Andy's Glasses

oh dear, what a faux pas de deux. What a blatant act of sexism loosely disguised as a compliment. Quel damage. Pauvre Lauren Blanc, the latest of a bunch of neanderthal Frenchmen to fall foul of the finikity feminist footballing fraternity. (Ok, it should be ‘sorority’ but the alliteration was simply irresistable). (And I didn’t even use a ‘fucking’ to enhance it.)

Manager of Paris St Germain and World Cup winning Frog, Lauren (I know; issa gel’s name but in France, because they’re all a bunch’a poofs, they use gel’s names for boys, like Michel and… er… Lauren) was being interviewed by seriously gorgeous journalist Swedish babe Johanna Whatever and when she commented that he’d changed his team line-up from 4-4-2 to 4-3-3, he commented that it was fantastic she knew what it meant and he found it beautiful.

I’d have actually made a mess in my underpants myself, but self control was never my thing.

Beautiful woman talking proper football; the dream. If she’d been swilling warm, cheap lager out of the can at the same time and belching, you’re talking ulitmate fantasy.

But the always hypersensitive French liberal-lefty, Hollande-ish press attacked Monsieur Blanc for being caught out as a sexist.

Whereas last time he spoke out loud it was actually to be a racist, suggesting quotas from immigrant populations in their football league. So Lauren is not exactly a champion of equality.

And it all comes about because football is ‘a man’s game’. According to Pierre Menes, the John Motson of French football broadcasting, who said ‘women footballers were fat turkeys to ugly to go to nightclubs on a saturday night’. He really really said that.

But its not about playing the game, its about understanding it, enjoying it, loving it, getting into the politics, the tactics, the nitty gritty of every facet of (my) national obsession. Hence my daughters knew the offside rule before they could even walk. Whilst Mel obsessed about meaningless trivia like ‘education’ and ‘study’, I drilled those girls about sitting midfielders, wing-backs, 3-at-the-back, diamond formations, so that they became more ’rounded’, though heaven forbid in any literal sense. I taught them how to kick the ball, how to ‘bend it like Beckham’, how to consume alchohol, swear like a faaaarrrkin’ trouper and insult referees. And I schooled them to hate Arsenal, dispise Chelsea, sneer at anyone from Manchester.

So yes, Lauren, in civilised countries being a bit of a babe is not incompatible with a comprehensive knowledge of football. It doesn’t make them lesbians. Otherwise they’d be rugby fans.

Bloody sexist stereotyping, its soooo French.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

I’ve found the answer.
Not sure precisely what the question is, but the answer is painfully obvioius, simple, elegant and achieved by a laterality of thinking that would make Edward de Bono proud.

London is the centre of the world. Well, certainly of my world. And, according to reports, of many other people’s too. So many of them in fact that we can’t get them here and then home again efficiently enough. So we need increased airport capacity for flights. I’m particularly concerned that there are sufficient flights available to deport all the Albanian and Rumanian shoplifters due for arrival here next year. And that drug mules can land here when they arrive back from Peru and Columbia with 7 kilos of Nigella’s finest.

We need more runways. They are the limiting factor. You can build as many terminals at Heathrow as you like but unless you can get more planes on and off the ground all you’re doing is creating shopping malls. Really cold, sterile ones with shoddy restaurants disguised as ‘fine dining and out within 12 minutes’.

Whereas building a new runway increases the number of flights. So Beijing has 9 runways, Germany has a shit load, all civilised countries have seemingly dozens of the things, but at Gatwick and Heathrow combined we currently have just 3. And personally I don’t count Gatwick as ‘London’, more as ‘Hell’.

So Boris Johnson wants to build an Island, Boris Island (vain git), in the Thames Estuary, that can house loads of runways. But its basically North Kent which suffers from Gatwick Syndrome in that most important Londoners live in the north of the city, often the western reaches thereof, and Kent is a royal pain to get to. You’d basically want to fly there. From Heathrow.

There’s also the minor problem that building this proposed ‘island’ would cost 112 billion of your English pounds. So double that for a more realistic estimate (including paint, toilet rolls, etc) and that’s a quarter of a trillion quid.

Whereas putting a new runway at Heathrow or Gatwick is ‘easy’. You get those Irish guys who build you a driveway for 500 quid and just tell them to make it a bit longer than usual. Won’t last long but its cheap. Though several small villiages need to be removed to accommodate the new build. So what? We have thousands of small villiages, they’re a bloody nuisance, that’s why G-d invented bulldozers.

