Week Nineteen – The Christmas Special
As I write this diary up until Sunday evening, last week’s piece missed out on a couple of things that happened on Monday.
We were once again paired with Bayern Munich in the next round of the Champions League, a draw which was obviously greeted with a mixed response. This ranged from “Oh shit…” to “FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!!!” with a bit of “They will be as scared of us as we are of them”, and “Munich was a great trip last year” in between.
I don’t want to repeat what I said last week about all this, and this is a happy Christmas special, not Eastenders. I’ll just put it this way – we get to play Bayern Munich, Spurs get to play Dnipro Dnipropetrovsk (me neither), a team named after a set of dropped scrabble tiles.
This brings me to a heart-warming Christmas tale from Monday….
Santa Spurs is Coming to Town
As we try to instil in our children from an early age, Christmas is a time for giving, Cliff Richard even says so in Mistletoe and Wine, and our ever generous North London neighbours continued to live up to their growing reputation as the gift that keeps on giving by giving the greatest gift of all – the gift of laughter.
Hilariously parting company with the shit Rick Astley, mumbling, beardy, wrongly Negative Spiral predicting, crouching on the touchline like he’s curling one out looking tosspiece, or Andre, as his mother calls him (SHE’S A WHOOOOOOORE!!!!!!!!) hilariously timed just before the Champions League draw, as if that wouldn’t make it any more hilarious.
Were Spurs right to sack him?
Do I feel a bit sorry for him?
Do I fuck.
Season of goodwill?
Bollocks. Goodwill will never stretch to that lot.
They have big plans for AVB’s successor though, with such stellar names as Tim “he comes from Borehamwood, he ain’t no fucking good” Sherwood, Stefan Freund and Les Ferdinand being bandied about.
But the LWC’s generosity doesn’t end there.
Remember this pair of nonces?
Well, on Tuesday, the One Club video had surfaced again, after being pulled off the internet (or seized by Yewtree officers) the first time.
There’s a chance this will disappear again quicker than a Spurs title challenge, so rather than linking to it here, Santa Spurs has had the elves busy putting together this collection of some of my favourite bits.
What the shitting fuck is that mask all about?
The gifts don’t end there though; take a look at these little beauties that were also flying around Twitter by Tuesday morning.
I’m sure most of you have already seen these, but I’m also sure you won’t mind seeing them again….
HEROES IN WHITE AND BLUE
The fun never ends does it?
Elsewhere this week, Michael Owen wrote a blog, in which he said Mesut Özil is inconsistent and creamed his Liverpool Y-fronts over Liverpool’s title credentials or something (he used to play for Liverpool you know…) I started skimming through it, until a sudden thought hit me and stopped me in my tracks –
DARREN, YOU ARE ALMOST READING A BLOG BY MICHAEL OWEN.
MICHAEL FUCKING OWEN.
MICHAEL OWEN IS A BORING CUNT, DARREN.
I was actually away from home on a course and staying in a Premier Inn at the time, and even the dull, sterile atmosphere and fear of Lenny Henry knocking on my door to check everything was quiet enough for me was more enticing than actually reading it.
So, forgive me if I can’t give you a more insightful breakdown of his piece.
I could read it, talk about the timing of it, about the fact he chose to spout this cat shit during a week in which Liverpool can go top due to playing before everyone else, in a game he will be commentating on (and no doubt masturbating over).
Or the fact that you can gauge just how relevant Michael Owen’s opinion is in the wider scale of things by the fact that it degenerated into a bout of pissy, girlie Twittercuntery with Piers Morgan. But I won’t. If you want to take a look, Google it. Then punch yourself in the face.
See what I did there? I judged something on without actually taking the time to make the effort to look at it properly. A spot on MOTD awaits, surely?
‘tis the Season to be Jolly
Anyway, enough of all that.
‘Tis Christmas, ‘tis the season to be jolly.
The Arsenal squad looked to have had a great time at their Christmas fancy dress shindig, with some excellent costumes including Santi as Super Mario, Poldi as The Hulk and Frimpong as Frimpong. Rumour has it that Ashley Cole was also there as Jose Mourinho cancelled Christmas at Chelsea this year. Not sure if he was in fancy dress, but one can only assume if he was he went as a massive cunt…
There were festive songs and carols sang that night, including Park the Herald Angels Sing, Frimpong Merrily on High, Santi Baby, Silent Stan, Little Kroenkey, Deck the John Halls, and many more.
As it’s the festive season, it also means it’s Panto season!
Oh yes it is! So, I thought I’d bring to you a Christmas pantomime of my own. It’s a tale of hope.A tale of the triumph of good over evil, of class over cunts. Don’t expect Shakespeare or anything, this is poorly scripted, the characters don’t seem to fit in properly, and the plot makes little sense. A bit like the Eastenders Christmas special really. But better….
