Diary of a squad player, 5

Press day. 'Very much so.'

Monday, 29 November
Training was murder today, no ball work just running and weights (separately) because we're all 'streaks of piss' apparently.
Atmosphere was a bit low, even Stibbo sitting in a plate of pasta after Mucker put it on his chair didn't get much of a laugh. Rog tried to lighten the mood with one of his big bertha farts but no one was interested. He's such a trouper.
Press day ahead of tomorrow's match but no one turned up again. If it's not the Premier League the nationals aren't interested and the locals all go to press on Wednesday, so it was just the boss and Phil, the press officer, sat there looking at each other. They have to give it 10 minutes before giving up so they just sit there. It's painful to watch.
Then Phil has to interview the gaffer for the club website. Phil's a nice bloke but the gaffer keeps calling him Pete. And he's been doing it too long for Phil to say anything now. When you watch the vidos you've got the boss, when he isn't saying 'the football club' every 20 seconds, calling this bloke by the wrong name while he just takes it.
Jegger's birthday today and he's going round everyone to see if they fancy doing anything. Sure enough he ends up at me. I say I fancy staying in but he says just come round and play Fifa. He's only just moved here so it must be hard not knowing anyone, probably just doesn't want to be alone on his birthday.
Weather forecast is for snow tomorrow - if it keeps up and Saturday's match is off, Mucker, Ribbsy and Johnno are on about going to New York for the weekend. I fancy it but I'm a bit skint - do hospitals still buy sperm?
I haven't had a shit in three days.

Previously:
Part 4
Part 3 
Part 2
Part 1

The crud list

Five pounds please

Because not everything's ace. These things are crud:

Stubbing your toe
EastEnders
Oasis (since 1995)
Watching football on 'the Norwegian'
Watching football on the snide internet sites
That awful Miranda programme
Wet cuffs
Wet socks
Riding your bike in the pissing rain
Secret fucking Santa at work
Trying to find out my fucking birthday at work
Other people's fucking birthdays at work
Leaving cards
Christmas cards
Birthday cards
Get well soon cards
Sorry you've got aids cards
Works chrimbo dos
Sitting next to your boss at the works fucking chrimbo do
Low sugar jam
Piccalilly
Pubs charging over four quid - FOUR QUID - for a pint and putting that little tray down with the change in: They're saying 'I don't even want to touch you but give me your money'
Self-service tills
Warm toilet seats
Ross Noble - get to the point, fatty
The Champions League
The Premier League
People not coming to work because it's snowing. A bit
Umbrellas
All foreign language films
People who do all the flicks on nerd togger - just fuck off
The smooth-chops one off Peep Show
X-Factor
Adidas Forest Hills
Most of Adidas' recent trainer output
Paul Smith - abysmal quality
See also Lacoste, in all but the polo shirts
The fella who hates me in the post office - you fat prick
Those fuckers on Question Time who don't ask questions but make statements aimed at getting applause
Their expression as they sit back to the sound of said applause
Those UKIP bellends
Those coalition bellends
Teams taking 20 minutes for half time
Goalies hanging on to the ball for over six seconds - I'M COUNTING
Extra time in night games
In winter
Then penalties
Going out on same
Papers putting rugby and cricket before football in the sport bit
Reporters who take football, and especially the England team, so seriously
Zane Lowe - relax, you squinting spastic, it's pop music,
Alan FUCKING Green
Phil Thompson saying '...and everything' on Sky's Saturday goals thing. And what, Phil? And what!
Meetings
Pre-meeting meetings
Post-meeting meetings
Tripping over
Drivers who think a red light means 'speed up now'
Bus drivers
'Can I get'
'I'm good'
People leaving one biscuit in the pack/tin
People who take the last of the milk and put the bottle back in the fridge
People who don't wash their hands after going the toilet
People
Corrie at the mo - honestly, John Stape? No one fucking cares
G2 in that horrible smugfest The Guardian
Cheap socks
Britain's Got Talent
People not giving 'the wave' when I let them through in me car
People not giving 'the wave' when I let them through on me bike
'South Park smiles' at work
Being post shower but pre clobber in winter
The boiler breaking
Orange's phone signal
People bleating about the snow
Alan Titchmarsh
That nob who does the interviews on Sky Sports News, can't remember his name but he's dead tall and clearly no one likes him
Own brand beans
Under-done toast
Under-done chips
Deep-pan pizza
People moaning about Tube strikes - walk, lazyarse.
People who aren't in a trade union
People who used to be in a union but aren't now
The red and brown sauce they use in cafes
Easter eggs
The squeak at Goodison from the corner when a poorly-supported visiting team score
Getting to White Hart Lane
Getting away from White Hart Lane
Anyone wearing any of this lot - scarf, flip flops, three-quarter length kecks, sandals, sunglasses - in the pub
People not offering one of the recognised forms of thanks for a door hold

I hold these truths to be self evident. What about you?

Diary of a squad player, 4

And they're off! (Note the driver's personal bog roll)

Friday, 26 November
Coach up north for our away game tomorrow. A few supporters at the ground buying tickets as we left this morning - they must be mad, it's fucking freezing and we're bound to get snotted! Still, their choice.
The trip up is the usual, with everyone plugged into their iPods and DVD players. Mucker won fifty notes off me at cards. We're rooming together so I'll rob it back off him later.
The hotel's fucking awful. One of those purple ones Lenny Henry advertises - the boss says he'll have words with the chairman about getting us somewhere better next time, but he won't. He needs to keep his head down. I've heard the chairman's met ++++ ______  a few times now.