Then there’s the noise. Well I’m sorry, you can’t be an international super-Country jetting in millions of world leaders in commerce and artistry if the sound of 28 superjets a minute flying over your house bothers you a little bit. Don’t be so fucking selfish. Why’s it always about YOU???

Anyway, runways, jets, noise, compulsory purchase, mass demolition, the ruination of the countryside, Boris Johnson; its all a big problem.

The answer is verticle take-off. Like the old Harrier jump-jet, bless it. Then you simply don’t need runways. You can take off and land anywhere. Your holiday would end when the pilot asks your address so he can land in your garden. Your mother-in-law can do the customs bit. Get rid of St Paul’s Cathedral and turn the plot into a jet-landing site right in The City itself. Brilliant.

Where’s Boris’s phone number?

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

So here’s what you do:
you get a manager to run your football team and you give him massisve power over finances, over training, over development and recruitment and you pay him a small fortune, the turnover of several small companies, to do his job. And then, after a relatively short period of time, you sack him, pay him off for the remainder of his contract and hire another.
And that’s ‘good management’ by the board. That’s how to ensure stability and long-term success at the football club. Never mind that the immediate effects on all and sundry are simply devastating and destabilising.

Particularly for me.

Because the fans have to have confidence in their team’s manager. Even if we don’t like the guy, he’s our commander-in-chief and its a given that ‘in the manager we trust’. He is a god, on so many levels. So we invest in him. Emotionally, intellectually (not you, obviously), on every level we simply have to believe that he’s good and on the right track and moving us where we want to be.

And then they pull that rug right out from under our feet.

Actually, he’s a wanker, we lost to Liverpool, so kick him out, pay him his 4.5 million quid and send him packing.
And the next contestant; come on down to the Lane.

Fuck me its depressing. Sunday’s loss was bad. I read no texts yesterday, didn’t answer the phone, steered clear of emails. Wore a mask on the street, hat pulled low and generally hid. To avoid the flack over the Sunday result. But the humiliation of that one game, however horrible, is nothing compared to being part of a club who seem to have no vision, no long-term plan, who bumble and stumble from manager to manager, employ useless ‘directors of football’, and seem merely to just ‘throw money at the problem’, whatever that particular problem may be, without any thought of the farther consequence of their actions.

So from now until the summer we have Tim Sherwood running the team. Well, him and two dozen assorted coaches, directors, technical advisors, freeloaders, jobsworths and tossers. Whilst we search out the (next) perfect manager. Great.

I’d rather have Glen Hoddle in for the short term. At least I love him and he has a managerial record. (No, not ‘diamond lights’, that was just a mistake; a big mistake).
Then we’ll get a new ‘proper’ manager.

The advert will read: come and manage Spurs; you won’t stay long but you’ll never have to work again anyway. And whatever happens, you can’t fuck it up any worse than the last guy.

Chelsea use a ‘rotating-door’ managerial policy, as do Manchester City. Both horrible, hateful organisations which amazingly succeed because they have massive squads of superstars whose combined brilliance generally exceeds any managerial shortcomings. Spurs don’t. We have a new team that hasn’t gelled, we’re mired in a cycle of disappointment and hope and we’re shit. So losing the manager won’t do any favours to anyone.

And who’d want that poison challice that is the management job at Spurs? We can’t offer champions league football, nor yet a massive stadium with corresponding revenue. Just the hollow promise that ‘we’re a big club’. In all but results.

I fucking hate football. Its darts for me from now on. At least fat, toothless drunks don’t need managers.

Happy tuesday, farewell AVB.

A xxxx

I had to attend a funeral yesterday afternoon. It was a horrible day, wet, cold and bleak. And standing on some little patch of desolate countryside in the northern reaches of the borough of Enfield as poor Uncle Charlie was laid to rest, all was fairly miserable and gloomy.

Then I came home and watched Spurs and it was much much worse. It was the burial of hope. It was the funeral of any remaining aspirations. The death of any chance we may have had to delude ourselves that we were in some way contenders.

