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...

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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.

*
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®ebranding the Premier League

Last week, The Offside were contacted by a body representing the Premier League informing them that unless they removed the team crests from their site, they would "disappear" in the middle of the night, or some such.

Now, some may see this threat as a bad thing. They may point out that clamping down on an operation which is essentially giving them free publicity is more than a tad heavy-handed and risks alienating the very fans on whose custom the league depends. Others would argue that an organisation that charges for the reproduction of their fixture list has things a bit out of perspective.

But, in fairness, perhaps the league has a point. It's time they were given the right to reply. And seen as they are far too honourable to engage in mature, reasoned discussion, I have taken the liberty of presenting their case. As I'm already on a rebranding kick, I have created some new crests which present compelling arguments for why you should Do As You're Told™.

So, bearing in mind that--

* I used the exceedingly crude Microsoft Paint;

* I have the artistic flair of a raw ham;

* I didn't do crests for all Premier League clubs (I'm a genius, not a machine);

* When it came to Manchester United, I couldn't compete with this:


* Yes, smartarse long-time reader: I know that the Chelsea crest is based on an idea previously expressed on these pages (fear not: I have instigated legal proceedings against myself);

* The Blackburn and West Ham badges are pretty much gratuitous Neill- and Big-Sam-bashing, but think of it like this -- you're paying their wages;

--enjoy. Tell my family I love them.

UPDATE: Man City crest amended: key underlining added as aid to proper emphasis.

UPDATE THE SECOND: I forgot to mention that the inspiration for this post was a comment by Run of Play reader cjp, so a big and belated thank you is due.

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Falling into fancy fragments

As I intimated in my half-baked Soccerlens piece (though the Party of Five line was pretty sharp, I feel), the Arshavin deal is stupidly exciting to me, even if beyond reason. You can spin all manner of pretty webs out of it, all ready to snare the idiot fly. You could take his first two games at the European Championships and transplant the damn-near-transcendent spectacle to your future hopes for the Arsenal. You could see it as a furthering of Arsenal's New Tradition. You could see it as a bold new departure, buying the finished product instead of the half-assembled one. You could look at it in simple military terms: we got a new toy, motherfuckers.

Honestly, the main reason the transfer makes life effervesce so is because it's a good thing. That is -- for all that Arshavin is but a thought experiment for now -- it stands in contrast to the rest of Arsenal's season. (I know -- dry those tears.) The comedown from the first two-thirds of last season has been brutal and is still being endured, which means that something like this feels like opening the curtains. (Amy Lawrence wrote in the Observer, "Not since Dennis Bergkamp walked into Highbury in 1995 has a transfer been so important to the fabric of Arsenal", and though she was talking about the off-field Arsenal, it may turn out to be true on the pitch as well. Or Arshavin might be the next Alex Hleb. Who the hell knows?)

The whole Premier League season has been a washout. Note that: not just Arsenal's season, but the whole wretched thing, because to me, they are one and the same. My favourite football season is 2001-'02: a properly glorious Arsenal Double, with a Cup Final win against Chelsea and a league-clinching win at Old Trafford (and a Champions League exit too pathetic to spoil things). In 2002-'03, the football was often just as astounding, but the season was defined by the 2-2 against Manchester United at Highbury. Again, not Arsenal's season -- the season; because that is ultimately how I see the Premier League. When you're paranoid about Man Utd and Chelsea, it's hard to derive any pleasure from their brilliance. (Liverpool just make it hard for anyone at all to derive pleasure from watching them.) And, as we all know, the rest of the league may as well have been a different league altogether for much of the last decade, meaning that for the too-hardened partisan, it's shut off from the fevered reality of the Exaggerated Parallelogram, serving as so many attendant lords. Relegation battles become knife fights between recently unemployed stockbrokers: gleefully compelling, but still knife fights.

Last week, following the furthering of the Federer-Nadal myth (the good kind of myth), I noted: "who wins is now only a part of the matter; it almost seems a shame to reduce it to a simple zero-or-one question." The problem with seeing sport by way of the travails of a particular team is that it shifts the balance so far towards the binary that it overshadows everything else. The whole thing becomes about the outcome; process, with all it entails, be damned. Almost everything gets stripped away bar the catharsis of victory or the dejection of defeat. The teams you despise exist solely for the extraction of ill-earned schadenfreude or bitter frustration. It's like getting your kicks from a coin flip.

This blog was fortunate enough to be born in time for last summer's Euros. Though we were too callow to properly make hay with the tournament, it was a beautiful thing to be allowed to behold. The key to this -- besides the majesty of the football itself, which was kind of important, like -- was being able to just sit back and allow the thing to happen without fretting about how a certain team was going to do. I don't even mean Ireland, in this instance. It's easy to be wrapped up in Ireland's progress through a competition and know that it's not going to affect the fabric of reality too much. (Case in point: Ireland 1-0 Italy in Giants Stadium in '94 didn't prevent Italy reaching the final.) More's the point, England's absence freed up the time otherwise set aside for angsting about the possibility of 'Three Lions' being played on a loop on all BBC stations forever, and instead allowed it to be used to just drink in the goodness. It showed that angst up for the silliness it is. Similarly with the Wimbledon final: it was too big and too good for it to be about tying your enjoyment solely to the success of one participant. For me, the Premier League doesn't have that.


It's not that results don't matter. The hours I've lost here, wading through tables from leagues I have no connection with, are innumerable. To quote myself again, shamelessly, "the beauty may be in the struggle but the struggle is for victory, after all." But stressing the payoff dismisses the rest of the sketch which, as any Monty Python fan will tell you, is often the best part. The fetishising of the result is strengthened by each game being isolated and transformed into apparently universe-defining events. Each moment -- each contentious decision and scuffed shot and questionable substitution -- is magnified beyond its rightful significance, beyond its place in the narrative. It is significant, but modestly so. When a well-turned out yet discernibly smarmy gentleman knocks on your door and tells you he's conducting the Last Judgement, something ought to tell you he's lying. Whatever the truth is in sport, I'd wager that I saw more of it at Melbourne Park last week or in Austria and Switzerland last year than I do on any given Premier League weekend.

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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

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