Saturday, 27 November
We got absolutely stuffed - the gaffer went berserk at half time and then absolutely fucking meltdown at full time. He was screaming and shouting and a big load of snot flew out of his nose and on his shirt - he just left it there. Kell got a bit on his leg but was too scared to wipe it off. It just sat there, bubbling in time with the boss's fury.
Ellsy got the shite ripped out of him by their full back and never got forward himself - the boss let him have it on that as well. I had to go the toilet I was laughing so much (so I could laugh, I wasn't pissing myself). The only ones who didn't get it were us who didn't get on, and the kitman. Even the physio got a bottle lashed at him in the changies.
The bus home was quiet at first, except for Rog's farts. You've never heard anything like these - really loud, carnival loud - deep and booming, but hardly any smell. Incredible. Quirk of nature I guess.
About an hour into the journey, the captain Stevo stood up and had a word. He's right, we're better than we showed today. Home game on Tuesday's what we have to look to now.
Things lightened up a bit after that, then Ribbsy says we should get the coach to drop us off and go straight to Infernos but I don't fancy it. It's always the same stuff for us, the same faces, the same girls - it's too easy. I'm getting sick of it now. I want something more. I'm not talking about settling down but it would be nice to meet someone I could talk to, someone who could get deep inside - there must be more to me than this?
I want to meet someone who'll tell me when I'm being a nob, someone who calls their mates by their proper names - and doesn't just stick a 'y' on the end. Someone who likes music and isn't caked in make-up. Someone who actually enjoys reading books, who wants to test themselves, push themselves forward, learn new things, embrace change, try different cultures. Someone I can talk to about my feelings, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I'm swerving it tonight, just Match of the Day and a beer at home. Something's changing in me, I can feel it.

Sunday, 28 November
Went the brasshouse.

Previously:
Part 3 
Part 2
Part 1

Diary of a squad player, 3

Goal!

Thursday, 25 November:
Probably not in the team for Saturday because I was in the 'others' for the full practice match. Ellsy was up against me so he might be in with a shout. I went in a little bit hard on him - he even dives in training! The absolute fanny - and the boss had a word. No ressies game this week either.
Someone put cat food in me Nike Air Max while I was in the shower. I spotted it in time so didn't step in it but that's just not funny. I'm all for having a laugh but leave the shoes out of it - there has to be limits. Like the time we put Johnno's socks in the toilet - that was funny because it's socks so no harm done. And if you spend £40 on a pair of socks you deserve all you get. You don't need to be spending more than a tenner on a pair of socks. The word 'socks' has lost all meaning.
In the afternoon a couple of us had to go to a school with the community scheme lads. It was alright, we did a kickabout with a few of the kids and then answered some questions. That was horrible - we're stood there at the front and there's about 20 kids all sat on the floor in a semi-circle with their arms up in the air.
All they ever want to know is how much we earn and who our favourite player is. Ribbsy said fifty quid a week and me. He's a dickhead sometimes. None of these kids seemed to have any teeth and one lad just kept looking at me, right the way through. Even when we were out the gate I could see him looking out the window at me.
Still getting nowhere on COD Black Ops.



Previously:
Part 2
Part 1

Hats off to.... Stacey Solomon

Stacey prepares to wrestle a croc

Or Stacey off I'm a Celebrity, as she is known. My God- what a woman! I don't watch the X-Factors so I'd never heard of her, and initially I found her cheeriness a bit grating. But by about two minutes into the second episode I was completely besotted (not literally, Mrs Biff!). She's an absolute nap to win this, unless one of the others rescues a baby from a burning car.
It's not just her outlook - her absolute refusal to see the bad, or buckle, in any situation - she's spot on about everything. Dom Jolly, who I've also warmed to, nailed it when he said all Stacey's instincts are dead on.
When she gently pointed out to that BASTARD Gillian McKeith that, given that she hated the trials and had a phobia about everything, maybe she should quit, she chose her words carefully, and spoke with genuine care. Especially so given what most people would say to the saggy-chopped old harridan, given the chance.
For McKeith to then - no, don't lose it here... deep breath, it's just a telly programme - MAKE STACEY CRY, well, surely the whole nation wanted to race to her aid, pausing only to boot McKeith up the vulva.
In yesterday's trial she basically walked Aggro (!) through the whole thing. His backside looked like it had gone, and given the height they were working at who could blame him? But Stacey was there, guiding him along every step - and she must have been bricking it herself. But she held the pair of them together - there's something about her manner that is totally disarming.
This is what Stacey said before she went in to the jungle: “I'm the type of person to squeal and I do think I will be voted for every trial. I'm scared of bugs too. Urgh! And I am claustrophobic. I do think people are going to laugh at me.” No one's laughing at her.
The Daily Mail and their ilk will probably hate the fact it's a single mother strapping it on and taking care of business, so to speak. When really they - and I'd go so far as to say the whole country - should be marvelling at this woman.
She's caring, brave, kind, compassionate, tidy looking, and smart. This is the kind of person Britain can still produce. I'm just glad there's more time to enjoy the programme as she marches on to what looks an inevitable victory (Shaun Ryder notwithstanding - her only rival).