It was serious reminder of our deficiencies as a team. All of our deficiencies. Which may take up so much space and time to list it may run to several volumes over a few months. Though it can all be summed up really in just two words: Totally and Depressing. Furthermore it doesn’t matter how you arrange those two words; works both ways. And if you separate those words into their component letters they form the anagram: ‘dire fucking incompetent rubbish’. I was never much cop at anagrams.

But to help Andre Villas Boas, as he obviously needs loads of help, there are three main areas which he needs to address:

1. We are shit
2. We are shit
3 We are more shit.

Once he can resolve these fundamental issues the surely it won’t be long before we’re threatening for a top place.

We have an awful defense, hence 5 goals against us. Yes we have injuries in that department but having spent 115 million quid on players this summer we should have sufficient cover.

We cannot score goals. Suarez has scored more goals than Spurs in the league this season. And he’s foreign. Our foreigners simply cannot score. Nor our Brits. Yesterday, not one attempt on target. Not one. 93 minutes of football by zillion pound players and no-one could make the goalie work.
Our midfield is slow, predictable and unimaginative. Otherwise they’re great. We lack the pace that you need and the one-touch passing game that is simply essential in the modern game. A three touch passing game sounds much better but in fact it isn’t. Especially when the third of those touches generally gives the ball back to the opposition.

Perhaps worst of all, there’s no excitement in our game; none whatsoever. Just funereal depression.
I can’t even enjoy Arsenal’s defeat at Manchester City; its that bad.
Ok, well just a little.

Positives we can take from yesterday…
hmmm…
errrrr…

Well, amazingly we’re still only 2 wins off a top four place, that’s positive.
We can’t hit a barn door from 3 yards, that’s good for the barn door.
And… errrr… of course… there’s always… hmmm…

Worst of all is that horrible feeling of wasted opportunity. We cashed in on Gareth Bale, a massive windfall, and apparently have squandered the lot, like Nigella’s assistants.

But fear not; all is not lost. Just when you thought there was nothing in the world to ever make you happy again, Christian Ronaldo, that epitome of modesty and humility, has opened a museum in his native Madeira, The Museum of Christiano Ronaldo. And it looks brilliant. There’s pictures of Ronaldo, waxworks of Ronaldo, tributes to Ronaldo and all his trophies. You can buy toilet paper that he has actually used, get a framed empty hair-gel tube, its brilliant. Can’t wait to go.

Happy fucking Monday

A xxxx

Can you imagine going to see a movie, in which there was some post-apocalyptic dystopia, a nightmare world, like in Mad Max or Escape from New York, some place where there are no dentists, where teeth are all black and crooked and drunks and wild men roam the streets, shouting, screaming, pissing everywhere, fighting, all dark and disfuncional, and yeuch? Can you imagine that. And then, at the end of the movie you emerge into Golders Green, or Stamford Hill, maybe Hendon or Brooklyn, and find it filled with ultra-orthodox Jews in black hats and long side curls?
Well last night I had the exact opposite of that. I watched a film about chassidic jews in Jerusalem, the rather brilliant ‘Into the Void’ and came out into the post-apocalyptic dystopia that is Kilburn High Road.
Drunks pissing in doorways, winos shouting their unintelligible rubbish at innocent (that’d be me then) passers by, all was darkness and a nihilistic hellhole of a shitworthily dysfunctional wasteland.
We are quite blessed in my part of London with lovely little art-housy independent movie-houses (because there’s so many pretentious fuckers like me around here who would ‘die for a sub-title’). But sometimes you have to venture a little further out to find what you want to see. And then you have to ask:
What the fuck has happened to Kilburn High Road. Ok, it was never Bond Street, never aspired to Knightsbridge status, but it has just degenerated into the underworld. What they need is a Starbucks; the key to civilisation. The impoverished riff-raff aren’t prepared to spend £9.30 on a super-skinny-soya-latte-mocha-vomichino-with-extra-decaf-shot-and-caramel-zucherinos, even if they knew what the fuck one was. And the yuppies would come flooding to this beacon of yuppiedom and force up house prices so the rabble have to move to… well, probably south London or somewhere befittingly evil.
Anyway, yes, the movie.
Wonderful study of orthodox jewry which is charming, funny, weird, bizarre, odd and heart-warming. Its a kind of un-love story that makes you happy. And I’ll say no more as you’ll all be flooding to Kilburn to see it soon to see it for yourselves. Very soon cos its hardly gonna rival The Frikkin Hobit in the multiplexes.

