Disaster struck Rwanda again today with the heartbreaking news that John Barnes has been heavily linked with the national team post. Following reports that the recently sacked Tranmere manager had been involved in talks with the country’s sports minister Joseph Habineza, the people of the African nation agreed that this was probably the worst tragedy to ever befall the country.

Rwandans dancing prior to receiving the news. There will be no more dancing in Rwanda

Managing to speak between crying jags and primal wails, local farmer Joseph Gasana contacted FistedAway. “We Rwandans are a proud people. We have been wracked by civil war, genocide and extreme poverty. Yet despite being on our knees, we have hauled ourselves up in recent years to stand tall again – just look at the advances we have made in sanitation, provisions for basic health services, while cultivating international markets for agricultural products. And now I hear that John Barnes is going to take over the Amavubi? Well, you wonder what was the point of anything. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to drown myself in our new irrigation system”.

Other Rwandans, possibly in shock, somehow managed to take a more positive view. The Amavubi’s star striker Olivier Karekezi vainly attempted to draw strength from an old proverb. “If you give a man a managerial position, you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to actually manage, then you feed him for a lifetime. Basically, whatever happens then John is going to eat. Ah. Now I come to think of it, that really won’t go down particularly well here”.

Joseph Habineza. The sick, sadistic bastard.

Rwandan hearts sank further as Barnes’ agent Winston Clarke confirmed the rapidly fading Liverpool legend’s meeting with Habineza. “John has one thing on his agenda – to spur Rwandan football to greater heights,” said Clarke, apparently oblivious to the haunting cacophony of an entire nation sobbing. “He anticipates a positive outcome when Mr Habineza meets Rwanda’s football governing body to decide on the right man for the job.” added Clarke, before he was rudely interrupted by what sounded exactly like 9,998,000 chairs falling to the floor and 9,998,000 slack ropes sharply tautening.

ROLL UP! ROLL UP! I am Stuart Hall. HA HA! Back again to take you firmly by the hand – HOY! – and guide you around some of the zoological treats on offer on this wonderful planet. Earth is indeed our mother, and I am her adopted son. The moon is my awkward stepfather.

After being forced to enter the confines of Manchester United zoo, and having just been released from self-imposed quarantine I am excited to tell you dear readers that I am going to be taking you for a tour around a Zoo that is very close to my heart, CLOSE TO MY LOINS! In fact it is close to all my zones erogenous or otherwise. Have you guessed where our travels will take us today? What wondrous delights I have in store for you? (Er, Stuart… it says Manchester City in the title? – ed). THAT’S RIGHT! Manchester City Zoo, my beloved, my wife AND my mistress. Sometimes I go and rub myself against its railings, but often the police move me on. DO THEY NOT KNOW WHO I AM!?

Evidently not.

THE ANIMALS STUART! I hear you cry it with whiskey soaked passion like Ally McCoist contesting a decision with officials. “NO, that was never an offside ya wee jumped up prick, DAMN YOU LINESMAN!”. But they cannot understand, for he is too Scottish even for them. And anyway, they are now designated as referees’ assistants. Imagine, if you will, McCoist’s scotch brogue floundering at the hissing sibilants of the word ‘assistant’; pawing fruitlessly at the decorous décolletage of the English language like a sweating Edinburgh businessmen in a student union. However, in lingual terms I am no Scottish offical, more akin in fact to a UEFA disciplinary panel of the mother tongue and as such, I would politely heed the call of Scots, red-faced with their aggressive excuse making.  Then once they had passed out on fizzy wine I would swiftly change my mind.

The zoo has changed rapidly over recent years with unfashionable animals being shipped out almost as quickly as more exciting exhibits are being brought in. Such is life in our times. I am prone to reminisce fondly; did that hungry goat Shaun really give me any less joy than the stellar line up exotic animals on display today? Probably. I am a capricious man, prone to whim. Whim, and goats.

The first sense to be assualted upon entering the palatial confines of the zoo is the pungent smell. A smell that you will never quite forget; a smell that makes your Adam’s apple bob as if grown men dressed as evil beasts of nightmares were trying to gnash it with their stinking teeth. The smell of new money. Disgusting as it is, and it is unfathomably vile, it quickly becomes addictive. Br-r-reath it in young lad! Let it coat your lungs with greed. This smell leads me to our first exhibit: the king of the Eastlands pride, newly acquired from a London zoo, MAGNIFICENT! He is of course the Lion Adebayor, and his proud mane glistens in the early morning light. As bold as he looks he is a male Lion and as such is happy to reserve energy at all possible times. In the wild the male leaves the pride to hunt, TO KILL, to bring a prize carcass that he may feast on. He will only show his true power when threatened, whether that is ripping out Roy Horn’s neck or stamping on prone Dutchmen.

