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Liar-Man Sam and the Petty Sweaty
Bullying of any form is morally unacceptable. If a little ginger kid was being beaten up by a few bigger lads, I’d happily laugh along, but when it’s a person with feelings under attack, I have to loudly voice my disapproval.
I’ve found the recent behaviour of Alex Ferguson contemptible. Instead of going mano-a-wino with Rafa Benitez, Fergie has shamefully teamed up with fat envelope-merchant Sam Allardyce. The fiery Scot has seriously gone down in my estimations - and my original estimate was relatively low.
Sir Alex and big Sam couldn’t even come up with a valid reason to attack Rafa, so they had to concoct some garbage about demeaning hand movements. It’s not like Rafa used the widely accepted signal to suggest that Sam flies solo in the love-making arena, although that would merely be expressing popular opinion through the medium of mime.
I’m convinced that the reason for the cowardly tag-team attack was Fergie’s growing fear of a Liverpool title challenge. The purple headed warrior has already given up on the FA Cup as a precaution, although that is practically a Manchester United tradition.
Fergie may also be jealous of Liverpool’s exhilarating style of play. Their 4-4 draw against Arsenal was a joy to behold, and as for their glorious Champions League meetings with Chelsea, I haven’t seen two legs so open since Alex Gerrard last paid me a visit.
United refuse to play the game in such a cavalier fashion. Can you remember the last time Man U were involved in a 4-4 draw? I can, it was against Derby on Boxing Day in 1970. I remember that weekend well, as it was the last time Birmingham City were involved in a match without breaking an opponent’s leg.
The war of words between Slur Alex and mad Rafa has now escalated to such an unpleasant degree, you’d need a skilled plasterer to smooth things over; and Helen Chamberlain’s make-up assistant is currently unavailable.
In my opinion it’s time for the talking to end and the brawling to begin. When Alf-Inge Haaland upset Roy Keane, the new Ipswich manager didn’t respond with a potentially destabilising psychological diatribe, he just hit him hard like he was Susan Boyle.
Roy Keane is probably a bad example, as he’s hardly a model of restraint. When he was a player he went through more footballers than Danielle Lloyd.
It is undeniable that fisticuffs are occasionally an unavoidable solution to a problem. When a drunken chav made suggestive comments to my wife, she made it clear that if his inappropriate behaviour continued, she’d be left with no other than option than to use her pugilistic training to resolve the situation. I overheard her say he was on the verge of seeing her box.
I didn’t get involved in that argument for two reasons: I didn’t really care and I’m not the handiest in the brawl. When it comes to the ruck, I’m about as useful as Ulrika Jonsson with tonsillitis.
I remember the last time I was nearly involved in a fight. The lad was bigger than Ian Wright’s wife and harder than Wayne Rooney in an old folks’ home. I was on my toes like Dwight Yorke when his bint gets knocked up.
I even bottled out of a fight with Jade Goody’s mom as I thought she was carrying a weapon. I later discovered that she wasn’t armed.
I’m determined to stand my ground in any future confrontation, so i’m currently training like Rocky Balboa. I’ll be beating meat like fat Sam when my one point investment on West Ham to beat Chelsea obliges at a hard-hitting 9/2.