Previously:
Jim Broadbent

Diary of a squad player, 2

Dance, dance, dance

Wednesday, 24 November
Infernos was ace last night, although someone spilt Drambuie down me G-Star top so that was annoying. Dabbsy went home with his sort of groupie (some bird who always seems to pop up when we're out). Ribbsy and me left early to get in a few hours on Call of Duty: Black Ops. I got shot to fuck by some Yanks. Ribbsy fell asleep with chips in his hair, the dirty tramp. Me mum came round to clean up though - result!
Watched Cash in the Attic and Homes Under the Hammer on Sky+. I wonder how old Lucy Alexander is? I don't think I could have a wank about someone who's older than me mum. She looks like she'd be proper filth - not me mum, although Stevo says he would - but also really nice the next day. Fluffy towels and a good brekky - none of that 'JUST GET OUT!' and sobbing while I'm looking for me undies.
Watched I'm a Celebrity... Voted for McKeith twice - what a wanker. Me dad said he wouldn't use her to wipe up sick, which I think is a bit strong, but I know what he means.
A face like that you'd think she'd try and be nice but she won't even make the effort. Like when Dubbsy wouldn't play along when I was telling this bird who works behind the bar at Rumours I was getting a move to Liverpool. I know she was impressed because I saw her mouth the word 'nodder' to her mate.

Previously:
Part 1

Cricket innit

Is that it?

Oh, The Ashes! A month of hearing the woman in here double her sport bullshit quota - 'we' will know mean, England (in all sports) and Chelsea (her husband's team). She's never been to any live sporting event.
It doesn't do it for me, cricket. Stopping for drinks is good but stopping for rain is puffy. Although I do quite like the slacks.
For football (ie normal) people cricket is a strange world of trudge, with five days of playing catch before the match is declared a draw and time for sandwiches.
There's even a difference in the way cricket players speak, like rugby (union) types. They talk about 'the guys' in a way you'd never hear footballers doing - even now, with the homogenisation of the game at the top level virtually complete.
Although I can imagine Jermaine 'you know' Jenas letting it slip before hurriedly moving on when he catches Harry Redknapp's eye. His popped casey face growling stage left like a disapproving flan.
Australian captain Ricky Ponting is an odd one. When he's wearing that baggy green cap he cuts a sort of Just William figure. He looks like he should have a catapult in his back pocket and be moaning about the contents of his 10p mix ('sherbet daaaaaaab?!!').
Play up, Britcrick!

Apprentice episode 8 - a touch of drudge

Chameleon-like Christopher - here doing his 'Joey off friends'

Ah the joy of seeing bumbling idiots trying to out-dickhead each other. After a couple of poor(ish) episodes where it was pretty clear who was for the chop as soon as they got in the boardroom, we needed a proper blood bath this week.
Unfortunately we don't get one as the business school circus heads to Germany. Christopher gets in a bit of Stan Boardman with 'I hate the Germans!' and they're off to Hamburg to try and flog crisps.
Stella leads Team Puddle and Chris, who always speaks like he's trying to hold down vomit, is in charge of Team Flaps. You wouldn't think Stuart could sound more of a nob than last week's masterclass in talking to women but MAN hear him chant those German numbers. He's right though, paprika is fucking lovely.
They have to decide on flavours with Stella's mob going for stilton/paprika and chilli/beef - both of which sound ace - while Chris's troop go for ghoulash and curryvurst.
The actual flogging is quite hard to follow because of the rapid-fire editing - again! Is it just me can't tell who's on which team? - but a couple of stand out moments include Stuart and Laura coming up against an unblinking ball breaker who cant understand her. So naturally she talks fasterandfasterandfaster. The bloke does't like the crisps either. Soon Laura is declaring she 'doesn't give a shit' about the whole thing and then the heel comes off her shoe! Lovely stuff.
Meanwhile Christopher, who looks a bit like Fungus the Bogeyman this week, and dreamy Jamie pound the pavements trying to flog crisps - sorry, luxury chips - door-to-door at cafes, where Jamie helpfully explains the concept of crisps with a sarnie to one cafe worker.
It's in the boardroom where this programme should be at its best, but its been lacking lately and this is again another tame effort. Even Sugar seems weary of it all as he sighs about seeing the same faces back time and again. As it is, Stella's lot win by a mile and it's Chris and the rest of Team Tithead back for the bitch fight. 
The debate over who's at fault is a bit half-arsed but lovely Liz dodges the bullet so it's Christopher, Jamie and team leader Chris facing the bolt gun through the back of the head.
Chris says he's unlucky to be back in there and, while he's right to a degree because others did mess up (taking a late appointment thus allowing the other lot to nip in and get a massive sale, mainly), you don't say it to a bloke like Sugar.
Christopher is a water carrier, a strong back. He seems a grafter but do people, as the lord says, really like him? Either way, in a minor shock, it's Christopher who gets the chop. He looks gutted. The squaddie nob.
On the most important thing - looks - Jamie's an odd one, from straight on he looks good but from the left, as they keep showing him here, he looks like he's had a minor stroke. Is it just me thinks this programme is on its last legs? Needs a good 'un next week.

Best bit:
Gobby Joanna: 'Have I got my point across clearly enough? I want a sausage, I want a curry and I want paprika.' Whaddagal!