A small footbridge has been built over the swollen river of cash which dissects the zoo. On the other side we find a paddock and in it Ireland, a proud stag. But this poor boy has lost his horns! The keepers at the zoo did try fitting Ireland with a set of replacement fake horns, but this brought much derision from the viewing public. You C-R-R-UEL cruel people. As I look at him he stands alone gazing across an empty field. This is not how it should be. NO!He should be with his own kind, but the brute refuses, he won’t play ball. A top Italian deer expert brought in to manage the Irish herd still hasn’t managed to coax Ireland to deviate from his stubborn position. When asked why this was Keeper Trapattoni replied “Weelll, ee iz a bit, owyousay… stoopid”. For now the keepers allow him out at the end of the day to play with the other animals. He is tolerated by them, even Adebayor.

The young Stuart Hall would wander gaily through the meadows of Cheshire, occasionally stopping to pinch a bottle of milk from the doorsteps of rich footballers. It was on one of these trips that I befriended a swarm of bees. They would aid me with my household chores, and help with my homework. Lord of the flies? HA! I was King of the Bees. So our next exhibit has a place in my heart, though prefers to live in the zoos new twelve million pound hive. It is of course Barry the Bee.

(Ed: um…Stuart, do zoos have bees?).

More importantly my dear impertinent editor, do bees have zoos? Precipate that in your pipe and enkindle it!

AHEM! I shall continue. Barry the bee is another recent arrival, having been lured from the West Midlands by the opportunity to join a swarm which had a greater chance of breaking into the Honey Industries top four placings. Barry was also said to be pleased with the offer of lots of bee money (known as mohoney) and 15 minutes a week unsupervised time alone with the queen. To his credit he works tirelessly gathering nectar and making sure it returns to the safety of the hive where the swarm will make sweet honey. I watch him fly off on another errand, it is time to move on. MOVE ON.

The sun dapples the assorted burger vans, memorabilia shops and the occasional Sky Zoo News presenter, we are back where we began. The entrance to the zoo. A spilt ice cream signals the flight of children, but from what do they run? It is a particularly annoying and aggressive wasp called Bellamy; he is well-known to the counter girls and security guards here. Naturalists would have it that Bellamy is sadly a necessary evil of nature. Whilst we may find him a nuisance, he has a role to play. His design is efficiency born of evolution. THREE BILLION YEARS! T-h-r-e-e BILLION! To create the perfect irritant. He is content mostly to bother staff and visitors alike, but every so often he will fly unprovoked into another animal’s enclosure and sting them repeatedly.

He is coming my way now, so I shall attempt to leave… NOT THAT I, STUART HALL AM AFRAID! I know many emotions but fear is not one. I simply evacuate a pellet into my bloomers. Did I mention I was wearing bloomers? I am wearing bloomers. Why, are you not?

Well I have got what I came for, zoological delights and a naughty hug from Mavis, who has been tea lady at the zoo since 1963. I can tell you boys, she’s still got it. ‘It’ being chlamydia. HA! I shall leave you then, dear friends with a final thought. A man very close to my heart, someone who I would follow to the edge of the known world, Napoleon, once described Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand Perigord as “a piece of shit in a silk stocking”. Partial as I am to silk, stockings, and shit, I have to concede that it sums up Manchester City Zoo quite nicely.

::: FistedAway today welcomes a guest post from Elliott Tucker, editor of the rather lovely Futfanatico :::

News reports indicate that Sir Alex is absolutely livid after Russian customs destroyed specially crafted regenerative meals for his Manchester United side. However, a series of player tweets reveals this is not the first time the Scot has crossed swords over a culinary conflict.

RoyKeaneSanest tweeted at RealRioFerd that “Makes me think of Veron at tea time! ! !”. A look at Juan Sebastian Veron’s blog revealed that his move to Chelsea was not a simple move to cut costs – but rather a punishment for his 5pm antics. While most brits enjoy milk in their tea, Veron, of Argentine descent, insisted on bringing his own Thermos and bitter yerba mate tea to drink. Suspicious or curious, Sir Alex took one sip and promptly spat the brew all over Veron’s face. And then sold Veron to the Blues at a cut-rate price, happy to shift the “dirty, filthy criminal” to London.