Ok, off to a funeral.

Not very happy sunday

A xxxx

See that bloke over there? In the gutter? Vomit down his tie; stupid grin stuck on his face; unable to stand; bottle of Asda Special Reserve Vodka (£3.26/litre) in his hand???
Fucking clever that bloke. Really brilliant. Frikkin genius. A psychologist told me.

Because test have shown (yep, more bloody tests, its like the scientific world has nothing better to do… hmmm…) that intelligent people are more likely to be big drinkers than dimbos, dunces, morons or Mormons (don’t drink, do they?). Apparently its because intelligent people are less conservative (where does that leave David Cameron?) and therefore more keen to test new experiences, push the limits of reality, get off their faces totally.

Same with drugs apparently. The bigger stoner you are, the more likely you are to be a genius. Presumably once you’ve stopped watching raindrops roll down the windows for 3 hours, marvelling at the wonders of nature and how everything’s so greeeeen.

So Nigella was right to give her kids cannabis, to force spirits down their teenage throats, to keep them totally fucking wasted at all times, because then they’ll be clever.

So whilst I’m out buying some more wine, I’m going to look for a Christmas present for Kim Jong Un. Last year his uncle bought him a pair of really dodgy socks so Kim had him shot yesterday.

I’m gonna get him an ipad air, a Porsche and a Russian sex slave (slaves-are-Us; special pre-christmas buy-one-get-one-free offer this weekend) and hope that’s sufficient to get his approval. Jesus but that guy is touchy. There’s lots of touchy, over-sensitive, marginally paranoid people around but fortunately most don’t have an army of a million people and the rule of the land behind them.

How can that trumped up fat little shit have the power to have people executed just because he doesn’t like them any more? Fall from favour, eat a bullet. Its just wrong. There again, North Korea is just wrong. All of it. So when esteemed leader and holy one, Kim Jong The Latest decides you’re trying to orchestrate a military coup, you are fucking dead. There’s no trial, no court, no appeal, just a firing squad. After they torture you, apparently. Nice.

Ok, Arsenal play Manchester City in 5 minutes, Spurs face Liverpool tomorrow and neither are being played in Korea. But there is a really good case for giving the players ‘happy hour’ before the game.

Happy (hic) Saturday

A xxxx

Its just mental.
I don’t know what, specifically, but its just mental. Innit?

Queens Park Rangers have plans to move from Loftus Road, their home for over 100 years, to a new mega-site in Willesden. In NW10.
I live in NW11, so that’s really just ‘1’ away from here!!!
Ok, the London area numbers are actually by alphabetical place names, but still… but still… that’s damn close for comfort. I don’t mind me mate Dave popping round for a cuppa tea on a Saturday afternoon but if he starts bringing 42,000 QPR fans with him I’ll need to get more milk in.
Do QPR even have 42000 fans?

The new stadium will cost £500 million. They haven’t said so but they always do cost that much. And they’re building a new ‘transport link’, yeah, right, like they will for the new Tottenham ground.

The area is being called (optimistically): Willesden meets Little Venice. Which is like saying ‘The bombed out shell of Damascus meets Monte Carlo’. An area formerly known as Wormwood Scrubs, after which they named the prison which sits there. Maybe they’ll send the prisoners in to fill the empty seats. Though that may be deemed ‘torture’. Even prisoners have human rights.

Meanwhile, they played a bunch of European games this week. As usual. First they had the Champions League in which all four English teams made it through to the final stages of that worthless tournament. Celtic didn’t. Sadly they were thrashed by Barcelona and leave the European stage. As they do about this time every year.

Arsenal lost, yet go forwards, Manchester United scraped a win and Chelsea were similarly unimpressive, though they were already through so who did they need to impress?

Manchester City were fucking awesome. No other way to put it, I’m afraid. Awesome. 2-0 down to Bayern Munich, the best team in the world, at the Allianz Arena and came back to win 3-2. And then they have the arrogance to moan at their manager for ‘losing count’ because he didn’t realise that one more goal would have sent them top of their group. Oh. As if wanting a goal is all you need to do to actually score one. Tossers.

Thursday night is BIG NITE (even spelt wrongly) in European football when the proper teams come out to play. The Europa Fairs Cup League of not quite Champions. And Spurs won. Again. Brilliant. They beat… er… well they beat someone unpronouncable and won their group with maximum points and shit-loads of goals.

