Malc the Knife: The Official 2010/2011 Sport Is A TV Show Premier League Preview

Review our previews from last year and the year before.

...Thank you ... thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, this next one ... this is gonna be the last song for tonight. It's a number, you may have heard of it, a tune called "Mack the Knife"...

(The audience applauds.)

You have heard of it, then?

(The audience laughs politely.)

Now, this is a version with a bit of a twist, because a good friend of mine, a lyricist by the name of Fred Rartzstein, has written some new words for it. In fact Fred's here tonight — stand up, wontcha Freddie, let the good people see you ... Fred Rartzstein, folks...

(The audience applauds lightly.)

You see, Fred here is a fan of soccer, and he told me he changed the words as a way to kinda look ahead to the new season of something called the, uh, Premeer League? Have I got that right? I don't know. Soccer ... eh, it's not really my thing...

(The audience laughs.)

...but, uh, anyway, I've got alimony to pay, so here goes...

Oh, the shark, babe
Has such teeth, dear
And it shows them...
...Well, sort of off-white
Just a nest egg for the kids, dear
And he keeps them out of sight

And when that shark bites
With his teeth, babe
His instructions start to spread
Green and gold, though, wear the fans, babe
So there's never ... well, there's sometimes a trace of red...

Now, let's change the scene...

On the greensward
Saturday evening
Lies a body
Ooooooozin' life
As the body bag is removed, dear
They all chant:
"We fucked your wife"

They've got scars on their bare foreheads
And each game is a blitzkrieg
It's still August — we've got time, babe
To repurpose them for Super League

Now, let it swing...

Tottenham Hotspur's Luka Modrić
Kinda looks like Johan Cruijff
But in FIFA 10, he is closer
To a '79 Mark E. Smyth

...You sure about that one, Freddie?!...

Right about hee-yer
There was a stanza
Oh so finely wrought, it was unreal
But just the other day, I had to junk it
Thank you very much, Martin O'Neill

Aaaawwww, Fulham-Blackburn
Blackpool-Bolton, yeah
West Brom-Wigan
All that shite
Even Cillit Bang won't buy the ad slots
So just stick 'em on on Monday night

On the table, yeah, is the letter
You've been avoiding aaaaaall day
If I were you, I wouldn't bother
It says: "Your kid has
Barça DNA"

You know it's true...

Now here come the
International friendlies
Come to decimate our stable of stars
When we need them to be fit for
Our mid-season jaunt to Qatar

Aw, now, here goes, here goes...

Never mind that he got off with
The ex-girlfriend of his ex-pal —
How would you feel to be led by
A man who screwed Alicia Douvall?

...allegedly...

'You must be delighted
To finish sixth, now?'
Well it's always been a lifelong aim
To take my place among the legends
And complain about having too many games

Have you noticed
How the key of this number
Goes up a semitone with every verse?
(Oh, yes it does)
Well, my vocal cords are already shattered
And they're about to get a little bit worse

No no no no no...

Not your failure to react to changes
Not your signing who can't shoot a lick
Not your cack-handed attempts at motivation
No, it's all because the ref gave them a goal kick

Ah, ah, ah...

Ah, the winger, yeah
Now he leans over, don't you know
And feels the hamstring that's been giving him gyp
And gets berated by some fat bastard
With gravy stains on his replica strip

In the World Cup
He was as useful
As the stinkin' corpse of good ol' Milton Berle
But today he scored two goals and made another
Ah, that's why it's
The greatest league in the world

But I deplore his obscene wages
And his astronomical transfer fee
(It really is...)
It's almost enough to make you cancel
Your subscription to Sky HD

But I like that Sunday Supplement
And I can count the hairs in Martin Samuel's nose
As I wait for Henry Winter
To tell me the answer to all our woes

Now I say, I say...

We thank you for the free publicity
Now contribute to our wealth
Or our valued data partners
Will instruct you to go fuck yourself

Welcome back Joey Barton
And Kevin Nolan
Kevin Nolan and Joey B., now, Joey B. B. B.
Kevin Nolan, Joey Barton
Joey Barton and Alan Green

Seppy Blatter, Mick Platini
And — hey, it rhymes — old Egidius Braun
Oh, the line forms on the right, babe
Now that Malckyyyyyyy's
Back in town!
Look out, ol' Malcky is back!

Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, I'm here the next four nights, tell your friends, I wasn't kidding about the alimony, good night... Read more...

Read more...

The Official Sport Is A TV Show World Cup Draw 5-Hour Review Spectacular!

This weekend, following yesterday's World Cup draw, you're going to see a ton of would-be insights from people who have seen, like, six of the teams play since the last tournament, using whatever lame prognosticatory capacities they possess.

I'd hate to buck the trend.

*
GROUP A (The Group of Lady Macbeth)

South Africa
Mexico
Uruguay
France

WE COULD HAVE FINISHED SECOND IN THAT GROUP!