"That was pure lavado, ya bam"

Giggs4Life tweeted: “lol – makes me think of Forlan’s last supper”. While initially perplexed, a few direct message exchanges revealed to futfanatico that Diego Forlan’s falling out with Sir Alex revolved around dinnertime etiquette, not the length of his studs. At one of the team meals, Diego had purportedly used a steak knife to cut off an extra thin slice of angel food cake. Sir Alex, ever vigilant, waited for Forlan to take a bite before smashing the entire piece into the Uruguayan´s face. “Welcome to civilisation, ya bassa,” raged Sir Alex, “Yous’ll no be needin’ that Sgian Dhubh fae your tortilla española“. Forlan was promptly sold to Villareal. The steak knife remains at the Old Trafford dining hall.

"Iss aboot ettykett"

Meanwhile, BigWayne tweeted a sigh of relief – “Glad not there, already got his tail up n whatnot.”, then minutes later adding the additional tweet: “La”. Confidential sources revealed that, despite his fine goalscoring form, Wayne’s career at United is on a knife-edge, and all due to a single fork. One week ago, while munching on a nutritionally approved caesar salad, Rooney mistook his salad fork for his dessert fork. While Ferguson can forgive a fluffed shot, his reaction just may have gone over the top; the manager allegedly grabbed the dessert fork and… stabbed Rooney in the thigh!  While the physical damage was minimal, the psychological toll led Rooney miss the trip to Moscow and seek psychological help. Allegedly he still has nightmares, with a voice echoing “How about some more Scouse salad!? EY!?” as Ferguson (and Terry Phelan, a little in the distance)  force chips down Wayne’s throat.

::: Elliott Tucker is the editor of Futfanatico :::

Gareth Southgate was this week relieved of his position as manager of Middlesbrough Football Club. The timing of the decision shortly after a home win against Derby surprised many, but reports emanating from the vicinity of Steve Gibson’s mouth suggested that the decision to sack Southgate had in fact been taken as long as two weeks ago, following a poor run of form and results. FistedAway can exclusively reveal the true reason behind Gibson’s delay as it transpires that a Post-it reminding him to “Sack Gareth” had fallen off the chairman’s monitor and had been swept up with the dust around the extension sockets.

The story was backed up by Ricard Hamilton, the manager of the Stockton-on-Tees branch of Staples. “Mr Gibson was in two weeks back. He’s a cheery sort of fellow, and I’ve become quite friendly with him over the years, as he has been such a good customer”. Recently though, Hamilton has revealed that Gibson has had to make some cutbacks. “He used to spend millions here – had a taste for all kinds of fancy Brazilian pens which we had to get imported, from the dinky little wallet pens to big fat-nibbed fountain pens – expensive, but they dry out quickly. When he came in the day before the Derby game, I noticed for the first time that was actually looking in the bargain bin. As I was scanning the items and he was rummaging in his coin purse, I remember noting that he had switched from his usual 3M Post-It Notes, and had instead picked up a bumper pack of Square Sticky Notes.

Gibson ponders whether to go ballpoint or rollerball

Having been accustomed to the top level sticking power Post-its, Hamilton surmises that Gibson would have been unaware of the weakness of Square Sticky Notes which the Staples man admits are “distinctly Championship”. It is believed that Gibson would have scribbled down his note after a board meeting, then, having attached the note to the front of his monitor, the low-tack pressure-sensitive adhesive failed – dislodging itself without his knowledge – and then fluttered down the back of his desk as he slammed his office door that evening.

The newly-pinned Post-it. Kind of defeats the point.

Hamilton is similarly convinced that the delay in announcing the appointment of Gordon Strachan is due to the club having run out of official Middlesborough Football Club headed paper, but this could not be confirmed by the club press office. In an effort clear up the confusion, FistedAway called Mr Gibson at home and got this exclusive response from the Boro head honcho.

“Hi, this is Steve. I’m afraid that I’m not here right now, but If you’d care to leave a message and your number, I will get back to you as soon as I can. Oh, and if this is Gareth, please stop ringing, just let it go”.

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.

They really need to get the kitten out of the box if they want to get back in the game…Oh Greeno, you handsome rogue, talk about stating the obvious. Ha, it’s like my wife always jokes: “Alan” she’ll sob, “the only way to get out of this hole we are in is a divorce“. Hilarious! Don’t get me wrong folks, it’s not that I think loveless marriages are a joking matter, it was merely a flippant remark to describe the mess that is unfolding in front of my odd face.