DB’s Christmas Pantomime
Venga the Great – Our hero, the leader of the Red Army
The Emperor Roman – Ruler of the Blue Army
Maureen – the Wicked Bitch of the West – Roman’s little bitch
The Three Ugly Sisters
Spud – the Village Idiot
Our story begins in a dark, soulless bus stop in Fulham ruled by the evil Emperor, Roman, who does little but sit upon a throne of solid gold, wearing a blazer, jeans and a mildly retarded looking half grin.
Enter the Wicked Bitch of the West, unkempt, unshaven, and looking in need of a good wash.
On her face, a smarmy, arrogant smirk.
A number of men with microphones, dictaphones and smartphones assemble on their knees in front of the bitch, eyes agog as if hypnotised, hanging on her every word.
Their heads are tilted back slightly, mouths open with tongues protruding slightly, as if ready to catch snowflakes, or whatever else may come their way, on their tongues…
Maureen: “I em zur Special One”
As she speaks, the evil Emperor pulls at a string, causing the bitches top lip to curl up at the corner, like a fish caught on a hook.
The audience responds as one: “Oh no you’re not!”
The Emperor once again tugs at the string, causing the bitch’s lip to once again curl, like a cantankerous old woman complaining about the queues at the post office while getting a blue rinse…..
Maureen: “Pffft….vell….erm…..zis is problem….errr….ve hev to bettle Red Army ven zey hev …errrr…..pffft…. less bettles then uz in zis week …… Pfft ….but zis iz…. not my fault if ve looz… errr….hrmph…..pfffft….”
(Lip curls again, this time accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders)
She saunters off stage, like Joan Collins in a tracksuit, followed by the minions, still on their knees, mouths still open in hope….
The scene switches to Castle Emoteedeh where upon a sofa sit three ugly sisters, their expressions bitter and twisted looking.
Opposite this sofa sits a hideous looking creature, with huge ears protruding from a face with an expression of constant smarminess….
Every sentence contains a sort of pause that elongates the last word, as if someone keeps sticking their finger up his arse….
“Sooooo… mmmm….do you thinnnnk……the Red Army can win this battle orrrrrrr….. mmmmm….?”
“Not for me! Not for me! Not for me!”
The three ugly sisters reply in unison, a cacophony of cackling cuntery.
The scene switches swiftly to the Kingdom of Ashburton, where the Red Army are gathered, led by Venga the Great.
Suddenly, an irritating noise is heard from within the shadow of the Red Army….. it’s Spud, the village idiot, the court jester kept close enough by to provide a constant source of amusement with incomprehensible babble of power shifts, negative spirals and gap minding.
“What was that?” asks Venga the Great, not seeing things historically being a regular occurrence on his part….
“He’s behind you!”
Cry the audience as one.
And that’s where Spud remains, an irritating, irrelevant noise that remains firmly in the shadow of the Red Army.
The Red Army is a truly magnificent sight to behold – with such warriors as Per the BFG and Nicklas the Greatest.
The Blue Army then appear, looking a less than magnificent sight, full of such hideous characters as Terry the Cunt, Cole the Gimp, and Frank the Fatman.
Fast forward to the rousing finale, and Maureen and the Blue Army lie defeated, abandoned and jobless, as the evil Emperor Roman suddenly gets bored and disappears.
Maureen muttering “pffffft… in my mind … pffft…. ve did not looz…” or something along those lines, but by now, nobody is listening any more….
Venga the Great then chucks a bucket of soapy water over Maureen the Bitch, this is clearly the first time she has felt soap and water on her skin for many a year and she disappears in a cloud of blue smoke.
The victorious Red Army then break into song, with a rousing rendition of “Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead”
All I Want for Christmas….
As I write, we are now third in the table, and when this goes out, we will be just a few hours from the chance to go back to the top of the table if we beat Chelsea. If you have read this diary before, you will know that I have a strong hatred for anyone and anything to do with Chelsea.
To me, this hideous, odious club represent everything that is bad about modern football. Everything about Chelsea, from the bottom to the top is fucking rotten to the core. Think what you may about the influence of oil money and the impact it has had on clubs including the great one that we follow, that’s a debate for another day. But in my mind there can be no doubt that Roman brought a nasty smell along with him as well as his billions of roubles. This stench grew even fouler once Mourinho came into the equation, the arrogant piece of shit, and now he is back.
I don’t go for the “character” thing either. The man is not a character, he is a cunt. A bad winner as well as a bad loser, a man with precious little respect for his peers, which Arsene Wenger – a man with more dignity in his pinkie than Mourinho could hope to have as long as he lives – has experienced first-hand. That Wenger has never beaten Mourinho just doesn’t seem right. I want to see Mourinho storm off after this game, not a handshake in sight. I want to see John Terry put on his arse like the dirty scumbucket that he is. Wonder what the odds of that would be with Betsafe?
So, Santa, I have been a good boy all year, just leave us all a nice little three points under the tree tonight.
On that note, I would like to take this opportunity to wish you and yours a Merry Christmas.
Have a good ‘un.
Up the Arsenal