*
GROUP B (Quite Literally The Group of Beth)

Argentina
Nigeria
South Korea
Greece

75% identical in composition to Group D in the 1994 finals. Which makes South Korea this tournament's Bulgaria, Park Ji-Sung the Stoitchkov of the East and Lionel Messi a very naughty boy. (See? This prediction stuff is a cinch.)

*
GROUP C (The Group of Meth)

England
USA
Algeria
Slovenia

USA-England: a recently-diagnosed manic depressive versus a lifelong sufferer. The broadcast will end with "If you've been affected by any of the issues raised in this programme..."

*
GROUP D (The Group of Math)

Germany
Australia
Serbia
Ghana

Look, Neill fouled Grosso, okay?

*
GROUP E (The Group of Heth-Eth-Eth-Eth-Eth, Heth-Eth-Eth-Eth-Eth, Heth-Eth-Eth-Eth-Eth, Sausage Factory)

Holland
Denmark
Japan
Cameroon

"That's just naive defending, Clive."

*
GROUP F (The Group of "Eth! There's a Hair on My Tongue!")

Italy
Paraguay
New Zealand
Slovakia

"Miss Montana!"

"A beaut from Butte!"

"Miss South Carolina!"

"Nuthin' could be finer!"

"Miss Delaware!"

"Uh ... Good for her!"

*
GROUP G (The Group of Glorious Sacrifice for the Motherland)

Brazil
North Korea
Ivory Coast
Portugal

"So, at half-time it's Ivory Coast leading North Korea by a goal to nil. What effect do you think this will have on England's chances, Alan?"

*
GROUP H (The Group of Bad Breath)

Spain
Switzerland
Honduras
Chile

Sepp Blatter is Swiss. That's all I'm saying. Read more...

Read more...

I'm the joint thirtieth best footballer in Europe!

Hey, look at this — so are you!

Read more...

Damn United: The Official 2009/10 Sport Is A TV Show Premier League Preview

Finally. The wait is almost over. Saturday sees the return of possibly the greatest thing sport — nay, life — has to offer: top-class action from the best of the best, piped directly into our homes for our delectation. This is it, my friends.

But the World Athletics Championships are not the only event to begin this weekend. Did you know that the Premier League kicks off as well? No, me neither! Kind of crept up on us, hasn't it? You'd think there'd be more fuss.

Such an occasion deserves a half-assed preview of some sort. But seeing as everyone else already has one of those, we've decided to go full-assed on this one. We've called in a favour (don't ask) and got David Peace, acclaimed author of The Damned United, to supply us with some prognosticatory vignettes from within his shiny cranium. Stay safe, kidda.

---

*
F. Fulham. F for Fulham. F-in' Fulham. One F in Fulham. One F in Fulham, one F-in' hope: that they don't get distracted by the Europa League.

*
One miss. One fucking miss. Just one fucking miss. One miss, six bloody yards out. Six yards out and six fucking feet wide. Not like my day. Not like me. I would have buried it, I would, fucking buried it. Not him, though. Not today. Today it's printed on this form, on this fucking P45. Printed in ink. Printed in black ink.

Like black gold oozing through the Arabian sands.

Six yards. Six feet. All printed here on this form. Black ink, seeping through this piece of paper.

Like black gold seeping through the Arabian rock.

Rock. Bloody rock. Bloody Roque bloody Santa bloody Cruz.

*


*
Almunia to Gallas. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas to Bendtner. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas to Bendtner to Walcott. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas to Bendtner to Walcott to Diaby. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas to Bendtner to Walcott to Diaby to Bendtner. Almunia to Gallas to Clichy to Diaby to Vermaelen to Fàbregas to Nasri to Fàbregas to Song to Walcott to van Persie to Fàbregas to Bendtner to Walcott to Diaby to Bendtner to Nasri...

*
I am Phil Brown. I am Hull City. Phil Brown is Hull City. Hull City are the Tigers. Phil Brown is the Tigers. Phil Brown is Phil Brown. Phil Brown is Phil Brown is the Tigers. Hear me roar. Hear Phil Brown fucking roar.

*


*
Into the office. The empty desk. The empty chair. José's office. José's desk. José's chair.

'Any chance of a cup of coffee, er...?'

'Samantha. Of course, Mr. Ancelotti. I'll see to it.'

'Thank you. Pleased to meet you, by the way.'

I take off my jacket. I put it on the back of the chair. His chair. I sit down in the chair behind the desk. His desk. I put my feet up on the desk —

His chair. His desk. His office. His secretary —

I knock on the desk. José's desk. I ask, 'Whose desk is this, Samantha?'

'It's yours now.'

'Whose was this desk?'

'Mr. Mourinho's. He chose it himself. Why — do you want rid of it? We can have a new one ordered if —'

'No no no, not at all. Get rid of a fine piece of furniture like this? What is it — mahogany?'

'I believe so, yes. A real antique, Mr. Mourinho said.'