"Werst. Streeiiiyker. EVAH"

Meanwhile, not contented with one kitten in the box another kitten tried to get in. I mean, come on. How many kittens do you want in a box? Frankly, the last thing I would want to see in a box is a kitten unless it had the awareness and touch of the Jimmy Greaves, in which case I would still find something woeful about it. If there was a word more scathing than woeful I would use it. I simply could not believe my obese eyes as the second kitten removed its shabby backside from the box and went back to roll around with the other cute kittens – ONCE AGAIN! – leaving one kitten stranded in the box.

And if there is a sixth or seventh thing I don’t like, it’s this sort of simulation that is present in the modern game. All that rolling around…get up you fools; you’re not impressing anyone! This is, without a doubt, the most arrogant, lazy, selfish, and tactically inept team of kittens I have ever seen. I can’t believe I am being paid to watch this – and I’ll warrant, neither can you. Frankly, I would be much happier sitting alone on my comfy couch at home, watching soaps, and wondering why my face is wet.

Bad blood rose to the surface of old wounds at the Emirates on Saturday. Following a deeply unfunny quip from the stadium announcer, the Birmingham City fans in the away end launched into a lusty appreciation of the ‘funny’ man and City fan Jasper Carrott, disgusting Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger.

“Frankly, that is atrocious” spat Wenger. “They will not be remembered for the quality of their comedy choice. Stewart Lee grew up in the West Midlands, they could have picked him instead. More than that though, the insensitivity they have shown is the worst aspect of all this. Alan Davies was here, I don’t know how he felt about the chants. Still, he hasn’t been anything resembling a comedian in years, so may not have even noticed”.

The Frenchman was able to look on the bright side though, adding “We can take small solace in the fact these monsters did not break into a rendition of ‘Funky Moped‘, but nonetheless, this a sad day for English football”.

“Oh, it’s in my head now”.

"Personally, I'm a Ted Chippington fan"

Alex McLeish claimed not to hear the chants, and denied all knowledge of Jasper Carrott, a clear lie given that he has lived in Birmingham since 2007. New owner Carson Yeung has  promised funds to the ex-Scotland manager, which the manager hopes to spend on a fleet of new comedians to provide competition for budding gagsters Lee Bowyer, Liam Ridgewell and Franck Queudrue.

::: FistedAway today welcomes a guest post from Elliott Tucker, editor of the rather lovely Futfanatico :::

Liverpool fans floated on cloud nine last April, their beloved Reds within striking distance of Manchester United for the league title, and a semi-final date with Chelsea in the Champions League. Then, to put it simply, the wheels came off. Benitez’s zonal marking made a second choice rightback look like a giant, and the second-to-last-weekend proved a bitter pill. At least, until the summer came along.

Liverpool sold midfield fulcrum Xabi Alonso to Real Madrid, replacing him with the unproven, seemingly mythical Alberto Aquilani. While Rafa did purchase the impressive Glen Johnson, the fans were confused. Where had the transfer kitty really gone? Where was the second Torres to complete an unstoppable offense? Rafa complained to the press about stingy American owners, but recent facts have come to light.

Rafa Benitez is a fitness freak. He is obsessed with nutrition, diet, and cardiovascular conditioning. He eats roughly 35-40 wheat pellets a day, usually storing them under a collection of wood shavings in plastic container with a 30 foot radius. He also sleeps 12 hours a day, during the day when possible, and only drinks mineral water. More shockingly – he expects the same of his players. Hence, the Xabi exit.

Still, football managers are a quirky bunch, with superstition dominating rational thought. What is more preoccupying is the roughly 20 million pounds which Rafa spent on fitness equipment – for himself!

Copies of receipts indicate that Rafa spent £5 million pounds on a series of treadmills, with the majority of the costs going towards the necessary R & D for a 20 foot cylinder wheel which is remotely controlled. When asked about the wheel, Fernando Torres merely grinned and reiterated Rafa´s commitment to fitness and confirmed his reputation as a strict disciplinarian. “Rafa would eat his own young, his own pink, tender, young.”

Liverpool fans, infuriated, demand to see results. One fan, who spoke on condition of anonymity, was right to ask – “If we spend 15 million pounds on new age training tread mills, then you’d expect Torres to stay fit at least half a season. And Benitez to look less like…well, a hamster.”

::: Elliott Tucker is the editor of Futfanatico :::

"Look upon my works ye mighty, and wonder how I get paid for this"

1. Jackson 5

They say you should never go back, and that is certainly true for me and certain parts of Glasgow. But a comeback at this level, at this age? Moreover, I can’t believe the tactical naivety of these jokers. You just can’t continue to play that formation when you are getting no movement whatsoever from the frontman.

