous occasions each game.