'No, it's beautiful. A real piece of craftsmanship. Very stylish. Be a terrible shame to throw it out. José does have very good taste, doesn't he?'

'That's true, Mr. Ancelotti, very true. Funny, the men who came here after him, as boss, like, they never really liked this desk. Or this office, for that matter. They wouldn't even look at it. They'd go the long way round the building just to avoid being near it. Almost as if they knew —'

I open the drawer in the desk. There's a book, a big book, a black book. On the front, in big letters, it reads:

MY SECRET DOSSIERS
INC. ENEMY LISTS
DO NOT READ
J.M.
'Here, Samantha, I think this must belong to José. He must have left it behind when he moved. See that it gets to him, won't you? And don't look inside — it all seems pretty top secret. It would be quite wrong to sneak a look.'

'Of course, Mr. Ancelotti.'

I'm sat in that office. José's office. In that chair. José's chair. Behind that desk. José's desk. Today's La Stampa in one hand. For the business pages. A cup of coffee in the other. Because I like coffee.

'You know, Samantha, I think I'm going to like it here.'

'Oh?' She sounds surprised.

'Well, I mean, if I lasted eight years with my crazy friend Silvio, how hard could this be?'

Samantha smiles weakly. She says nothing and leaves the office.

*


*
He's missed. He's facking missed. He's only gone and facking missed. Gone and facking missed again. Gone and facking missed a-facking-gain.

Hurry down, solstice.

Can't believe he's missed. Can't believe he's facking gone and missed. I could have facking scored from there. I could have facking scored from here. Our Jamie's bird could have facking scored in her facking high heels and carrying that facking Nintendo remote.

Hurry down, new year.

Facking missed. Facking facking missed. He's finished. Facking finished. Wait till I get him in the dressing room. Wait till I get him in the dresing room and tell him he's facking finished. Wait till I tell him he's out on his arse. Wait till the tranfer window opens. Wait till it opens and I can show him who's boss. Wait till it opens and I can show everyone who's facking boss.

Hurry down, solstice. Hurry down, new year. Hurry down, January. January, when dark becomes light. When boys become men. When princes become kings. When demons become devils.

*
Into Ewood Park. Up the corridor. Round the corner. Down the next corridor. Round the next corner. Dark. Up the corridor. Round the corner. Darker. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Down the stairs. Darker. Darker. Darker. Massive blow to the stomach. Twelfth.

*


*
Your parents are out, out of the house, out of the house doing something that you don't know what it is they are doing. You are alone. You go to the fridge. There it is. It is there. Three bottles of Coke. Three full bottles. Cola. Coca-Cola. You get a bottle out. To quench the thirst. You unscrew the cap. To see the bubbles. You take a huge slug. To feel the bubbles go up your nose. You drink some more. You drink some more. You get another bottle out and you drink some more and more and more. Coca-Cola. Cocococococococococococococococa-Colalalalalalala. COKEY WOKEY HOKEY COKEY COCO POPS. You get the Coco Pops out. You pile some into a bowl, a great big bowl, a great big blimmin' pile. You pour some coke over them. You eat it. You drink it. You eat and drink it all. You go to do it again. The coke is all gone. Six litres. Six flippin' litres. You take the bowl and you smash it against the kitchen wall. Because you can. You take a glass from the draining board and smash it against the kitchen wall. Because it's fun. You go to the cupboard. You go to the cupboard. You go to the cupboard and you take out a big pile of plates. You take out a big pile of plates and you frisbee them against the kitchen wall. Swoosh. Smash. Swoosh. Smash. Swoosh. Smash. Swoosh. Smash. You frisbee them against the wall and you laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh.

No coke. No coke. But there's coffee. But I'm not allowed. Says who? Espresso. Double espresso. Triple espresso. FOURPLE EXXSSSSSSSPRESSSSSSSSSOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The cat walks in. You are the best footballer in the school. You are the best footballer in the world. The cat is a football. You dribble the cat. You dribble the cat into the sitting room. You kick the cat into the fireplace. GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOOOOOOOOOOOOAL. You are Pelé. You are Gazza. Gazzery Gazzygazz Gascoigneywoignyboingyboingy. You jump on the settee. You bounce on the settee. Boing boing boingy blimmin' boing. You break the settee. You break the armchair. You break the carriage clock. You break the door with your head.

A noise at the front door.

'WAYNE! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!? I'm not standing for any more of this. Get to your room before I strangle you with me bare hands!'

'But Mum! What did I do? What?! I wanna watch go go power rangers! I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna I wanna! You're stupid! I hate you! I hate you!'

You take a swipe at a doily on your way out.