2. Maroon 5

I feel that I have a special connection with this band. They got their name from a Dulux colour chart, and whaddayaknow, I decided on the exact same colour scheme for our bedroom, and Teddy Sheringham came round and helped me paint it. Funny story actually; I’d popped out to get some chips for lunch and when I came back my wife had loads of maroon hand marks all over her body, even though my wife was not involved with the painting. Dozy mare! Teddy had a fair bit on him too, so they took a shower. Well, as Teddy said, we should try to save water.

3. MC5

“Are you part of the problem, or part of the solution?”, the MC5 famously asked. Less famously, Glenn Hoddle asked me this question at Chelsea after our first training session. I didn’t understand the problem, but I figured that the solution probably involved pretending to be Irish. Begorrah.

4. Dave Clark Five

Some might see  having a drummer as the frontman as controversial, but I am fully behind it. I’m sure the politically correct crowd will be dead against it, but really, what is wrong with giving a central role to a lumpen clogger who will hit anything that moves? As I tried to tell Glenn Hoddle.

5. Ben Folds Five

I ask for one thing from people. Honesty. The name implies five members… FIVE. When I got Gabrielle Marcotti to count the band members for me he told me there were “three members, one two three. Goddamn it Tony, why do you call me over to your desk to do elementary shit like this?”.

Always joking, that Gabby. He don’t like it when I call him that. Anyway: Ben Folds Three, not Five.

When I was in Marseille, you were what you said you were. Like when I went down the docks, paid for my usual. Then reached down. AND…and…oh my. I had not thought about that in a while.

Only 6 games into the new premier League season, Ryan Babel has plunged into depression at his lowly place in the Google pecking order. Despite a fortuitous late brace against Hull on Saturday, Babel was distraught when a self-Googling Sunday session revealed that he was lagging behind entries for Yahoo Babel Fish translator, the film Babel (both the imdb and wikipedia entry) and even the ancient and mythical Tower of Babel.

Ploughing through the pages, Babel’s fears were realised when he saw that his official website did not appear until the 7th page of Google. When the striker attempted to refine the search by using his full name, he was thrown into a spiral of rage when asked “Did you mean: “Aryan Bagel”?“. A deliciously unlikely concept, but it still proved more popular than the occasional Liverpool striker.

Madre de Dios Ryan, I need you to be <b> </b>

Rafael Benitez has offered some advice to the young Dutchman. “Ryan needs to work hard to improve his link up play with other quaaality websites”, adding that he could learn important lessons from the senior players at the club.

“For instance, Stevie really boosted his search engine visibility with that zany viral video campaign of that slapstick bar fight. It has certainly proved a lot more popular than Ryan’s rap career. Traditionally, comedy rap has not been a good career route for Liverpool wingers, unless Ryan is planning to balloon in weight and manage Tranmere.”

"I come from Jamaica, my name is John Barnes / I'm known to fail at management / Repeatedly"

Following his perfectly acceptable performance against [insert team], there has been talk of [insert player name] playing his way into the England squad for next year’s World Cup in South Africa.

Speaking after the match, with the potent combination of sweat and adrenaline still coursing through his cerebral cortex [insert player name] said “If I can keep up this run, then who knows? It’s not up to me to decide. That would involve a radical restructuring of the England setup. I just hope that Mr Capello was watching”.  Although the England manager was at the game, it is believed that he left too early to see [insert player name]’s late contribution to the game, which included a speculative shot from 4 yards out which narrowly grazed a steward.

Seemingly confusing Fabio Capello as some kind of Jimmy Saville figure, the striker/midfielder/utility sweeper said that “it would be a dream for me to play in the World Cup. I have thought about it ever since I was a child growing up in Liverpool/Manchester/Pamplona”.

The player’s manager, [insert manager name], was similarly effusive in his praise for his player. “[Insert player name] just has to keep doing what he is doing – working hard in training, taking his chances, and remembering to say that it was all down to me whenever a camera is put anywhere near his uncomprehending face. And certainly to never mention the amount of cash that I had to give his agent for him to even contemplate coming here in the first place”.

"Noun. Noun. Nooooun"

Later on Match of the Day, Alan Hansen spoke glowingly of [insert player name]. “Today’s game showed it all. We’ve been talking about him for weeks, or at the very least Mark Lawrenson will say he has and make that silly little noise that means “Ee, I’m exasperated, me“. Gary will then ask a rhetorical, self-reflexive question about [insert player name]. And I will roll my eyes. Look, the boy’s got it all. Attitude. Ability. Anonymity”.