Previously:
So long Sandeesh!
Fuck off Alex
Episode 5-fear-and-loathing in M17

Last night's nerd togger - middle ground

The real (!) Estadio Santiago Bernabeu

Two wins, two defeats. Leaving me with five more defeats than wins - a record I will never break as I'm not quite good enough to get to the next level, so I'll keep bumping along like this. 
It's quite sobering to realise I've peaked at a pretty poor level of a game played on a toy by kids who are going to all get much better than me because they learn how to do all the flicks and that. 
I'm waving them on to better things, like Withnail in that horrendous film which people who want to appear cleverer than they really are say is their favourite film, even though it isn't actually funny and they nearly wet themselves watching Trains, Planes and Automobiles. 
Anyway the two defeats were close, (City 1-2 Chelsea, Everton 0-1 Arsenal), but then a couple of rip-snorting wins, first Everton went two up in 20 minutes to Villa before my opponent pulled the plug, incurring my customary 'ha ha ha' message - no exclamation, I'm not an animal. 
Up next the nitwit I was playing went Real Madrid so I plumped for Barcelona. With 10 minutes gone his keeper passes it out short, but David Villa nips in and smashes in a shot. It's saved but comes back to Villa who hits the bar with his next effort. Just as I was about to bellow some major language at the telly Villa prods home.
Then my opponent appears to stop playing so I just pass it round at the back. A message comes in saying, 'I don't like the shirts,' - what existential mind games are afoot? But then he hits back and tries to make a game of it - to no avail. I triumph 1-0 but best of all I could hear his every foul-mouthed splutter as nerd Barca eased through his nerd Real like a hot blade through a trapped, whimpering pug. 


Previously:
A day of days

Up yours, Spurs and Bayern

Fridge

A right royal bumming

A grim tale

Have that Fritz

No name

It begins

Guest mystery columnist - presenting, the diary of a squad player...

Things get lively at Infernos

My mate's lad is a professional footballer, he's a smart kid - one of only two to get taken on from his academy group a couple of years ago - and is starting to make the matchday first-team squad regularly. No names of players (well there are but they're all changed) or the club concerned but they are a decent sized 'outfit', although not Premier League. He's started keeping a diary. This is his first effort:

Tuesday 23 November:
Ribbsy came in with a new watch, two grand he reckons! He's only played about 20 times for the first team and he's already lashed out on a new car - some kind of Jeep - and a 3-d telly. The watch is white and massive - to be fair, it looks the bollocks.
Sky were down to interview Ellsy. He's the one being linked with all kinds of moves to Premier League teams but I think he's shit. Good on the ball but a total fanny merchant. Maybe Arsenal will sign him.
Came last in the sprints so had to wear the shit-shirt for five-a-side. This is a shirt that's never been washed. It's horrible and I think the smell stuck with me all day. Definitely an odd pong as I walked round Waitrose.
Day off tomorrow so Ribbsy, me, Mucker, Dabbsy and Roger are off to Infernos.

Everton trundling towards... what?

Hi, I'm Mikel Arteta!

What the crud is wrong with David Moyes? Admittedly a few cold drinks had been enjoyed but I couldn't see why it took so long to hook Louis Saha and the inflato-head-Plug-from-the-Beano Johnny Heitinga. And Cash money Mikel Arteta for that matter, who looks slower and weaker with every game.
Everton started well with Tim Cahill - what the fart are we going to do when he pisses off with Australia for six weeks? - heading in a Leighton Baines cross. Those two, along with Seamus Coleman were probably the only two to really cut it last night - Christ knows why Moyes took Coleman off. But they just seemed to fall further back until Sunderland equalised. After that it could have gone either way but was it really a surprise when Sunderland went ahead? And don't their supporters get excited about the slightest thing? As soon as the ball went in our half they were shrieking like those tracksuited women who camp outside paedo trials (that's court cases, not try-outs for would be nonces).
There's something wrong with Everton this season and it's not the slow start thing, not after 14 games. They look slow generally, like they're playing too soon after having their dinner. Even at Brentford, after a good start, we fell away horribly. The derby performance was excellent and more like the fast pace we're used to, but that was against arguably the worst team Everton have played this season.
We're level on points with West Brom - up next at Goodison - and then it's Chelsea away, and you know what will happen there. Fifty quid in and BEND OVER. This season is in danger of disappearing into nothingness before it's really got started. And it isn't a 'sign of how far we've come' that a top-10 finish (ie 10th) is a disappointment. It's shite. Of course a couple of wins and we're laughing but yet more draws, or defeats, puts an awful lot of pressure on for a good FA Cup run.

These look similar

This is off the Co-Op window 

And this is off Pink Floyd's The Wall

City - what's the problem?