*


*
Cruuuuuuuuunch. The sound of Lee Bowyer's boot going right through the lad's shinbone. Cruuuuuuuuunch. Makes you sick in your fucking stomach. Craaaaaaaack. That's the lad's ribcage under the force of Lee's studs. Craaaaaaaack. The lad's just lying there, just fucking lying there. Smaaaaaaaash. The sound of Lee's fist punching a hole in the centre of the lad's chest. Riiiiiiiiiip. That's Lee pulling the lad's heart out. He putting it in his mouth. Lee is eating the heart, eating the lad's heart. The lad's lying there, just fucking lying there. Makes you sick. Makes you want to puke. The ref's run over and shown Lee the red card. Red mist, red card. Red card, crimson card. Crimson card for the crimson stain in the centre circle. The circle of life. Circle of life, circle of death. The bill are here now. PC Plod, plod-plod-plodding along. Plodding right into Lee's switchblade. Squiiiiiiiish. Takes a dozen, two dozen, half-a-dozen dozen bullets to bring Lee down. Thuuuuuuuuuuud.

They're waiting for me. Waiting with their pens and notebooks. Waiting with their notebooks and dictaphones, their dictaphones and microphones, their microphones and their fucking cameras. I know the drill though. I've been here before.

'To be honest, ah don't even think he should have been booked...'

*
'...and there's only one place to start this evening, with that extraordinary title decider at Anfield...'

Facts. The facts. Just facts.

'...sensational defeat which shatters Liverpool's title dreams...'

Just facts. Only facts. All facts.

'...to add insult to injury, Sir Alex Ferguson noted that the stupid beard Benítez has taken to wearing these past few years makes him look like Max from Phoenix Nights...'

Facts. Facts. These are facts.

*
Read more...

Read more...

The Official Sport Is A TV Show Champions League Quarter-Final Preview: Nostradamus All to Hell!

It's nearly Champions League time again. We're down to the really exciting part now, where the nasty continental muck is evenly balanced out by good old honest English grit. And what better time than before the Champions League quarter-finals to run a Champions League quarter-final preview? I certainly can't think of any!

Our normal procedure in such instances is to gather data and input it into our hypercomputer, Maisie (located in the world's third largest underground vault right here in County Sportisatvshow), a process which would furnish us with 200-proof truth. You may remember that this is how we produced our Premier League preview in, um, October, and our groundbreaking Premier League Goalkeeper Power Rankings. This time, unfortunately, Maisie gave us this message:



That binary string went on for twelve days, you know.

There was nothing for it, then, but to ingest a large dose of hallucinogens specially-formulated by SIATVStech, delve into randomly selected verses from the great seer himself and tune into what the cosmos was telling me. And here, as part of my sacred duties, I share that eternal knowledge with you, dear reader.

So, here is our preview, brought to you by Nostradamus...from beyond the grave.

---

MANCHESTER UNITED vs. FC PORTO

Near Perpignan the red ones detained,
Those of the middle completely ruined led far off:
Three cut in pieces, and five badly supported,
For the Lord and Prelate of Burgundy.

This is going to be brutal. United ("the red ones") will be "detained" by the spirit of '99 and their famous triumph in Barcelona ("near Perpignan"). Driven by the memory of one of their greatest days, and by revenge for their defeat to Porto in 2004 (when Porto were managed by José Mourinho, who now manages Inter, who come from a city near Perpignan), they set about their opponents ruthlessly.

Jesualdo Ferreira's decision to opt for three central defenders flanked by wing-backs backfires. Their midfield is overrun ("Three cut in pieces") and their defence is left exposed ("five badly supported"). United run in double figures over the two legs, giving famous oenophile Alex Ferguson — "the Lord and Prelate of Burgundy" — another glorious victory, and leaving Porto with a gnawing sense of emptiness that stalks them without respite for the rest of their days.

Result: United win; minute's silence to be observed before semi-final first legs

---

VILLARREAL vs. ARSENAL

The great Pontiff taken captive while navigating,
The great one thereafter to fail the clergy in tumult:
Second one elected absent his estate declines,
His favorite bastard to death broken on the wheel.

The "great Pontiff" is obviously Arsene Wenger, incumbent for life at the Church of Arsenal. After a nervy 1-1 draw at El Madrigal, the second leg becomes tetchy and boils over. Arsene Wenger is furious, rightly, when a Villarreal defender dares to imagine that he belongs in the same sector of the galaxy as Cesc Fabregas. Wenger is unjustly sent from the line for remonstrating with the fourth official, amidst some unseemly pushing and shoving on the field.

The third line's meaning is elusive. At first, it appears to mean that Pat Rice was somehow held up and unable to attend the match, thus leading to Arsenal's hopes of qualification crumbling in the absence of leadership from the touchline. This is wrong. Arsenal's assistant manager is not elected but, like the great Pontiff, appointed by God. This is a clever red herring by devious aul' Nozzie. Since there is no "second one elected", the "second one elected" cannot be absent. That leaves the question: can, then, his "estate decline"?

