Now, I’m not negative about many things folks – a baby’s laugh, Jessica Alba’s face, and how the debt at Liverpool Football Club is affecting the quality of their half time sausage rolls (they taste like…sadness) but after watching Bambi tonight, Mr Disney should take a good long hard look at himself in the mirror. Just like I do every night before going back to my home to see my family. Some days are harder than others.
Bambi’s inability to stand, let alone walk, in the opening exchanges is further evidence enough that he is simply not ready for the top flight. Things then go from terrible to tyeeerrrrriiiiiibble! The ‘big three’ Bambi, Thumper and Flower scamper aimlessly around with little purpose in their own half. Fergoodnesssakes, they are not going to win over the fans with this sort of frippery! It’s like they’re trying to walk it into the thicket.
The end of the first half brings further controversy as Bambi’s mother’s ludicrous dive gets their star player sent off. For goodness sake Mrs Bambi GET UP, you look like you’ve been shot! Unbelievable! Simulation in the modern game: frankly, it’s a disgreeaace.
The second half brings more dire hogwash, as the ‘big three’ continue to flounder - paying more attention to the WAGs in the executive boxes than the game itself. Painted woodland whores. The introduction of Bambi’s father at half time does little to galvanise the team, but the game is won when Bambi goes on to win a decisive penalty late in the game as the opposition’s dogs looked to have tripped him in the penalty area. Well, I don’t believe it folks, now Bambi is writhing around like he’s been shot! Talk about like mother like son! Terrible decision Mr. Referee but shame on you Bambi! Shame. On. You.
Seriously folks, I can’t believe I am being paid to watch this – I’d rather be sitting on my couch at home alone watching my well-worn video of An Impossible Job, laughing bitterly. Who’s stupid now Graham? Eh? Is it the dignified ex-manager and well-respected pundit? Or is it me, Alan Green, in my pyjamas and gurgling with hollow laughter as the light from the screen plays back against my pallid skin, the flecks of old chicken grease glinting like petrol in a dirty puddle.
I’m not sure without Lawro here to confirm everything that I say, but it’s almost certainly Graham.