|
|
BLEARY EYED AND BUGGERED UP 1-11-06
Peter Holmes
In contemporary plugged-in to the hyperlink life, media is all, all encompassing, all controlling and all powerful. Media creates, media destroys, media is judge, jury and whim driven executioner. Media decides who gets their 'Andy Warhol' fifteen minute snippet of fame but, now due to dual micro-chip technology Warhol's visionary prophecy is condensed to fifteen seconds.
Media are happy with that hyper-warp progression, condensing those fifteen seconds to parallel match the micro-attention spans of generation mobile techno-freak. To help put that in context, if genius Albie Einstein was alive today and in the midst of his cogitating over the theory of relativity, he'd exclaim not Eureka! But, "Vollocks (Austrian accentuation!) why bother, I'll only get fifteen seconds on Discovery channel if I'm lucky and then I'll have to sell my soul and my arse to Murdoch. Scheisse, I'm going fishing!"
The media of TV has so much control in the world of Association Football that it effectively is the Mafia sitting in the background ruling the roost in the shadows. In this sense Football has become the whore of TV and the EPL is the bitch of SkyTV. Which effectively leaves the all powerful Sky as the Godfather who must be obeyed because it provides the life blood, spondoolahs, the moolah, the envied green which funds the game at the highest level in the UK. Effectively bank-rolling the over-indulgent and over-rated in their quest for more filthy lucre for less filthy endeavour.
The EPL is all about money. Money is wealth. Wealth is power and power corrupts.
So, a great game cow tows to the schedules created by the SkyTV fat controller for a few million remote controls. Witness as an example the total aberration of Monday night football for God's sake. Monday night football where the hell did that one come from?
I wracked my alcohol reduced grey matter over the subject and for the life of me I cannot come up with a good reason to have a game of football on a maudlin Monday, never mind a bloody Monday night. Now, can somebody explain to me the attraction of Monday evening football, apart from that total nobhead the EPL fixturologist and the gadgee from Sky who gives him back-handers and a few buckshee bottles of Johnny Walker red at Chrimbo?
EPL Football on a Saturday as always and Sunday fair enough but now we have the game every day of the week and saturation is the result followed by rampant mediocrity. Now didn't we see an inedible cold serving of that dish at the City of Manchester Stadium on a pointless Monday night.
The people who really count, those amazingly loyal fans who love the game to the core and travel all over England and Europe to attend games, have to somehow juggle a busy schedule to go to a game which kicks-off in the evening at eight o'clock on the other side of the country!
That's on a work night too then they have to be up early next day so could do without the distraction. After all football is supposed to be a leisure activity but in reality we all know it's an affliction which rules our lives.
Monday evening games are probably a huge chore to home fans too, some of whom will probably not get to their front doorstep till approaching midnight but, spare a thought for the Harry Callaghan's of this world who tend to follow their team away from home. Diehard fans travelling to an away game like the City match scheduled for a Monday night probably wouldn't hit the sack till three to four am after a trip back over the Pennines.
That puts my whinge into proportion as it's bad enough struggling out of the sack here at the ungodly hour of 4am West Australian time. So, I can categorically tell you now, no bugger in the Antipodes is a fan of Monday night games either. Too bloody early even for a Pink-crested Galah to fart I can tell you.
This time I decided to record the proceedings against Manchester's worse half and get up at 6:30 am to watch the recording. Well that was the idea but plans are there for the buggering up and I woke up at 5ish because I'd gone to bed early in anticipation. Looking across at the red numerals on the clock, I made a mental calculation that the game would be only half through, so I rolled over. Then some little arsehole inside my skull began talking to me and fuck he was annoying, bit like that irritating fucker up front for City, Dickov. The name says it all and more of him later.
So, insomnia bit and I got up and made a brew, then had a quandary about do I turn on the TV and watch the end thirty or so minutes? Or, rewind the tape to start watching it but then I wouldn't see the end and realised that the game wouldn't finish till just after 6am!
Then somewhere along the line I dropped off again before being woken by the smell of the dog's breath (mental note: will have to teach that animal to stop licking his own arse and to clean his teeth before licking my face).
Seven a.m. sharp, cuppa char, some shitwells bran and toast and rewind the tape.
Anticipation glowed in eyes that resembled blood speckled luminous pissholes in the snow. Manchester City were well up for it, apparently with five changes over the team that got hammered by Wigan. They are are as bad as Boro though this season in their rampant inconsistency but with a home record of two wins, two draws and no goals against and unbeaten at the Stadium leftover from the Commonwealth Games. We had yet to be beaten by them in the history of the EPL with nine wins and five draws. Bogie team, oh yeah!
So with the whispering tones of Martin Tyler drifting through the speakers we were off and as the game unfolded or rather splodged across the pitch I began to wish I'd stayed in bed. A midfield miasma of rampant mediocrity and misplaced passing ensued then out of the blue City got a corner. Up rumbled Dickie Dunne and ex. Boro target Sylvia Distin. Standard stuff I know but being an ex. defender I thought; "Two big fuckers in our box therefore two big fuckers should mark them!"
See I even profane in my thoughts....
So. How come, diminutive Lee Cattermole, all ten stone wringing wet marked 6'2"/ 15 stone Donkey Dunne as he lumbered into the box knuckles dragging in the turf and impeding his progress. That would explain how the great spud of an Irishman got his head on the ball in a box full of strapping central defenders and attackers and powered it easily into the net. While at the same time a Scottish dwarf stopped a strapping 6ft 14 ½ brick shithouse of an Aussie from getting to the ball!
Talking of that irritating wee wart Dickov, commentator extraordinaire, whispering wanderer Martin Tyler, mentioned that maybe Diddy Dickov could still be in Walter Smith's plans for the Scottish national side. Since when did the Sweaty Socks play a formation of 4-4-1-1, with one forward deployed near the eighteen yard box supported by an anal probe and well known haemorrhoid irritant in the hole?
Daggy Stuart Pearce, he of the 60's style trackie top tucked into his trackie daks just beneath his chest like Fred Scuttle on guard duty, has been eulogising in recent weeks about Dickov's contribution to the cause.
All I saw was a bloke with verbal diarrhoea leaving his foot in all over the pitch, getting to the ball so late he tackled four of our blokes in the tunnel at half-time, and a personality which is so obnoxious and as irritating as a room full of mosquitoes.
Every yellow that was brandished by Spider Webb to a Boro player had some input from Penisov. The biscuit was taken well and truly though by the City faithful in the crowd who gave the little oik a standing ovation as he came off towards the end of the game.
Now what is it with that?
A standing ovation was the ultimate mark of respect from supporters and used to be only given for something outstanding, a Best virtuoso, a Pele master-class, a Henry hatrick which was fair enough.
But a short-arsed journeyman who is Championship level at best, maybe I read it wrong and all the City fans have roids and needed to stand up to scratch their arses!
Pearce, one of the best full backs ever to grace a football field, speaks very highly too of his right back Micah Richards who put Downing into his top pocket and kept him there for the full ninety. I agree whole-heartedly with Pearce on this one as this lad is total class and a future England full back, the ideal replacement for 64 year old Gary Neville.
So there you go, a game not for the purists which could have been different if it wasn't for Maccarone's magnetic goalpost trick. How did he do that once never mind twice?
Leaving Boro bleary-eyed and well and truly buggered on a Mancunian Monday night.
Enough Said,
ErimusRed
BACK TO PETER HOLMES' LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA INDEX
|
|
|
|