Which oddly, is our problem. We have a bunch of European players who can only seem to play well against other Europeans. (And of course, I do not count England as European here. Why the hell should I??) Against English teams we falter, we fail, we can’t score, we fumble and bumble around looking singularly unconvincing even when we win. But in Europe we’re wonderful.

This is Andre Villas Boas’ problem. To un-Europeanise our players in time for the league matches. For Sunday. Against Liverpool. A real 16 pointer. If not more.

And Arsenal playing Manchester City. Ooooooohhhhh, that’s a big one.

Happy victorious Friday

A xxxx

Can you split an infinitive? Can you actually pray ‘boldly’ as opposed to humbly, sincerely, smirkingly, fires of hellishly?
Who cares?

My point is that they have officially confirmed that Scientology is ‘a religion’. In my eyes, and in those of any good Something-fearing person (even if that which you fear is only losing to Arsenal in the FA Cup), scientology is Star Trek. Its Star Wars.
Katie Holmes was right; its total and utter bollox of a sci-fi nature. Yet now its been officially sanctioned as ‘a religion’ so that a couple (of dorks, obviously) can get married in their ‘place of worship’.

L.Ron Hubbard, wasn’t a very good science fiction writer so he turned his most stupid of books, Chariots of the Gods, or one of them anyway, into a quasi-religious bible. A statement of fact. YES; aliens did invade the planet Earth 75 million years ago and YES these aliens ‘attached themselves to humans’ and the only way to divest ourselves of these evil ‘Thetans’ is to pay most of our worldly possessions over to the Scientology ‘church’ and we will be freed. Halleluyah! Or ‘nanu-nanu’, maybe.

Oddly, there were no humans 75 million years ago. Not even cave-dwelling Neanderthal types, Lib Dems, insurance salesmen or Charles Saatchi. But such details didn’t stop those damned Thetans…

In 1970 scientology was refused religious status, even though it fulfilled the criterion that ‘groups of people meet and worship’ (groups of very odd people do, anyway) but failed because it lacked a deity, a single god-type central figure. A star. A Simon Cowell type A-lister to be the focus. But in 2013 the judges have become more accepting and as no-one really gives a shit about religion any more, you can register any kind of nutty following and achieve credibility.

And more importantly, you can get tax relief. A ‘religion’ (as opposed to a group of Trekkie nutters meeting to fleece each other out of money) has charitable status and thus gets all kinds of benefits. Therefore I am personally going to be subsidising Tom Cruise and John Travolta and fund the former’s elevator heels and the latter’s hair transplants and jumbo jet habit.

Top Table, the restaurant review and cheap table website, has listed Britain’s top 100 restaurants according to those bargain hunters who use its site. And Gordon Ramsey came out on top. McDonalds hardly got a mention, nor Efes kebabs in Great Titchfield Street, the finest eatery in the entire world, especially sitting on the wall outside with chilli sauce dripping down your shirtsleeves.

But predictably, London had over 50% of the top restaurants. (For anyone reading this in Norfolk; that’s over half). Birmingham, our ‘second city’ boasted 4 of the top 100 and Manchester, which has serious pretensions at being slick and cultured, had 6. Probably all those Thetans attaching themselves to the Mancunians.

Scotland had 9. All of Scotland. Which is about 8 more than I would have predicted. Maybe the world of haute cuisine is just not ready for deep fried mars bars wrapped in animal intestines. Well that’s their frikkin loss.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, how about a woman pissed off by inappropriate behaviour by her husband at a memorial service?

Like Michelle Obama in this picture of a picture taken at the Mandela memorial in Johannasberg yesterday.
Barak and David Cameron, flirting with each other and with Helle Thorning-Schmidt, Danish premiere and blond Cameron Diaz almost lookalike, and taking a ‘selfie’. A move that would please anyone under 19. A trio that would give credibility to Tom Daley’s confused sexuality.

Obama wowed the world with his fantastic speech about the ‘greatest liberator’ and super, humble wonderman that Mandela was. Then started fucking about in the stands ‘trying to impress the girls’. The ‘girls’ here being Helle and Cameron, who’s had a rather confused sexuality ever since his days at Eton.

