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I've just been watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, Geordi was attempting to restore warp power by completely realigning the plasma conduits feeding the warp coils, silly twat. Everyone knows you just need to adjust the concentration of the dilithium in the warp core crystals and wait for them to slowly take effect. I know he's blind, but how could he not see that? He's Chief Engineer of the Enterprise for crying out loud!

It's because Geordi's approach to engineering is much the same as the string of cabillionaire football club owners' attempts to buy the Premiership. You'd think winning the Premier League would be easy if money was no option, just buy in a job lot of super-stars and sit back and enjoy. The theory is often so different from the realty.

As far as I can remember, the only team that's successfully managed to "buy" the league was Blackburn and that was during a period of significantly annoying domination by Manchester United that essentially meant you just needed to do better than them to win it.

They squeaked home and then were relegated soon after. Producing a team that can be competitive over a decade, like restoring warp power, takes patience. Even if you're being attacked by the Borg and whatever the footballing equivalent of that is - being pursued by Manchester United probably.

Mark Hughes was never the man for the job at City. When you've got close to a billion pounds to spend on a football club the very last thing you ought to do is give the authority to spend it to a man who's mental dexterity is akin to one of those sorry sombitches you read about in the Daily Mail who go into hospital for a hernia operation and come out paralysed from the eye-balls down with a mushed up brain after having an anaesthetic injected into their spine by accident by an agency nurse or BTEC student on work experience. You may as well have given the job to Christopher Reeves even if he is dead. Is he dead? He is isn't he?

However, once you decide to keep the man in the big chair, you can't just boot him out after a few months cause you've drawn a string of games and can only eek past Sunderland 4-3. Mark Hughes of course will be fine...he's what I like to call a wine bar manager. Which is to say erm..someone who should be managing a wine bar. Some thing that is more suited to his inability to think logically and where behaving like a cunt is a pre-requisite - but the City fans must be feeling like a right bunch of Charlies after the early season gloatations.

Fortunately for supporters of Championship contender clubs i.e. Arsenal and Chelsea - the A-rabs have replaced him with his Italian counterpart and not someone good. Phew...there was a real danger they might have picked someone decent and challenged for the title, but no they've just repeated their initial mistake which should see City finishing outside the top four.


We've seen two examples this week of why this incarnation of English football is rubbish compared to it's golden era of the early 80's - when shiny kits and big tashes were the norm and a central defender had to 'Reeves' a striker before he was shown a yellow card. Footballers still earned a wage that could fit on one sheet of his pay slip and John Motson was just beginning his decent into lunacy.


Richard Keys seemed genuinely perplexed and angry even, that Wolves had put out a second eleven against Manchester United in mid-week. More so in fact than when I quizzed him some years ago about his prejudice towards Arsenal and asked his partner if she likes to do it doggy doggy.

Keys' is for all intents and purposes a cave-man in a shiny suit, so perhaps we shouldn't be too hard on him, but since I know someone reads my blog to him - let me explain to him why his comments were rather duplicitous.

Sky take every opportunity to tell us we have the best footballing 'product' in the world and that they are largely responsible for that. But it's the money they have ploughed into the game that causes episodes like Mick McCarthy's team selection.

One's Premier League status has become so important that one has to do whatever is necessary to secure it. Even if it means offering up a game to the punters that is dead as a contest from the kick-off. A sound long-term strategy, but diluting the quality product Sky purports our football to be.

It's also the monies that encourage players to cheat and so often turns the game into a farcical charade - that turns the game into a product if you will. There was none of this in the early 80's. And it's also a myth that the game is more skillful today. It may be faster and the players fitter and more oily of face, but it's not more skillful.

Load up the You-Tubes and watch a game from that era and I'm telling you it's like slipping back into the loving embrace of an ex-girlfriend and enjoying the natural moist warmth of her fleshy goodness after spending many years sating your sexual appetite with expensively bought sex, negotiated and cynical and lubricated by KY jelly and similar emollients.

I think you know what I'm trying to say. I'll bid you good morning.

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Labels: Football, Nonsense, TV

Labels: Football

Press conference at 7pm at the City of Manchester stadium.

Cheerio cheerio cheerio
Cheerio cheerio cheerioooooooooooooo
Cheerio cheerio cheerio
Cheerio
Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerio

and so on.

Labels: Football, Funny

It's always the way - you pop out for a chicken Tikka Masala wrap and six crumpets and when you leave the sto after not more than two minutes, there's a freakin blizzard in progress.

I've been dreading these weathers. Not because they make access to the sammich sto difficult, but because of the tedious weather reports on the news.

Every time it snows the news channels all send a team of stiffs out to the most effected areas to stand by a road where traffic has slowed to a crawl to let us all know that it's snowing.

This example of 'no shit Sherlock' reporting is something I can manage without and I'd be much happier if they gave advice on how to keep bread fresh over a prolonged period for people like myself who may have to make his own sammiches for three maybe four days in a row.

Labels: Random Post

Good morning, so I've finished my course of antibiotics and I am much improved. If only the wider world had improved with me. If only. If only. Yes yes yes..gloom gloom gloom. Gordon Brown is still fumbling his way through his Premiership - ruining things here, destroying things there and sadly David Cameron is still alive and well.

The country is still bankrupt, the war continues and Christmas approaches with all the promise and good cheer of a kidney stone operation. The weather is cold and unforgiving. Snow today they say. Damned global warming. It's a good job they're having that summit in Copenhagen to address theses balmy temperatures as I'm running out of Cornetto's.

I did have occasion to laugh this morning though, albeit because of a dream that in hindsight wasn't really that funny. In my dream I had a few quid to spend so I had bought myself a boat. It was a hovercraft in fact, but I had not fully appreciated how big it was.

It arrived on a lorry that had a police escort as it was so big. Rather than a dinky little craft on which I thought I'd be able to whizz about on Farmoor reservoir, it was akin to the kind of thing that carries 200 people across the channel in 25 minutes. The propeller things were like something off the space shuttle.

The absurdity of my purchase made me laugh heartily and this in fact was what woke me up. Indeed I was still laughing hysterically some moments after I had awoken. I do so love to laugh like that, it happens so rarely, but once I was fully awake it suddenly didn't seem quite so funny and I felt a bit of a twat. I then made some tea and tried to think of something else to banish my embarrassment.

Labels: Nonsense, Sport