Not if line four has anything to do with it. This places Nicklas Bendtner at the heart of the outcome (though calling him a "bastard" is a bit harsh, I feel). Nozzie's lax punctuation may lead one to believe that this line condemns Bendtner to a sorry demise — a red card for a reckless swing of the elbow, perhaps, or a miss when one-on-one with the keeper fifteen yards out. But it is not Bendtner who is broken to death. The wheel symbolises the circle of life. Bendtner has been journeying around the wheel, and just when it appears that he has reached death — the final missed sitter which ends his top-flight career — he notices that the death-spoke has been broken, possibly by the great Pontiff. Thus, he cheats death, finishing with a neat, low side-foot shot past the keeper.

Result: Arsenal win; eternal life and, therefore, eternal suffering bestowed upon humankind

---

BARCELONA vs. BAYERN MUNICH

For the Gallic Duke compelled to fight in the duel,
The ship of Melilla shall not approach Monaco,
Wrongly accused, perpetual prison,
His son shall strive to reign before his death.

Frankly, I'm a wee bit surprised Nostradamus has anything to say about a game between two non-PL clubs. (And how was this allowed come to pass, anyhow? Sort it out, UEFA!) Still, Nozzie was nothing if not conscientious, so here we are.

Uh-oh. Looks like Thierry Henry ("the Gallic Duke") is in trouble. Here, Nostradamus correctly foresees Henry's famous nickname, "the ship of Melilla". The real ship of Melilla, Melilla No. 103, has been blackisted by Greenpeace for "fishing in the MED during closed season". Similarly, Henry strays offside several times in early exchanges. He responds by looking at the linesman disbelievingly, mouthing some curses and walking away sulkily.

This does not endear him to the officials; later on, some offside calls go against him, even though he was onside ("Wrongly accused"). Hence, he is unable to "approach Monaco" — "Monaco" is the Italian for Munich, and here symbolises the Bayern goal. This oppression of Henry's spirit becomes a "perpetual prison", and he complains some more to the referee, earning two quick bookings ("his death"). Happily, "his son" (Lionel Messi) is on hand, his astonishing dribbling ability nullifying the Bayern offside trap.

Result: Barcelona win; Thierry Henry suffers existential crisis, takes sabbatical to write volume of nihilistic verse

---

LIVERPOOL vs. CHELSEA

In the city of "Fertsod" homicide,
Deed, and deed many oxen plowing no sacrifice:
Return again to the honors of Artemis,
And to Vulcan bodies dead ones to bury.

The first thing to note here is that "Fertsod" is actually ſertsod, ie. Sertsod. "Sertsod" backwards is "dostres": that is, "dos tres", "two three" in Rafael Benitez's native tongue. Add two and three and you get five, or the number of Champions' Cups / Champions Leagues (or "homicides", as Nostradamus calls them) Liverpool have won. This PROVES that Nostradamus could see into the future.

The tie is going to be even more brutal than United-Porto, but in a different way. The first leg is marked by a dearth of good technical play; though the many oxen plough (Dirk Kuyt?), attacks break down in the face of big-match nerves and overly-cautious defending ("no sacrifice"). Nozzie uses a palindrome, "deed", to represent the circular futility of the game, like a dog chasing its tail. He even has to double it to adequately capture this idea.

Ever more afraid to make an error, the teams retreat into even more entrenched defensiveness in the second leg — they "Return again to the honors of Artemis". (According to an unattributed piece of information in Wikipedia, the name "Artemis" (αρτεμης) may mean "safe and sound".) The simultaneous urge to protect their respective goals clashes with the deep primeval need to attack. This internal conflict proves impossible to resolve, and becomes outwardly manifest as frustration, which boils over into sheer, senseless violence. There is blood. Viewers wonder why they didn't watch that documentary about volcanoes ("Vulcan bodies") instead.

Result: Everyone dies in the end, some of boredom

---

So then, the semi-final line-up will be as follows:

The dust and the screaming vs. The yuppies networking
The panic, the vomit vs. The panic, the vomit

Oh, this shit's on, muthafuckas.

Read more...

The Times sports desk: Still not quite getting the hang of this "Google" thing

The London Times' football blog, The Game, is your one-stop shop for a sensible, reasoned perspective on all things "footie". So it's no surprise to see them open up the debate on whether Rome should host the Champions League final.

I say "debate"...It does open with a question: "Should the Champions League final be moved from Rome?" Presumably, this is an error, and ought to read, "The Champions League final should be moved from Rome", because it is, in fact, an entreaty to join their campaign to have the tie removed from "Stab City", as they tactfully put it.

Whatever the merits or otherwise of this opinion (I mean, Tommy Smith agrees — LISTEN TO THE LEGEND), I can't help but feel that the good folk manning the sports department at the dear old Thunderer should, in making their case, not, y'know...talk shit.

I give you:

Uefa is hoping that there will be no trouble on May 27 and is confident that Italian police will deal with any problems. Any English supporter who has been to the Olympic Stadium knows that holding the final there is a risk not worth taking. Type “Roma” and “stabbing” into Google and you get 280,000 results.

