Hello dear reader and welcome to this weeks edition of fusballpolitk. If you’ve ever read any of the drivel I’ve wrote before then you’ll know this is the point to find something better to do with your life.
The eight annual summer windowfest is closed and if you’re like me then you’ve been looking forward to 2nd September since when the last ball was kicked in May. The papers have boosted their sales based on half truths, inside info and downright lies and we’ve rode the rollercoast of “he’s what we need him” and this years Riquelme still plays in green and white hoops.
Jubilant Man City fans, wearing the obligatory Reebok Classic or Adidas Samba, celebrate as their time on the en vogue-skylovesyou teat beckons. In a real life fusion of X-Factor and Champ Manager Deluxe, life is about to get more exciting as the career driven Robinho beats a sky blue Samba beat. Jealous? Well, a bit yeah. Wish it was us? Like [Poor language removed]. Clubs like City and Villa tick all the (convenient) boxes for me, strong sense of tradition, general set of working class fans who’ve been through their fair bit of [Poor language removed] and were in my Panini sticker books. I just wonder how many of them will be alienated a decade from where they stand now.
Disgruntled (boss word, that) Newcastle fans protest outside St James Park as the story breaks that King Kev (toe curling phase, that) might be on his way. No longer Sky’s favourite plucky non fourers, the credit crunch has come to the North East and fibre putty haired exoticos are no longer being bank rolled to the delight of the cameras.
Your club’s summer success is measured in numbers now. Luckily it seems that a sizeable portion of football fans are familiar with the working budget of a multi-million pound business and its very much in the public domain. Did we get round to spending that money we got for Simon Davies in the end? Pienaar? Oh that’s sound, still got [Poor language removed] hair though.
Football version 08 is more accessible – turn on the TV you can always find a game, or perma tanned ex pro discussing the weekend gone or yet to come. Your female friend is gouging on this week’s offering in the glossies about what the WAG of the week is wearing. Look in your local newsagent for how many footballing publications available to your lucky lucky self. What happened to having Shoot or Match; incidentally which of the two Shoot was far superior.
And we lap it up, we sure do. Some of us even dream of a smiling Oil Rich Tycoon hearing our SOS cries. Then we can all play Champ Manager for real, spewing all our new wealth on pretty footballistas and before you can say “everylittlehelps”, deliver Walton’s very own Nou Camp. Easy isn’t it? When the reflected glory of your favourite F.C is whats at stake then nothing must stand in the way.
We just cant get enough of our soccer. Blame Saint and Greavsie, they started it all with their inane weekly chat and general all round zanyness. Don’t be surprised to see Tim Lovejoy dedicating his best selling autobiography to them.
Getting Sky was a reluctant measure from my Liverpool supporting Grandad, he just wouldn’t have it – terrestrial Match of the Day with an occasional live weekend match was his domain. In the end his children bought the installation and package for him, a birthday present with very much football in mind. That was ten years ago, he’s now a fully paid Pay Per View “Season Ticket” member. It was he who swallowed his apparent disdain for all things blue and took his Everton obsessed grandson to Goodison for the first time on his eighth birthday. The cost for both our tickets combined, in the swanky main stand, was less than it costs for a single pay per view game now. Throw in bus ticket costs and a half Everton/Celtic bobble hat too. That was early to mid 80s, and a million years away from now.
Footballs in fashion, but not for most of us. We don’t paint our faces and subscribe to the club newsletter, we don’t spend £3.50 on the latest Ronaldo Ringtone whilst waving our foam hand highest so the gaze of the camera picks us out.
A £40 away ticket at West Brom and those cocksure new owners of Man City is all I need to know; football stinks but we’re already hooked on its aroma.
The eight annual summer windowfest is closed and if you’re like me then you’ve been looking forward to 2nd September since when the last ball was kicked in May. The papers have boosted their sales based on half truths, inside info and downright lies and we’ve rode the rollercoast of “he’s what we need him” and this years Riquelme still plays in green and white hoops.
Jubilant Man City fans, wearing the obligatory Reebok Classic or Adidas Samba, celebrate as their time on the en vogue-skylovesyou teat beckons. In a real life fusion of X-Factor and Champ Manager Deluxe, life is about to get more exciting as the career driven Robinho beats a sky blue Samba beat. Jealous? Well, a bit yeah. Wish it was us? Like [Poor language removed]. Clubs like City and Villa tick all the (convenient) boxes for me, strong sense of tradition, general set of working class fans who’ve been through their fair bit of [Poor language removed] and were in my Panini sticker books. I just wonder how many of them will be alienated a decade from where they stand now.
Disgruntled (boss word, that) Newcastle fans protest outside St James Park as the story breaks that King Kev (toe curling phase, that) might be on his way. No longer Sky’s favourite plucky non fourers, the credit crunch has come to the North East and fibre putty haired exoticos are no longer being bank rolled to the delight of the cameras.
Your club’s summer success is measured in numbers now. Luckily it seems that a sizeable portion of football fans are familiar with the working budget of a multi-million pound business and its very much in the public domain. Did we get round to spending that money we got for Simon Davies in the end? Pienaar? Oh that’s sound, still got [Poor language removed] hair though.
Football version 08 is more accessible – turn on the TV you can always find a game, or perma tanned ex pro discussing the weekend gone or yet to come. Your female friend is gouging on this week’s offering in the glossies about what the WAG of the week is wearing. Look in your local newsagent for how many footballing publications available to your lucky lucky self. What happened to having Shoot or Match; incidentally which of the two Shoot was far superior.
And we lap it up, we sure do. Some of us even dream of a smiling Oil Rich Tycoon hearing our SOS cries. Then we can all play Champ Manager for real, spewing all our new wealth on pretty footballistas and before you can say “everylittlehelps”, deliver Walton’s very own Nou Camp. Easy isn’t it? When the reflected glory of your favourite F.C is whats at stake then nothing must stand in the way.
We just cant get enough of our soccer. Blame Saint and Greavsie, they started it all with their inane weekly chat and general all round zanyness. Don’t be surprised to see Tim Lovejoy dedicating his best selling autobiography to them.
Getting Sky was a reluctant measure from my Liverpool supporting Grandad, he just wouldn’t have it – terrestrial Match of the Day with an occasional live weekend match was his domain. In the end his children bought the installation and package for him, a birthday present with very much football in mind. That was ten years ago, he’s now a fully paid Pay Per View “Season Ticket” member. It was he who swallowed his apparent disdain for all things blue and took his Everton obsessed grandson to Goodison for the first time on his eighth birthday. The cost for both our tickets combined, in the swanky main stand, was less than it costs for a single pay per view game now. Throw in bus ticket costs and a half Everton/Celtic bobble hat too. That was early to mid 80s, and a million years away from now.
Footballs in fashion, but not for most of us. We don’t paint our faces and subscribe to the club newsletter, we don’t spend £3.50 on the latest Ronaldo Ringtone whilst waving our foam hand highest so the gaze of the camera picks us out.
A £40 away ticket at West Brom and those cocksure new owners of Man City is all I need to know; football stinks but we’re already hooked on its aroma.
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