New money - urgh

I only had half an eye on last night's match and Fulham are pretty accommodating opponents but there didn't look a lot wrong with Manchester City as they shrugged the Cottagers aside 4-1. The amount of shite they get in the papers, on the radio, the internet and, well everywhere really, just seems out of proportion. I can't actually see what they're doing wrong - and I detest new football. They're doing it at a faster rate and from further behind than Chelsea were, but what's the difference? Chelsea got stick when Roman Abramovich started lashing it about, but it never seemed this gleeful and vicious.
From what little I've seen of them this season City play some decent stuff, and the fact is they're fourth in the league, three points behind Chelsea, who they beat recently. So it's not all bad.
The game at the top level is truly fucked when that bastion of corporate cock-sucking Manchester United PL Fucking C is seen as the good guy, valiantly battling against the odds to take on the ghastliness of their cross-City neighbours. Witness the reporting of the recent Manchester derby.
As well as United's new image as the Tiny Tim of Europe, a weird sidebar to City's emergence is the re-branding of Chelsea, who seem to represent proper 'old money' now. Chelsea with their horrible nobhead supporters can win all they like but they're a div two team to me, always will be. Micky fucking Droy and that lot (did he play for them in div two? Either way they were shite.)
I'm not saying I like City, I don't, although I don't mind them, but I think the anger they generate shows the inherently conservative nature of some football supporters. Secretly they liked the 'top four' Champions League cabal with the same four clubs draining the life out of the division, leaving a succession of 'dead rubbers' for the teams above 14th once it gets to March.
Isn't it good that there's a club shaking things up a bit - that actually has the others looking over their shoulders? That can stand there, shooting round after round in to the still-twitching corpse of Liverpool, just for the hell of it? We don't have to like the idea of players getting £200k a week, but that horse has long bolted, so what's the point of whining about it? They're all shitheads and that's it. Witness the half-arsed booing/cheering of Wayne Rooney at Old Trafford on Saturday. It will be great to see United supporters crawling to a player who basically wanted to leave them, for City. For that alone City and their blunderbuss spending should be applauded.

This week's 'so effing what' list

Let the nation rejoice

Kate thingy's blue dress
Kate thingy does/doesn't doesn't have a job
England getting snotted by France
Jason Manford 'twanking'
Fifa World Cup bollocks (yes, two Henry links, but he takes it all so seriously)

Get knotted Tescos, you too Sainsbury's

Give me my Cornettos!

After months of putting it off I eventually gave in - beep! - and used the self-service bit at the - unexpected item in the bagging area! - supermarket. I'd been putting it off but a steady reduction in the number of people tills has combined with the rise of the DIY ones - like they're forcing us into their self-service ghetto by stealth.
If your stuff all has barcodes on then it's not too bad, although sometimes it just refuses to read the code so you're swaying a tin of beans back and forth like a rummy sailor trying to start a sea shanty. And if you've got anything crazy like loose potatoes then it turns into a really cruddy version of The Crystal Maze as you try to find the nearest approximation to what you're holding on their bizarre computer menu while a harrumph of waiting shoppers give you the stink-eye.
But that's not the main problem, it's getting the stuff into the bag without being shouted at by the horrible, prissy voice they've detailed to shame people into paying for the plum they've tried to sneak through.
I had to give up because the whole thing was getting too much. I picked up my beans and cornettos (that's two items, you've not missed an incredible fusion) and spluttered at one of the assistants who patrol the area, 'you should have more staff on and less of this... rubbish' while gesturing wildly at the crowd, each huddled with grim determination over their own machine, wildness in their eyes like kids who'd cracked the eternal-free-credits code on Defender. The assistant blinked at me before turning to aid an old war hero who was struggling to accept that his CurlyWurly remained resolutely 'unidentified'. I dumped my stuff and disappeared into the night, beaten but not mortally so. I shall return...

Yes, yes, yes, NO

It's Gore-Tex - you know about Gore-Tex?

I was awoken this morn by the sound of rain thrashing my bedroom window, and the usual demands of an angry morning bladder. But it was the rain that filled me with joy - a chance to wear my ace Adidas Tokio Hi shoes. I got these a few months ago off ebay (I don't think they're in the shops any more).

They're a solid, smart piece of kit - really comfortable and, thanks to the goretex uppers, totally waterproof - with just a hint of Back to the Future. There's even a webbed bit at the top of the tongue to keep water from sneaking in at the top of the laces. So it's all good. Except. Ex-cept the soles - they slip in the wet.

This seems a monumental error in a pair of shoes whose main selling point is keeping water at bay. I've nearly gone on my arse both times I've worn these and that is not a good look for a man of my years, and girth. Hopefully the sole will wear down a bit in time, but even so, it's a fair balls up for something that had an RRP of over £100. And I have still to traverse the journey home.

The offending sole

Last night's nerd togger - a day of days!

BOOM!

The usual derby day recipe of mistakes, nerves and unbearable tension was cast aside at Biff Mansions as Nerd Everton BEAT THE LIVING PISS out of nerd Liverpool, played on this occasion by a young Spanish twerp. I know this because I could hear his every anguished yelp blurting out of my telly like a strangled digital fart. The mayday call of the doomed.
No one could have lived with my nerd powers on this day as we tore in to the reds from the off, forcing three quick corners. Nowt came of them but it was only a matter of time before el Lipewl's defence fell.
When the breakthrough came it was quick and deadly. A smart move down the left saw Pienaar whip over a cross, the defence looked to have it covered but BOOM there was Yakubu to muscle in and head home at the near post. Chances came and went for Everton but no more first-half goals as Liverpool limped over the line with all the force of an old man's wank.
The second half was more of the same but this time Liverpool had no answer to the sheer force of will that was this nerd display, as first Cahill and then Saha blasted home to put the blues out of sight. The feared, fabled Liverpool late rally never came, instead it was Everton who poured forward searching for more. And with seconds to go, Yakubu drifted in from the left before hammering home the killer blow. At this point, with his dreams in tatters and the score at 4-0, Pepe pulled the plug.