Now, Google is a wonderful resource. But:

1. Are we sure we want the venue for football's biggest games to be determined by a single Google search?
2. Given the Times' recent, ahem, embarrassing inability to fully grasp the fundamentals of internet-based research, shouldn't they, like, not bring Google into the argument? Just to be on the safe side, I mean?
   

Maybe I'm being harsh, so let's test it out. Scientifically. Maybe Google can be used in our quest to ensure that European club football's biggest game takes place on an appropriate stage. Perhaps The Game's problem was that they didn't cast the net out wide enough and Google other football teams' names and the word "stabbing" to give credence to their view.

For form's sake, let's begin with Roma:


Approximately 276,000. That's something, alright. (Though not quite the 280,000 claimed by the Times. Perhaps 4,000 of them "mysteriously disappeared" since the claim was first made. Not that the Times would know anything about that sort of thing, would they? Eh? Eh, Times? Eh? Zing!)

So, the cut-off point for the right to host the Champions League final is somewhere below 280,000 hits for "[football team based in city (x)] stabbing". (In the interests of concision and clarity, such hits shall henceforth be called "Stabbini".)

What about future venues? The Bernabéu hosts next year's game, so:

An impressively low Stabbini count for the Madrileños. In 2012, the circus heads for the Allianz Arena:


All tickety-boo. It seems that the Stabbini Threshold (ST) is somewhere between 67,200 and 280,000. Let's check out London, host of the 2011 final, by determining Chelsea's Stabbini count:

275,000! We've really narrowed it down now! The ST is obviously between 275,000 and 280,000.

But: as mentioned, Roma's Stabbini count has fallen in the last twenty-four hours. What if the ST is somewhere between 276,000 and 280,000? Is Rome now eligible?

There is a simple way around this dread conclusion. Rome has more than one football team. What if we added Lazio's Stabbini score?

Yes! Problem solved!

Hold on: the Google's trying to speak!:


I'm confused. Could it be...? Could there be a flaw in the methodology?

Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Maybe we're asking the little gods that live inside our computer the wrong question. Let's see what some other searches return:



This...this can't be happening! It's the Google! The Google's wrong! It's crazy, I tell ya, crazy! Wait...what's this?


Now, that's just a really big number used without due context. Disregard.

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The Official Sport Is A TV Show Premier League Goalkeeper Power Rankings -- January 2009

Welcome to a new feature here on Sport Is A TV Show, our Official Premier League Goalkeeper Power Rankings. We feel that the creators and the goal-scorers, the flamboyant and flairy of the game, get too much of the kudos, endorsement deals and unfeasibly-plasticised lady-friends. Through these rankings, we hope to bring some attention to those who, through no fault of their own, were born without the capacity to be any good at proper football but who love to scream "Keeper's!" and glare threateningly at their own teammates.

And what an perfect time to begin. On Tuesday, Edwin van der Sar extended his run without conceding a Premier League goal to 17 hours and 12 minutes, eclipsing the previous record set by Petr Cech in 2004/5. (We tried to find out whether any goalkeeper from the football's dim prehistory had a run better than this but, as we know, much of the game's history was lost in the Great Record Purge of 1992.) This spectacular achievement has had quite an impact on our inaugural table.


On which. We polled a panel comprising some of the planet's most omniscient deities and superheroes and fed the results into our hypercomputer, Maisie. (If you're unfamiliar with Maisie's previous work, have a look at this.) Using a set of formulae devised by Maisie herself, which are so complicated that even I don't understand them, this information was processed for a full twenty-four hours (with a ten-minute paper-jam-related interruption) until our rankings were produced. So, how exactly does van der Sar fare?


1. Shay Given
2. Shay Given
3. Shay Given
4. Shay Given
5. Shay Given
6. Shay Given
7. Shay Given
8. Shay Given
9. Shay Given
10. Edwin van der Sar

Well done, Edwin!

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Go on and love me, I don't care...ooooooooh....

Where do you people come from, anyway? Don't you know what democracy entails? Have you never seen episode one of Blackadder the Third ('Dish and Dishonesty')? There are ways and means, you know! I may as well have promised the compulsory serving of asparagus at breakfast! I've ended up as William Pitt the Even Younger, when I could have been Baldrick. I COULD HAVE BEEN BALDRICK!!!

Luckily, the editors at Soccerlens know that democracy is a sham designed to keep the proletariat docile (in fact, you could see that by the fact that they opted for the first-past-the-post system for their awards, rather than the fairer Single Transferable Vote version of Proportional Representation - for shame!). And, in their wisdom, they have decide to give me one of their virtual baubles. By the looks of things, it may have been my irrational hatred of Alan Shearer that swung it, which restores my faith in justice.

As you can imagine, the endorsement offers have poured in. If things are quiet here over the next few days, it'll be because I'm off to film a commercial with Tiger and Roger (Tigs and Rog, to friends) which will debut during the Super Bowl. If I'm slow in replying to your gushing letter of love and devotion, I apologise, but there's going to be a mountain of that stuff when I get back. Ciao, plebs.

