Samey Season

Oh GOODY

With our record-breaking* Dickheads series out of the way, it’s time to get back to our pastiched, holier-than-thou, tiradey ways. At least there is some recognition on our behalf here, that we are pseudo pub know-it-alls. But a mission statement for the new season was needed all the same. To kick off this season’s coverage, it is probably apt that we begin with a meditation on how shit the Premier League is.

Armbands And Firebrands

"Just do what the fuck you want"

After a couple of weeks of nostalgia and pretending to be grown-ups, we thought it about time we had a good old rant. Wonder what our favourite subjects over at England have been up to? What? WHAT? He made him CAPTAIN? Oh goody...

There’s a certain laissez-faire that can creep in when you know you’re about to leave a job. Depending on how much you cared about it in the first place, it can sway from proudly maintaining your professionalism until the bitter end to basically, ahem, not giving a fuck anymore. Naturally, you don’t want anyone to notice that you can’t be arsed to make the brews, let alone the decisions, as your contract winds down. But when you start contradicting yourself, say, or ignoring your colleagues and give the impression that you’ll be glad when all this shit is someone else’s responsibility, you should expect to be exposed to the occasional shellacking.

Champions League, You're Having A Laugh

'No, I don't know what happened to that unicorn'

Well bugger me, it’s the Champions League this week. AGAIN. Where are we up to at the moment? Oh, it’s the penultimate group games. Well, that could be exciting – maybe Real haven’t qualified ye- oh no, never mind. Maybe United-Rangers will be a mouth-watering contest, as surely United need to go and get a win to be sure of- oh no, no they don’t. What about a real continental fixture? Maybe if Panathanaikos get something off Barcelona at home it’ll make things diffi-, oh no, Barca’s last game is at the Camp Nou against a team with no wins. Well they still want to win their group of cour- NO. NO THEY DON’T. NO ONE CARES.

Prats Identified - Hats in Post

The FUTURE of England

We’re up on the Mount again, get ready for the sermon everyone. We wouldn’t have had to do this if Gareth bloody Southgate had kept his mouth shut at half time. But he didn’t, did he. Or if the Sun hadn’t thought it hilarious to lead on the back page today with ‘Prat in a hat’. But they did, didn’t they. It is with a beleaguering sense of déjà vu that we find ourselves taking issue with imbeciles who don’t understand the game. Or at least understand it in some utterly warped parallel universe kind of way where England are placed sixth in the Fifa world rankings. Oh shit, THEY ARE.

Diddly Squad

"My squad is 'this' big. So FUCK OFF"

Magic Spongers doesn’t often identify with Premier League managers, but in Ian Holloway, we appear to have found a kindred spirit. Holloway has a particularly aesthetic football philosophy; we love to see football played the ‘right way’. Holloway has a thick regional accent; we are staunch Northerners. We both know, deep down, that we’re probably going to win more friends than matches. And most importantly, Holloway has been known to rail against the establishment like a bearded West Country Dixy Chick, and if there’s one thing we love, it’s a good rant (and we are more than a bit partial to the old Dixie Chicks too).

Bright Spark Talks Utter Bollocks

Here at Magic Spongers, we’ve never been ones to shirk the challenge of launching a stream of invective at anyone/thing we feel needs a dressing down, John Sitton-style. Well my attention was drawn to an article Mark Bright wrote for the Metro earlier in the week and the hair dryer is going to well and truly come out as a result.

Czech Mate For Levein

Partisan Alert: Fresh from banging his head against a wall for 48 hours, Rob has finally found the words to mouth off about Scotland's lack of ambition in Prague.

Another qualifier Scotland aimed to get something from; another chastening experience. When the final whistle blew in Prague on Friday night, the only man being sent homeward tae think again was Craig Levein.

Hopefully, his first act was to sack whoever provided him with the video of the Czechs against the Netherlands in 2004, given that he had obviously watched that team rather than its current incarnation. You can imagine him turning to Peter Houston: ‘That Nedved is some player isn’t he? And Poborsky’s quick. AND WHO IS THAT GIANT? Jan Koller? Jesus Christ. With him and Milan Baros they could score at ANY MOMENT’. There’s only one thing for it, he must have concluded. We MUST play without a striker. Otherwise we’re going to get thumped by a team who WEREN’T EVEN AT THE LAST WORLD CUP.

The Rant Before the Storm

Warning: This article contains themes and images some readers may find upsetting.

There is a genuine panic engulfing England’s tree surgeons right now. They are shitting themselves by all accounts. As if one root and branch overview wasn’t enough to drive them to distraction, the latest one that threatens to be unleashed could be the final straw. Former chief executive of the FA Brian Barwick made sure, two years ago, that his big fat salary wasn’t wasted by creating a shortlist of managers for the England managerial position. Showing the kind of footballing insight that makes the FA the envy of the world, Barwick left no branch or root unturned in identifying the best possible candidates. Sir Alex Ferguson? He’s good isn’t he. Arsene Wenger? Arsenal play nice stuff. Jose Mourinho? Bit of an attitude but he seems to be doing well. Fabio Capello? I think I heard him mentioned on Sky Sports News once. Fresh from completing his rocket science degree, Barwick painstakingly whittled down the shortlist to one. “A winner with a capital W,” he purred back in December 2007.

The Betfair Dungeon From Hell

5 idiots. Yesterday. Or today. Or WHATEVER.

If you think you live somewhere a bit shit because the drunk man outside your window didn’t stop shouting ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaah!’ until three in the morning, take heart. It could be far worse. You could have an infestation of idiots instead. Worse still, they could be idiots with free money.

‘This week in the Betfair front room…’

Oh God. What always surprises me about this statement is that after a week of these guys sitting around dishing out their rapid fire real-life sports banter [sic], the final cut is only about 20 seconds long. And rubbish.

The thing that really rankles about ‘Betfair Brother’ is its incessantly formulaic approach to their concept. Five clueless idiots sit in a room and debate their equally and increasingly idiotic views. The basic script seems to be:

Fan 1 pipes up with basic currently-pertinent football topic as if previous conversation has been based around hours of insightful analysis.

Fan 2 disagrees immediately.

‘Oh, let’s bet on it!’

Banterbanterbanterbanter (all join in) banterbanter (let’s all start talking over each other) banterbanterBANTERBANTERBANTER (as the whole thing descends into shouting and finger-pointing)

Banter means laughter! HAHAHAHAHA! WE ARE LAUGHING! But we are unaware of the cameras! We’re always like this! Don’t you wish you were as funny-yet-knowledgeable-but-argumentative about football as us?

[End]

I am not a huge fan of the Betfair Petting Zoo. I don’t want ‘banter’ forced on me by men who clearly don’t have any and who laugh like it’s a competition to find out which can most loudly impersonate a cackling feckless wanker. I also refuse to have my reference point for matey banter issued by a group whose limited imaginations can only come up with ‘Scouse’ as a nickname for a Liverpool fan. Who is from Northern Ireland.

I’d like to see a ‘Tonight in the Betfair front room’, when the football’s finished and they’re all sat there, £60 down and arguing over whose eggs are left in the fridge and who drank all the Vimto.

I really want a ‘This summer in the Betfair front room’ where they’re all contractually obliged NOT to film that WKD advert and are forced instead to bet on Wimbledon and the Hay Book Festival.

Or a chip pan fire.

I think I might be most annoyed because, like everyone else, I am perfectly capable of spraffing my money away all by myself, thanks very much. I do not need to be reminded each week that somewhere, grown men are getting paid to do exactly that in a series of adverts that make me want to eat my own head.