Previously:

Up yours, Spurs and Bayern

Fridge

A right royal bumming

A grim tale

Have that Fritz

No name

It begins

Apprentice episode 7 - so long Sandeesh!

Ta-ta!

This week the highest flyers the nation's City & Guilds events management courses can produce have to create blue screen videos - like they do action stuff for films like James Bond on - and sell them to shopping centre folks in west London's colossal monument to commerce, Westfield.
Leader of Team Dunderhead, Stuart, gets things going with his battle cry: "I'm a stupid moron with an ugly face and a big butt and my butt smells and I like to kiss my own butt." Or something. And pausing only to piss off his team mates (all women) razzes off in a racing car (that's what their film is, racing cars - a good idea, for kids, to be fair).
Stuart assumes last week's victim Alex's prick mantle and keeps going on about what an ace leader he is - big talk for a rosy cheeked fatarse with no self awareness and actual tits. Not 'moobs', TITS. He's clearly never had sex outside of a commercial arrangement. TITS!
At the shopping centre they set up with a little racing car in front of the blue screen and get some sales. Things look promising - cash changes hands as the parents see their kids pretend racing. But oh no! Customers complain that rogue kids turn up on the wrong DVDs (it's like Gary Glitter all over again). TITS!
Team Boob is led by Sandeesh and their idea is skiing, or snowboarding or some shite, because they are fucking stupid. Who the hell is going to pay money to piss about - in front of their pals or family, presumably - pretending to ski and then take a film home to show people?
When they open (late because no one can work the gear) no sod wants to have a go. Then they drop the price and finally attract some punters (their kids anyway) before going one better and nicking Team Dunderhead's idea and getting racing cars!
To the boardroom! How was Stuart, girls? A short silence, then BLAMMO! From all sides - but incredibly his team wins. The spawny wanker. Sandeesh? She's alright, is the consensus, but they lost so she has to decide who's going to be wriggling with her like some corporate worm under Sugar's magnifying glass. (I reckon Nick's the sun).
Chris's wet gob is flapping in indignance but he's back in with Liz, leaving the other two to slide home in their own oils. Chris is revving, spluttering how Sandeesh never spread the work out, and how blah blah blah.
He needn't worry, Liz neither, because Sugar's got Sandeesh in his sights and it's obvious she's doomed, probably for her overall performance throughout the series, and she's gone - without 'the point'!


Previously:

Fuck off Alex
Episode 5-fear-and-loathing in M17

Something's gone wrong again - Ed's office

A big list of ace

Apparently some pics on here were infringing copyright, so we should be safe with this pic of a kids' ride that looks a bit like David Cameron

Because, contrary to some reports, everything is not shite. These things are all ace:

Roast potatoes
Corn flakes with ice cold milk out of a glass bottle
Last-minute goals
Wanking 'on a full tank'
Penalty shoot-outs
Martin Kelner's Guardian column
Nando's
Cold bottles of beer from your own fridge
Eric Cantona
Match of the Day on Skywitchcraft when you fast-forward the blather
Public Enemy
The initial euphoria of sweet, sweet recreational drugs
Indian head massages
Girls in their Summer Clothes by Bruce Springsteen
Popscene by Blur
Kicker Conspiracy by t'Fall
Internet filth
The internet
eBay
Amazon
Bryan Robson
Pistachios 
Play.com
Stewart Lee

Jerry Sadowitz
Simon Munnery
David Peace
The Smiths
Veggie foo-yung, half and half, with curry sauce on top
Corrie
George Costanza
Porridge (the food)
Porridge (the programme)
The Simpsons (before it went shit)
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
Star Wars (first three)
Original Star Wars cards
Original Star Wars toys
Diego Armando Maradona
Superman
Original Superman cards
3G astroturf
6876
Elland Road

adidas Ivan Lendl shirts
The IT Crowd
Back to the Future
Getting to the pub a bit early so you can read the paper
Freezing cold sunny days
FC United of Manchester
AFC Wimbledon
Fillet steak (rare)
The French Connection (I and II)
Beer on the balcony before going out for the night on holiday
Pink Floyd
Danny Baker
Bending your knees a bit when you have a wee when you're bursting
Goodison Park under lights
Red wine

Aways at West Ham and Spurs
The Good Rat by Jimmy Breslin
Sayers
The Arsenal Stadium, Highbury (not the shitty flats)
New trainers
CP Company Metropolis coats
Fancy bread with real butter
Big coats
Seabrook crisps
iPods and MP3 players in general

Yorkshire Tea
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Jack magazine (RIP)

Tom Sharpe
The Fatima Mansions
Douglas Adams
The iPhone (it's ace, and you should have got one, accept it)
Uniqlo jeans
The Young Ones
The Sopranos
Socks from Gap
Getting free stuff
Reeves and Mortimer
Flat white coffee
microKORG
Xbox
PlayStation
David Lacey
Twitter
Freezing Coca-Cola when you've got a hangover
Funeral dos
Cycling
A curry from your favourite gaff
Taking a chance on a new gaff (any food denomination) and it being great
The view from Hilly Fields
The Larry Sanders Show
Doing 'thingy'
sabotage times
Those breakfasts in a tin
That thing that makes you go back when you've been hurt (football, love, whatever)
A really massive chicken sarnie on event bread with salad, black pepper and mayonnaise
Alan Partridge
Undies hot off the radiator
Two pairs of socks at the match in winter
The smell of pubs as you walk past at Chrimbo
Chips out of the bag, with champagne (ooh, hoity-toity!)
Buying a new shirt
Thomas Hearns
Reading the paper on the bog
Peter Reid
BBQ Beef Hula Hoops
Knee-high boots (and no higher) on women
Chocolate Fingers
Metal Box by Public Image Ltd
The sheer enormity of it when you first go the match as a kid
South Park
One Summer
The new Wembley Stadium
The Clash
Inspiral Carpets
Five Families by Selwyn Raab
Auf Wiedersehen Pet (first two series)
Ian Brown
The Specials
Scully
The 1982 and 1986 World Cups