If you frittered away your vote on this fringe candidate, thank you. And sorry. Congratulations to the other award winners, especially Brian Phillips, The Offside and Two Hundred Percent.

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In which I tell you The Answer

Gasp in awe, fear and - you can admit it, we're all friends here - no small degree of envy as I settle the issue of who was greater between Maradona and Pelé over at Soccerlens.

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Your weekend Premier League preview: reality is a malleable concept

All times GMT

SATURDAY

1245
Everton v Fulham Hey, how's things?


1500
Chelsea v Sunderland Hmmm...Premier League...that's the volleyball thing, right?

Man Utd v Hull Football...football?...yeah, yeah, I've seen it before, flicking through the stations, like. No, wait - am I thinking of kabaddi? No, no, football, it was definitely football.

Middlesbrough v West Ham Why are you looking at me like that?

Portsmouth v Wigan Wednesday? What happened on Wednesday?

Stoke v [REDACTED] Oh yeah, sure. It's Halloween, not April Fools' Day, idiot.

West Brom v Blackburn You're expecting me to believe all that? Listen, for a start, you're making those team names up. I'm no genius but I'm relatively clued up on this stuff and I have never heard of them. They don't register with me at all.


1730
[REDACTED] v Liverpool If you can show me those headlines and replays, then do, by all means. I listened to the Guardian podcast and they didn't mention it - not once. By the way, were the first ten minutes missing from your podcast, too? Some kind of technical glitch, I presume.


SUNDAY

1600
Bolton v Man City Look, let's go on the internet and check this out, shall we? Settle this once and for all...


MONDAY

2000
Newcastle v Aston Villa OH MY GOD! Come here, quick! Look! They've cancelled the Premier League!!!

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The Official Sport Is A TV Show 2008/2009 Premier League Preview

There is an inherent flaw in pre-season previews - they are written pre-season.

This means that sweeping predictions are made about what will happen a full nine months into the future based on such scant evidence as to be filler material for newspapers' special pull-out supplements. And anyway, every pre-season preview in history has been rendered puny and worthless by Free Darko's magnificent attempt at foreseeing every single game of the NBA regular season.

That is why we here at Sport Is A TV Show have waited until now, the quarter-way point of the Premier League season, to give you the definitive look ahead to what's in store. We have chosen this time because it has been statistically demonstrated that you need at least 99 games' worth of data before you can confidently extrapolate what will happen all the way to May. I'd show you the sums demonstrating this but you wouldn't understand them.

So how did we do it? We have made the most detailed analysis ever attempted of every Premier League game since the opening round. We have looked at all of the most important factors that shape a game: goals, assists, tackles, saves, dives, average arc of the trajectory of each mid-match expectoration of phlegm, degree of frowniness as a player trudges sorrowfully off the field after having been substituted, kilometres covered by the manager in the technical area, effectiveness per stepover and over 100,000 other measurements. We've also studied every word of every interview performed by every player, manager, director and protesting supporter, as well as the biographical details of everyone in the employ of a Premier League club, sponsor or affiliated mafia family.

We took this data and processed it through the most effective futurological tools yet devised: ouija board, auspices, oracle, divine revelation and throwing liquids of various viscosity against a woodchip wall and seeing what kind of pattern they form. We then fed the results into Maisie, our hypercomputer in the basement here at SIATVS Mews, which calculated the definitive outcome for your awe.

As an added feature, Maisie has selected a line from the canon of popular song for each club, offering a window into their soul.

And if you're thinking "did he do this merely as a way to busy himself during last night's Match of the Day so that he could avoid having to watch...you know...?", the answer is yes - yes I bloody well did. Don't worry - I've recorded it so that someday in the future, when I'm having one of those days where everything is going great and the world seems like an unreservedly beautiful place, I can put the tape on and remind myself of life's unremitting cruelty. Isn't that what football is for, after all?

So, onward. Prognosticator - won't you prognosticate?


ARSENAL: Gunnersaurus disappears and is found four days later brutally slain on Hampstead Heath. Alisher Usmanov denies all involvement and is granted an injunction to shut down the entire internet until such time as people forget the whole incident. Arsene Wenger says that Tomas Rosicky will be fit again by the end of the season. He does not specify which season.
Elvis Costello says: Though he says he'll wait forever, it's now or never


ASTON VILLA: Villa fail to break into the top four, but Martin O'Neill becomes more loveable by the week.
Nick Lowe says: That one day I may be joining in's just wishful thinking


BLACKBURN ROVERS: Blackburn play some football matches. They score some goals and also concede some. Their results are notable for a mixture of victories, draws and defeats.
The Buzzcocks say: Ba-dum ba-dum


BOLTON WANDERERS: Gary Megson complains about the red card awarded as a result of Kevin Nolan's horrific chainsaw rampage in the second half of Bolton's encounter with Fulham. "It was maybe a yellow but no more than that," says Megson. "It just goes to show that football is becoming a non-contact sport."
XTC say: No thugs in our house, are there dear?