As someone who always finds it difficullt to adhere to correct protocols at funerals and memorials I actually find it rather encouraging that world leaders share my inability to behave appropriately at times of seriousness.

And last night I found myself at a Carol Service. At St Dunston-in-the-West church on Fleet Street. Where I have to sit quietly (unless singing carols or saying ‘amen’) and look serious and thoughtful. Oh dear. If only my mind worked in such a way. Let alone my mouth.

Its an annual event (how odd, eh? having a carol service every year, always at Christmas time; amazing coincidence) put on by C Hoare & Co, the only privately owned bank in the country, if not the world. Its relatively new, only been there since 1652 or thereabouts, owned completely and exclusively by the Hoare family.

And they have 300 ‘worthy’ people to the service, then its all back to the magnificently splendid bank for a seriously up-market piss-up. All champagne and canapees of utter delightfulness and poshness and gentility.

But you have to work for your supper. And that work is sitting quietly in the gorgeous little church. Which is fine. And listening to a truly magnificent choir, who are so good its almost enough to have you believe in some kind of deity.

But then they have the prayers, which are a bit more… prayerish, and of course, they have the dreaded… readings!!!
From the New Testament, I’m gonna guess. And that’s when it all goes a bit ‘Life of Brian’, a bit wey-hey, a bit other worldly. As we listen to tales of virgins getting banged up by ‘Holy Spirits’ (iz dat wot our Ron is callin hisself dese dayz?), of non-sexual inseminations in sheds up by Bethlehem and Nazareth, and I’m thinking ‘can anyone believe this?’ Or more imporantly, ‘did Joseph really believe this???’ Its not meant to be metaphorical or allegorical, but literal. Mary was a virgin. Who gave birth. And her husband, poor, frustrated soul he was, had to believe it was ‘God wot done it; honest’.

I make no judgments. Just drank a skinful of champagne and attacked every tray of food as they entered the room, like the leading locust.

Great night. I wonder if Barak Obama had a good night when Michelle got him back to the hotel?

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

Going against a US government request for all flags to be flown at half mast following the death of Nelson Mandela, the sheriff of Pickens, South Carolina, refused to do so over the courthouse/schoolroom/poolhall/brothel in his town, because Mandela ‘wasn’t American’.

So I’m thinking here a kind of Dukes of Hazzard kind of sheriff; white suit, ten gallon hat, bootlace tie, big belly and moustache. The kind’a sheriff who spends a lot of his spare time dressed in white robes burning crosses outside the homes of people who look just like Mandela.

I may be wrong. It may just be some ultra-nationalistic statement in which people other than Americans just don’t count. They’re good at that over there. Like the ‘World Series’ in which ‘the world’ (as we know it over here) aren’t invited to play.
Or it may be just that, like me, the sheriff is already bored with the non-stop, endless, repetitive obituaries, biographies and testimonies to the great man.

Even so, lower the bloody flag man, just pretend that even in South Carolina they can appreciate greatness. Even if its greatness somewhere even further away than Atlanta Georgia.

Meanwhile, there’s dirty work afoot in the world of football. So that’s really serious. I mean, executions in Iraq, nuclear bombs in Iran, trouble in North Korea are one thing, (or even three things), but football??? That’s really important.
And it seems that footballers have been compromising their normal high moral standards (gang rapes, shagging sisters-in-law, drunken brawls…) and getting involved in ‘match fixing’. Again. For far eastern gambling syndicates. Again. They should ban the entire Far East, the world would be a much better place.

So if Leyton Orient beat Manchester United, I could understand that odds would be high, that stakes would be big, that big money could be placed and won. But this wasn’t the case. This was ‘spot betting’. Betting on certain events. In really crappy, low level games.

A man was paid £70,000 for getting sent off in a game between Portsmouth and Oldham Athletic. Or maybe Tranmere Rovers; it doesn’t really matter at this point. 70 grand. So how much was the bet? And how much did the better win?? And how on earth did the bookie not realise something was a touch foul-smelling when some Chinaman (its always Chinamen, despite David Cameron’s visit) puts £250,000 on a man to get sent off in a game between teams the bookie’s probably never even heard of? Do rats not get smelled in the Far East?

Now more footballers are involved. And its pretty shameful. Though sadly, knowing the mentality and mind-set of most of the players of our ‘beautiful game’, its all too credible.

I bet they get off.

Happy tuesday

A xxx