People who swear on phone-ins

And that's off the top of my head. This is my truth, tell me yours...

Last night's nerd togger - up yours, Spurs and Bayern

Vanquished

Incredible scenes at Biff mansions as I extended my unbeaten run to four (four) games. First up an abortive game (my opponent pulled the after he went two down early on) as nerd Everton against nerd Spurs.
Then a real humdinger against nerd Bayern Munich. A close game saw me go two up (both Saha) early on only for my opponent to equalise with 20 minutes left. But straight from the kick off Saha struck again with what proved to be the decisive goal. Right at the end my vanquished foe pulled the plug - he was only one down, he had the ball and the whistle hadn't gone! What kind of nerd is that?
Well one of the good things about this game is the layout of the Xbox's 'virtual' keyboard, which makes it very easy to send a 'ha ha ha!' message, which I did. In your face, Frenchie!

Previously:
Fridge
A right royal bumming
A grim tale
Have that Fritz
No name
It begins

By George they're good

'Soon I shall buy a mighty yacht' In terms of living, the importance of having a good chippy near your gaff can't be overstated - that's one that does good fish and good chips, as well as the necessary extras - gravy, curry sauce, and for the show-off, beans. This is big stuff - important enough to be included in estate agents' listings. In London, or at least the bits I've lived in, finding a good chippy has always been a problem - there's any number of chineses, curry gaffs and Nantucket fried chicken outlets, but the dedicated chippy is a trickier blighter to find. There was a belter by London Bridge station for a few years, on Borough High Street. It was expensive but excellent, and just when it had been there long enough to be incorporated into evening plans, it was snatched from us. But while its flame burned, it burned bright and true. By far the best chippy I've found in the capital is George's on Essex Road, Islington. It is - or at least was, I've not been in for years as I don't live round there now - sensational. He sometimes used to have small fish - what I called a 'hand fish' because it was the right size to hold and eat from your hand, as one might a lolly ice. It was a masterclass in batter construction, always just right - nice and crispy with soft, white fish beneath. And all for a quid!  The chips at George's were always, a-l-w-a-y-s, dead on too. This is something often overlooked - ludicrous when you look at what we call them, chippies (or chippohs, if you're in Warrington).  There's one I frequent now - on Lee High Road opposite the Swan pub - which does sensational fish. They make it to order so there's none of it sitting around winking at you in that chippy version of an Amsterdam window where fish, pies and 'sausages' squat vying for attention. Here it's made fresh and lovingly packed into a cardboard container with a wedge of lemon. Beautiful. But the chips never quite cut it - they're anaemic - and you have to ask for them well done if you want  them decent. Up the hill in snooty Blackheath there's a chippy opposite the station, and while it's good, it's mad expensive. No wonder the bugger in the picture above is looking so happy - they're charging just shy of £2 for chips (you can see the bag being handed over on the left of the pic, it’s sneaking out from the customer’s coat sleeve). And asking – nay demanding – £1.60 for a sausage! I've got it in my head its £1.80 a bag and in the lack of a counter-argument I'm going with this, and as you can see from the picture below of the queue this bommy night, it's packing them in. AND Ketchup's extra. Shame on you sir!  Some millionaires queue for chips

Hats off to... Jim Broadbent

Jim Broadbent

Has this fella ever given a duff performance? I read something ages ago about James Bolam, how his performance is so thorough he even acts out the commas. I'm no expert on acting but Broadbent seems like that sort of bloke - he's just incredibly watchable.
Whether it's stealing the show in comedy (as bent copper Roy Slater in Only Fools and Horses or the Queen of Spain's translator Don Speekingleesh in Blackadder), or his Oscar-winning turn in Iris, he's always brilliant.
If a trailer comes on telly for something and it's got Broadbent in, I'll usually watch or tape it on my skywitchcraft box. And kicking off next Sunday Broadbent stars alongside some right crackers - Matthew Macfadyen, Kim Cattrall, Gillian Anderson,Tom Hollander, to name a few - in an adaption of some book or other that I've never heard of. I'm going to watch it because Broadbent's in it. Because he's ace. Because he makes it look effortless - something only those who really put the graft in can do (Warren Clarke is another) . And then of course, there's this.
Any Human Heart starts on Channel 4 on Sunday 21 November.

