Since last week’s (month’s would be more accurate) post, United have won via a 96th minute goal in a 94 minute game and a 93rd minute own-goal. I REST MY CASE, YOUR HONOUR. Get out the pitchforks and gasoline, lads, we have us some burning to do.
Angry Mob 101
Also, Arsenal were stunning and beautiful and amazing and fantastic and sexy. And cool. And delicious. Damn, I need a cold shower now. Lets do the burning tomorrow. Toodles!
There are certain incidents that when they occur cannot fail to make you double take and ask yourself whether or not you did actually see that puddy-tat. This post is not one of them. And it is with that subtle (a word I pronounced as sub-till for a very long time, but that’s for another time) opening quip, do I plan to unveil one of the world’s biggest and most well kept secrets: Football, my passionate friends, Is A Joke. And by Joke, I don’t mean a knock-knock or a pun, but more along the lines of a Divine Comedy. For those who have actually read Shakespearean comedies and laughed, be warned, you might actually find this denouncement amusing. The rest of us might as well get the tissues out now. This is not going to be pretty.
I haven’t worked out the full enchilada myself but I’m afraid to wait any longer lest They come in the night and wipe my mind clean. (How many people would notice the difference?) It involves Manchester United and a conspiracy theory of Pantheon-like proportions. It all started with a situation that I think the entire 1% of all football fans who don’t find the term ‘Red Devil’ a compliment will be familiar with. I was alive, watching football and I said, ‘Fuck. This just isn’t fair’. Yes, that was it. A completely normal happening that transformed into something resembling an epiphany except with more fries and less cheese. Well, wake up, lads and lassies, join in the awakening, football isn’t fair. Here comes the cold, hard, naked truth: Manchester United sold their sold their soul to Satan a long time ago. It’s true! Scouts honour. However, even ol’ Lucifer couldn’t keep up with the British Judicial System which clearly states in illegible small black font that an Artificial Juridical Person such as a football club will never really ‘die’. This makes them signing a soul-selling agreement wholly redundant because the time of fruitation of the contract will never come to pass i.e. Mephistopheles got owned by the Mancs.
Where's the estimated expiry date?
While this leaves the Prince of Darkness to twiddle his thumbs and pore over constitutional amendment forms in triplicate, United now enjoy the Devil’s own luck and can now freely direct the plot of the Premier League according to their own whims and fancies. Doesn’t the idea of them signing an unknown Portuguese winger for a song, making him the best player in the world, winning three titles at a stretch with him and then selling him for 80 million to Real Madrid, sound a bit too good to be true? The fact that Cristiano is the anti-Christ only gives further weight to the argument. (And don’t even get me started on Real Madrid! They probably put through a power-sharing agreement in virgin’s blood so they could lease the Champions League in short 5 year spells. No one bothered to inform Eintracht Frankfurt though. Else, they might not have bothered showing up back in ’60.)
Only a ‘Red Devil’ (A co-incidental nickname? HA! They probably couldn’t stop laughing in their plush leather Gucci armchairs when it caught on.) would then proceed to allow Liverpool to win more League titles just so they could rub it in their faces when they eventually overtook them. Only they could sign a player called Best and then make it actually come true. Only a truly sick-mind patting itself on the back after cheating Beelzebub himself would give its players and manager everlasting youth just so their opponents could suffer the ignominy of losing to a blistering strike by a pensioner on crutches directed by a centenarian who should have graduated from Crutches to Death 20 years ago!
Who does he think he's kidding?
Of course, some of them weren’t all bad. One young brave soldier of truth did on discovering the truth behind the club immediately procure himself a way out of the club. Legend has it, that the shock of realization caused him to hit himself on the head with a shoe repeatedly. Something which spawned numerous (and to be honest quite unbelievable) stories about how the Manager had thrown them at him and so on. Its strange how some people will fall for anything written in the papers. But even at that tender age our poor hero was tainted by their evil and had no choice but to unconsciously release the worst perfume brand ever created. We will never forget you, David.
But let us not in our attempt to bring a pseudo-happy ending to the story, forget its topic! Of all the crimes against humanity, this one has to be most spiteful, the most pointless and the most painful. For what? For fame? For pride? For the glory of sticking your balls in a net? For the subjugation of a mindless number of empty-headed followers who are willing to purchase any memorabilia you stick your logo on? Bingo.
Isn’t it blindingly obvious? Of all the moneymaking deals made in Tartarus, this one must get its own office. Football just doesn’t make sense otherwise.
Oink Said The Happy Pig 