CHELSEA: Lifelong Democrats continue to have recurring kinky dreams about Sarah Palin. In one episode of 606, every single caller swears at Tim Lovejoy, who promptly does not retire from broadcasting. Amr Zaki joins in the transfer window and makes a nice assist for Franco di Santo in the reserve team's win over West Ham in April.
Randy Newman says: Dear, you don't seem to realise - my life is good


EVERTON: Scientists determine scientifically using, like, science stuff that if all the refereeing decisions that managers say went unfairly against them actually went for them, then Everton would be World Champions, ahead of every other team in the world on goal difference.
Jarvis Cocker says: You only get to see the light just one time in your life


FULHAM: With the Thames having burst its banks and Craven Cottage under three feet of water, Fulham ask QPR whether they can temporarily share Loftus Road. Put off by the exorbitant rent charged by Rangers' owners, they settle for the use of the car park at BBC's Television Centre. They still feature last on Match of the Day.
Super Furry Animals say: They don't care about you and me, obviously


HULL CITY: Disaster!
Hull lose all their Pro Evo progress.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: Let's go the Groucho and snap at rakish heels


LIVERPOOL: Steven Gerrard dislocates his thumbs pointing to his name on the back of his jersey after a trademark 35-yard scorcher. He comes back on after treatment and immediately scores from forty yards. He then suffers a cataclysmic sequence of short circuits and is dismantled and sold for scrap. Rafa Benítez moans about something or other.
Johnny Thunders says: You can't put your arm around a memory


MANCHESTER CITY: City make a £500m bid for Kaká to distract attention from the disastrous debut of Ronaldo. Ronaldo (the back of whose jersey reads "THE BRAZILIAN RONALDO") suffered multiple tears to every cruciate ligament in his left knee as he bent over to catch his breath in the second minute.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: A light aircraft was on standby just in case I got bored.


MANCHESTER UNITED: Sralex relaxes his ban on the BBC interviewing him. It is re-imposed when he sees Garth Crooks waiting for him in the tunnel after a game. Wayne Rooney's Ritalin still fails to kick in.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: Is your child hyperactive? Or is he, perhaps, a twat?


MIDDLESBROUGH: Middlesbrough play some nice football in a nice stadium in front of their nice manager, their nice chairman and their nice fans. Final position: missionary.
Talking Heads say: Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was...


NEWCASTLE UNITED: Joey Barton's ceremony of induction into a Franciscan order is cut short when he spots a small bird with a broken wing outside the church and proceeds to torture it with a Stanley knife and its own feathers.
The Manic Street Preachers say: For sale? Dumb cunts' same dumb questions


PORTSMOUTH: The reason for the unusually pronounced camber at Fratton Park is discovered in stoppage time of Portsmouth's FA Cup clash with Wolves as a giant serpent rouses from its slumber after a Sol Campbell slide tackle. It is humanely put down and the game is played to a finish.
Blur say: Holding on for tomorrow


STOKE CITY: Rory Delap has his arms insured for £30m. Tony Pulis gets a job as a live-action impersonator of Dale from King of the Hill.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: The forty-third brown sign today tells me I could be on my way to England's crudest water wheel


SUNDERLAND: Sunderland sign Stephen Hunt for £2.7m. He accidentally detonates in transit, killing sixteen thousand.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: Did you see me being escorted round the ground?

TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR: Fans hang an effigy of the concept of the director of football outside White Hart Lane.
The Clash say: I went to the market to realise my soul


WEST BROMWICH ALBION: Tony Mowbray's interview after West Brom's final-round relegation unexpectedly turns him into the nation's sweetheart. His manner, even more mournful than usual, tugs at the heartstrings of a nation with 17,000 dog charities. The following weekend, an advert appears in the News of the World's pull-out magazine advertising a collectible plate featuring a painting of Mowbray's sad visage. It is called 'Tony'. It sells out by the Monday.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: Overhead a rainbow appears - in black and white


WEST HAM UNITED: The club is nationalised. Freddie Ljungberg is investigated for insider dealing.
The Jam say: Better stop dreaming of the quiet life 'cos it's the one you'll never know


WIGAN ATHLETIC: The reason for Wigan's extraordinary mid-season UEFA-Cup-places-threatening winning streak is revealed: they are being managed by Steve Bruce's evil twin! The twin kidnapped Steve in June 2008, while everyone was distracted watching the European Championship, and posed as his brother, taking training, sitting next to Andy Townsend and his silly monitor on ITV and writing a detective novel called Holding Midfielder!. He looks identical to Steve except for the scar under his left eye. The revelation comes in the middle of a routine Friday press conference when Steve bursts into the room with police in tow. He resumes his duties as Wigan manager and guides the team to a respectable fifteenth place.
Half Man Half Biscuit say: The wonderful dexterity of Hannu Mikkola makes me want to shake hands with the whole of Finland

Photo

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