As Real As it Gets
If by 'real' you mean completely made up
Here in Paddy’s basement of misery, there’s nothing we enjoy less than sporting excellence. Show us a gifted athlete performing at an almost unfathomable level and we’ll probably vomit onto our own clammy genitals.
Unsurprisingly then, the PFA Awards fill us with a revulsion so powerful, we’d sooner do a pub quiz with Alan Pardew than engage with it on any level.
So, in this spirit of peevish obstinacy, here’s our alternative Player of the Year shortlist – those courageous figures in the game who have excelled in the fields of being stupid, being rubbish and being Radamel Falcao. Enjoy. Actually, don’t.
Not content with being made entirely from damp cardboard, Jack Wilshere has spent this season nursing a broken fibula while still managing to ferociously divide opinion between those who think he’s flimsy, immature and over-hyped and Roy Hodgson. Meanwhile, as Danny Drinkwater, Dele Alli and Eric Dier were munching through Premier League midfields like a wolf with a jelly bean, Wilshere was out and about scuffling in nightclubs. He might even have fancied a cigarette too, the evil sh*t.
Unless the German captain is doing that old Hulk Hogan trick of pretending to be beaten and then roaring back to smash in some baddie’s flabbergasted mush, we have to conclude that ‘Schweiny’ is now simply a bad footballer. Even in a Manchester United team that knows they will be trapped in the cleft of Louis van Gaal’s throbbing gonads if they don’t play slow and unadventurous football, Schweinsteiger looks especially slow and unadventurous. And, despite being just 31 and having won the World Cup just two years ago, he’s now so injury prone that Darren Anderton often rings his doorbell and runs away – snapping both hamstring in the process.
Everyone who plays for Aston Villa, has ever played for Aston Villa or is one day thinking about maybe playing for Aston Villa
Somewhere, in an underground laboratory in the Swiss countryside, the world’s finest scientific minds are trying to find out if anything is sh*tter than Aston Villa. At one point, Donald Trump did a poo on a pile of Simply Red CDs and they thought they might be on to something. But it turns out that this Villa side are so horribly bad that everything the club has ever done or will ever do is now forever caked in the rancid stench of this spectacularly pathetic season. Joleon Lescott’s got a sick ride though so, y’know, every cloud…
There was a time when the only way to stop Radamel Falcao was to send a massive Austrian cyborg back in time to kill his mum. Nowadays, preventing him from scoring is no more complicated than being made of solid matter although, in fairness, most gases could also probably do the job. Thrust into the Chelsea squad following a hopeless season tossing cans of Lynx into Ed Woodward’s big bin of burning money, Falcao has used this season to silence the doubters – but only in the sense that all the doubters are now so convinced of his irrelevance that they don’t really need to say anything. Oddly though, thanks to Alexandre Pato’s sort-of arrival, he’s now not even the most rubbish forward at Chelsea.
As well as sitting here cheerily denigrating the efforts and talent of elite athletes, in the interest of balance I should probably examine my own contribution to the game. A gangling, wheezing, quivering embarrassment of a man I once managed to volley the ball quite forcibly into my own gonads. Villa, I believe, are sending scouts.