Previously:
BBC 5live football

This week's 'so effing what?' list (late versh)

Tomorrow you're homeless, tonight it's a blast

• Ian Holloway might quit (go on then, nobhead)
• 'Students' getting filled in - it should be an annual event.
• Harry Bastard Potter
• X Factor 'crisis'
• Molly, Kevin and fucking Tyrone - just kill them all off
  

Something's gone wrong again - new job

Last night's nerd togger - language, failure and festering fridges

Floating Frank

First up a tonking for me as nerd Chelsea at the hands of nerd Manchester United. It sticks in the throat of some nerd purists for an Evertonian to play as Chelsea but sometimes it's about getting the result. That didn't work this time and I was pure shite.
My opponent asked for a rematch and like a fool I said yes - never do this if you've just got beaten because your nerd dander is too up to guarantee success and you end up fouling everything that moves while screaming even worse things at the screen. (Example: 'Fucking arse your dad up the cunt, you cunt.' And no one likes to hear that.)
This time though he went nerd Liverpool and I went nerd Everton. Torres put the wanker one up but goals either side of half time from Saha and Arteta put me ahead only for that gobshite wanker poncey little shitstain cuntbucket Torres to equalise. I declined another rematch as I had to go the shops. 
On my return and after I'd put the shopping away and cleaned the fridge out - properly this time - in an attempt to get rid of the smell which has the poor bemused appliance in its grip I had another go. Again as nerd Everton only this time some punk ass kid goes nerd Vitesse Arnhem, a team ranked a full star lower than the nerd Toffees.
Now if you're going to do this - play as a crap team - you better bring your game or prepare for the nerd beat down. Because no matter how good you (think you) are the players are that bit slower and weedier so it's mainly a matter of keeping the ball and being patient. Which I did to ease my foe aside 3-1 (Saha, Cahill, Yakubu) after Grant Lederhosen had put them one up.
The fridge still smells though. It is most perplexing.

Previously:
A right royal bumming
A grim tale
Have that Fritz
No name
It begins

Something's gone wrong again - the quest for chips

Previously:
At the cinema

Phwoar!! Thanks Wallis!

Mega nipple!

Apprentice episode 6 - fuck off Alex

Hamster

Recap: They're all horrible pricks with no interest in working for Sugar and just want to be on telly.
To this week, where they have to come up with a new household cleaning product which they advertise on telly and radio.
Alex sets the tone nicely by roaring: "If I was an apple pie, the apples inside would be orange."
One lot calls theirs Germ-o-nator - in a horrible red and black bottle that would fit the bill in a sex shop - and the others go for Octi-clean (something to do with octopuses). Got to admit I can't tell who's on which team here because of the way they cut between scenes. It all blends in to one long splutter.
Anyway for one lot, Fattie Corden's spastic half cousin Stuart, who has a fucking EAR RING, voices the Germ-o-nator radio ad and he isn't awful. The telly ad is stupid though - it just is.
On the same team Laura wants to make cleaning more fun - which unless you're doing it on acid can only really be achieved by getting someone else to do it. Possibly naked. She looks more like Linda Blair out of the Exorcist with every week, and when she dismisses Sandeesh's pitch as rubbish it takes all her will to not puke devil spew on them.
With the other team there's just the hint of sexual tension brewing between Scouse Vladimir Putin-alike team leader Chris and moaning gobbo Joanna, and she gets the arse when he, correctly, casts lookers in his advert. It's got to be said their telly ad - did they do a radio one? - with its 'eight hands are definitely better than two' tagline is absolute shite.
The Octi-clean pitch is a dog and it gets pelters from the marketing experts as Jamie declares a quarter of men would give up a shag if their house was a tip. Really? I've done it in sheets that doubled as a napkin when I ate YESTERDAY'S PIZZA IN BED.
In the boardroom Sugar tears both teams to shreds but the Octi-clean ad gets it both barrels. Incredibly though Sugar likes the 'eight hands...' line. The idiot! The mind that brought us the emailer! He puts that team through so it's over to the other lot with their Germ-o-nator bollocks to see who gets sacked.
They all file in being quite pally but before long it's like a scene from St Trinians only with business studies BTEC types instead of strumpets. Up for the chop are Alex, Sandeesh and the brains behind the telly ad Chris Softbollocks.
Under fire from all sides Alex splutters 'in my dayjob...' - stop right there. You're unemployed. In your 'dayjob' you struggle to find spankwire vids that you don't know off by heart.
Just a point here - does Chris wear coloured contact lenses? His eyes are a weird blue. He looks a bit like the dragon off Ivor the Engine. 
Sandeesh gets a pass so it's down to Chris and Alex and fuck me it could be either of them but of the two Alex is a splutter and useless - he knows he fucked up and the bullet's coming. First thing he's got right all day - at least he wished the other berk good luck.

Best bit: 'Tramp on chips'

Episode 5-fear-and-loathing in M17

Something's gone wrong again - at the cinema

It could happen to you

Pulling tree 2000

Being attractive is the most important thing there is - so said popular young people's musical turn 'the Nada Surf'.
I wouldn't say I'm losing my looks, it's more, to paraphrase Spinal Tap manager Ian Faith, my appeal is more selective.
Until about five years ago I used to look significantly younger than my years. People would recoil, gasping, when they learned my age. 'How can this be?' they'd splutter while steadying themselves. Those days are gone now - if my age comes up it is greeted with barely a nod and a return to whatever the discussion at hand is.
As you can see in the comparison of official pulling trees from this year and in 2000 I've tumbled through the ranks. So beware, fellow lookers, and romp freely while the sun shines. Lest you end up nestled 'twixt Kamara and I.

Pulling tree 2010