Almost no one rants like Si, one of my great mates, a highly intuitive man and a pertinent and intelligent swearer. Don’t be offended. He could be defending you in court one day. So please read, mind your eyes but prepare to laugh as Si goes to town on Bono, Chris Martin and Glastonbury. See below
It’s now almost closer to the start of the new season than it is to the end of the last. How time flies. We’ve managed to get through a month without football, with only Rory McIlroy’s five irons and Roger Federer’s topspin forehand to keep us occupied. It’s been alright. A good clean break. I bet you haven’t even thought about the Barcelona debacle for a good few weeks. Sorry to bring it up again, like, but on the flipside you can look back and recall the glorious march to number nineteen. That seems a long time ago now. In odd years when there is no major tournament it’s difficult to think of anything football related to write about so with the benefit of a bit of distance and thus some perspective, let’s take a look back at 2010/11. It’s either that or I go on about how Glastonbury has turned into the Prince’s Trust benefit concert full of teenage birds screaming every time Beyonce says something about “forgetting your troubles and getting lost in the music”, and nobody wants that. Seriously though, surely it’s only a matter of time before JLS are headlining and it makes you pine for the days when shite like The Levellers were playing to a bunch of gypos with dreadlocks and dogs on a rope drinking meths. As Nicky Wire once told 15,000 smug cunts with Greenpeace t-shirts on and a petrol guzzling 4 x 4 parked in the healing fields, “they should build a bypass over this shithole”. And he’s a cunt too.
So instead of a diatribe, let’s dish out awards for the best and worst of 2010/11 in the old soccer.
Goal of the season – Bono is the king of all cunts. It’s hardly the most original opinion of all time but it’s true none the less. One thing I admire about him though is his total blinkeredness. Despite pretty much everyone in the world calling him a cunt on a daily basis, he just ploughs on through, thinking the world loves him and hangs on his every utterance, each one more inane and meaningless than the last. Look what happened to Robbie Williams. He had a similar level of arrogance and self satisfaction but when he was continually beaten down by the media and the public at large and he saw how much he was hated he very nearly topped himself. It would have been great if he had, don’t get me wrong. I’d like to see the man dead. Or would I? Do I care enough about Robbie Williams to actually see him dead or am I just being flippant? Hang on I’m going to have to stop and think about that for a second… Yes, I’ve decided that I’d like to see Robbie Williams’ life ended. Anyway, Bono. Even his own band mates hate him. Larry Mullen clearly can’t stand the cunt but he knows he’s on a pig’s back and makes millions off the back of his self-promotion. The Edge, despite being called ‘The Edge’, I reckon is probably about as well-adjusted as it’s possible to be for a man in his position called ‘The Edge’. The other fella looks like a bit of a ballbag and got his bar out on an album cover once, that’s about as much as I know of him. But Bono… maybe he’s not actually suffering from cuntitude and is just a genuine loon. To go on the way he goes on you have to be one or the other. It’s one of life’s great imponderables: Bono – cunt or loon? Rooney’s overhead was obviously the goal of the season.
Player of the season – Vidic. Chris Martin though… Now there’s a cunt. No mental illnesses going on there, just pure, unadulterated twatishness. If ever a human could be a big, wet, hairy fanny then it’s this fucking prick. He is Glastonbury now. He is what the festival is, and that’s a cunt. Glastonbury was once represented by relatively left field acts like Billy Bragg and Julian Cope – who are both shite by the way – but now it’s full on sack-cloth wearing bell ends like Chris Martin. He has two first names for starters. Never trust a man with two first names. It means their forefathers didn’t have a trade like ‘Cooper’ or ‘Taylor’ or ‘Schweinsteiger’ and were probably thieves. Butter wouldn’t melt in this cunt’s mouth. I know someone like that. He’s fucking brilliant at everything and is a smart cunt and he’s never said a bad word about anyone and no one’s ever said a bad word about him. He’s so nice that it just can’t be real. He must be covering something up. He must wank off dogs or something. Chris Martin definitely wanks off dogs. Never mind blimps with protest slogans about U2 not paying tax, the next time Coldplay are on at Glastonbury, which will be every fucking year for the next fifty, I’m getting a massive inflatable cock and balls with ‘Chris Martin wanks off dogs’ on it and floating it in front of the stage so it’s on national TV and the tip of the bell end is going to poke Chris Martin in the grid as he’d trying to sing. A massive, 20 foot penis in his face for the duration of the concert. Let’s see if he’d got “the best job in the world” then, the smug cunt. Never have a band become more representative of a demographic than Coldplay and the Pyramid Stage set – the sort of people who buy their CDs in Tescos and call it ‘Glasto’. Wankers.
