Mega-sarnie at Polpo

Oink oink, my good man!

If you're anything like me - you lucky swine - you'll be constantly on the lookout for ace sandwiches. I had one last Saturday which could only improve by being the size of a small cow, or half a normal size cow. Or a standard-size toilet lid.
The venue was Polpo on Beak Street in London's fashionable London. I was in there early - as one must to get a table easily as you can't book - before heading off to Bradley's Spanish bar to watch Barcelona hand Manchester United their collective arse.
Mrs Biff was in full effect, thrilled at the prospect of an evening watching football in a sweaty pub. We got a few dishes, but eating at 6pm really should be left to the over 70 crowd. It's better to go later, have a drink at the bar and wait for a table to come up. 
Because we were scoffing so early not much really hit home, except the 'cured pork shoulder & peperonata panino' (I think that's foreign for panini, which is in turn foreign for 'expensive bread for idiots'). 
Not cheap at £5.50 but this thing was sensational, stuffed with meat, moist, juicy peppers and some kind of mayonnaise and oil or something. There may have been cheese in there - I was in such a frenzy I can't remember. 
The bread was toasted just right too and there was no spillage at all when eating. The sandwich artisan behind this beast is truly a master of the craft.
I could see the woman next to us eyeing it up - coveting, possibly plotting a theft. I'd have smacked her in the eye if she even hovered too close. And I'd do the same to any of you. The only downside was I had to let Mrs Biff have half. I was gutted about that and resented her for the next hour because of it. 
Polpo is at 41 Beak Street, London W1F 9SB. 

Alan Nixon says so, 25/12/10 to 31/12/10

swoop

A quick round up of the made up bullshit of everyone's favourite tabloid chubster. For those new to Nixon watch, we round up all the fat prick's transfer 'scoops' and manager moves then, when the transfer window closes, we'll see how many the turd actually gets right. 
These are only the ones I've seen so if I've missed any please add in comments below. On with the show - you'll notice virtually all his shite goes in two papers.
From the Mirror: Sam Allardyce to be the next Burnley manager (joint byline with David Anderson). Owen Coyle (Bolton) 'to one of English football`s major powers'. Nixon mentions Liverpool.
Eidur Gudjohnsen (Stoke) wants out, to anywhere. Stephen Ireland and Richard Dunne (Aston Villa) to Celtic (probably loans). Also Villa-bound in Alan world will be Blackburn's Chris Samba (super) for a cool £6m-plus. 
Wayne Bridge from Manchester City to West Ham (loan or full transfer) where he'll be joined by 'Hoffenheim’s £6million-rated Senegal striker Demba Ba'. 
David Luiz (Benfica) to Chelsea or City for £35m. Kevin Wilson (Forest) to Celtic. Apparently he's due to sign a pre contract to join for nowt in summer but Celtic want him now dammit.
From the People: Steve 'Roy's' Kean (Blackburn) to 'swoop' for Barcelona's Oriol Romeu, but he faces a battle (!) with Villa. They should nipple it out, Houllier and Kean, live on Sky. Bare chested, hands tied behind backs, no butting aloud - all you've got is your nipples. Also 'another Barcelona youngster, Sergio Roberto, is wanted by Chelsea'. Course he is, dickhead. Elsewhere Leicester want Emile Heskey on loan from Villa but he only wants a permanent move. 
Doncaster manager 'Sean O'Driscoll will snub Sheffield United – because he is the red-hot favourite to step in at Nottingham Forest.' In place of Billy Davies and his sword that spits fire. Meanwhile Neil Sullivan - who is well hunky (my opinion, not Nixon's, as far as I know) could be the new Doncaster boss.

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