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Archive for the ‘Alan Green ruins…’ Category

Alaaaan Grreeeeaaann

It’s been a while since I have come across something so hideous – downright hideous – that I might comment, “That’s a deeeownright hiiiiideous decision, Mr. Clattenburg!”.

But, with the Autumn leaves slowly turning from green to brown, like my children taking their mother’s surname instead of mine, I picked up a copy of The Beach Boys 11th studio album, Pet Sounds, which made me wonder way on earth I bother getting up in the mornings.

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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.

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I am not a man who inspires indifference, and I know that people have experienced their first kiss while listening to me. As Fulham prepared to take on Swindon in the 3rd round of the FA Cup and my colleagues Mike Ingham and David Pleat mispronounced the names of half-time snacks (“Dorry-toss“, I ask you?), I turned away. I was busy watching the real action, using my trusty binoculars and observing two young protégés at the unforgiving training ground of the school disco. With all your friends watching on, you absolutely fluffed your chance at your first kiss. “Show us your medals!” eh, sonny? With that display, your trophy cabinet is going to remain bare forEVER.

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I’m not negative about many things; the works of the Beatles, rainbows, Manchester United’s terrible executive half time coffee and, seemingly, the fact that I get paid to watch football for a living. However, this grim tableau above really brought into context the truly awful state of team play in modern day kittens.

After an utterly predictable start – yer man pops up in the box, nowhere neeeear play – it went from bad to worse. The absence of any support whatsoever from his teammates left the front kitten stranded in the box. Instead of taking up sensible positions to support him, the whole sorry spectacle was compounded by these lacklustre kittens playfully mauling their teammate. Here – what’s wrong with a handshake, lads? Prima donnas.

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