Match of the season – Chelsea or something. But fuck that, maybe I’m not being fair. There were 175,000 people at Glastonbury and probably only about a fifth at the most could fit in the space around the main stage. I’m judging the whole festival on that. Most festivals are populated by dickheads these days and at least that one isn’t an advert for a minging beer or a telecommunications company. Glastonbury has become a television event – or the Pyramid Stage has, and the headliners reflect that. They are selected for people with mortgages who hate their wife and for whom 6 bottles of Corona and big bag of Walkers Sensations is about as rock and roll as their life gets these days. They’re 37 years old and this is the sort of shite they want to see. There’s probably all sorts of brilliant music and interesting shit going on all over Glastonbury but it’s not for the telly. The telly stuff is for the boring cunts, and they get bands on that reflect that. Elbow (these days), Coldplay, Paul Simon, Primal Scream, U fucking 2… all middle of the road pish’. Of all the people they showed on the telly not one of them was in any way off their nut. Not even drunk. In fact I can’t ever remember seeing anyone in the crowd with a drink in their hand. At a fucking festival, like? That’s not any festival I’ve been to. Wayne wouldn’t have been at that carry on, of course. He was obviously off his meatball on Buckfast and MDMA in the dance tent or lying talking shite to a bin that he thought was Carol Vorderman… with a Stereophonics tattoo on his arm.
Atmosphere of the season – Singing at a football match? Are you fucking serious? Grow up.
Gripe of the season – I don’t gripe. Life’s too short for negativity and I find it does your inner chakra no good to harbour unconstructive thoughts. If you don’t like it, change it or shut it. Moaning gets you nowhere.
Signing of the season – Ok, so it’s Javier Hernandez, but here’s a thought on your new favourite player. El Chicharito – the name every kid wants on their shirt. I’m not sure. That’s all I’m saying – just beware. He’s a god-botherer. Never trust a god-botherer. They don’t play by our rules. Is this the sort of player we want our kids idolising? I wouldn’t – not if I had any kids anyway. Not that I would have kids. I hate them. They’re evil fuckers who have an acute sense of your uncomfortableness around them and play you on it for their own gain. Crafty bastards. I hate them. Apart from yours. Yours are dead cute – do you have any photos of them on your phone that you could show me and tell me the story behind each one for the next five hours? I’d love that. But if I did have kids I’d have them with Vidic or someone on their shirts. God botherers think they’re on a higher plane to everyone else, whereas really they’re just weak-minded, stupid doormats who might as well believe in fucking fairies or something. Not only are they weak and ill-adjusted to the modern world, they actually have a sense of self-sanctimony and superiority that turns all that on its head in their own mind. Think Bono or Chris Martin. Go-botherers actually pity you though. To a man they’re devoid of personality. Think Kaka or most Americans. Michael Owen would probably be the best god-botherer in the world if he’d only bother about god. These people have ceded it all to some bullshit whilst a cunt with a cigar between his blackened teeth in a golden palace in Rome counts his cash with one hand and fingers a six year old boy’s balloon knot with the other. No place for that shite at United. Hernandez’ll also fuck off to Spain at the first available opportunity citing it as his ‘dream’. And he’s not that good – certainly not worth the hype he’s getting. Don’t trust the little bollicks, take it from me (but don’t hold me to it). It wouldn’t surprise me if he was undercover filth, in fact. He looks a bit like that rookie that was on The Bill years ago. Ravel’s yer man. Hernandez would be down the front for Coldplay waving at the camera and drinking mineral water whereas Ravel would be knocking out fake Benzo Fury to Jemima whilst his mates robbed their tents. That’s the sort of cunt we want at United.