Steve Brooooth is having a hard, hard time. Nobody is surprised by this...
We must pause here to remind ourselves that Dean Martin and Tony Bennett had far better voices than the little baldy guy from Hoboken who shared many a hot lunch and warm beer with Sammy Davis Jr. Sinatra was, without question, as rampant an egotist as Trump and someone who shared a preponderance towards delusions of adequacy with that other noted interpreter of Paul Anka’s second most famous number behind “Diana,” noted author and chip shop gourmand Steve Brooooth, whose piloting of Wor Farce 1 would have recalled the final seconds of the Hindenberg if Brooooth had been at the controls. Rather than minutiae of American politics, it is to the continued fall from grace of the House of Mag that I must now turn my gaze.
It takes some going to be a bigger shit show than the Republican Party, Celtic and HM Government’s response to the COVID pandemic combined, but Brooooth’s Front Foot Mags have effortlessly managed it. The Corbridge and Fossway reared squashy nosed buffoon has, with the season reaching its midpoint, somehow loosely held on to the reins of a team that are averaging a point a game, yet still sit a scarcely credible 7 points above the drop zone. This is despite a run of games that, since I last blogged about them, has seen a pitiful haul of 8 points from 10 league games, no wins in their last 9 games in all competitions, during which time they’ve scored 1 solitary goal, as well as piteous exits from both cups.
Among that litany of shame were two of the most spineless surrenders we’ve seen since that other bullshitting fraud, Graeme Souness was being paid handsomely for serving up horseshit hoofball to a disbelieving and disaffected supporter base. Even such witless, craven non-entities as Pards, Juan Cava, Sam the Sham, MacLexit and Joker Kinnear would have flushed purple with guilt at the sporting atrocities served up at Brentford and Bramall Lane where, against a side without a victory of any sorts in half a calendar year, Brooooth, having got his excuses in early by shamelessly calling for the season to be junked on account of Covid as, apparently, it’s immoral to still be playing football during a pandemic, sent out a side devoid of creativity and hamstrung by a selection that included 7 defenders. You know, it wasn’t this bad under Bill McGarry. In fact, it’s a bloody good job the grounds are empty; otherwise some ageing hothead would have been in the dugout remodelling old plasticine sneck’s bugle into ever more acute angles. This isn’t “My Way;” it’s “My Struggle.”
Possibly one of the worst things about both Newcastle United and football in general, is the ease of access to live games. I can watch the slow motion disintegration of Brooooth’s work in progress as they move higher up the pitch, apparently, on 4 separate viewing platforms, safe in the knowledge they’ll be shite on every one of them. I’ve seen every single one of Newcastle’s last dozen games, where the performances were, by turn: predictable, encouraging, pleasing, woeful, desperate, shameful, passive, spirited, unfortunate, wasteful, disgraceful and pitiful. I’ll leave you to match up the adjectives with the games.
These days, the NUFC Twitterati continue to come up with ever more insane ways to make the club the laughing stock of the entire global sports audience. The latest shady operators on the block are Newcastle Supporters Consortium Limited, who have appropriated the questionable tactics of Wor Fund, who sought to buy the club in the same way that Fire, Auto, Marine insured your car back in the day. The Ponzis in these current unhappy days seem to already have fallen out, presumably over a comb, with remaining deity King Keith employing the talents of the quick tempered and provocative DJ Marshy as his social media hit man, issuing profanity-drenched threats and insults to anyone who doesn’t acclaim them as the legitimate owners of Kafiristan United.
I haven’t told you the best bit though; their number one tactic appears to be encouraging supporters to email Boris Johnson. Now as you know I’m no apologist for that pile of subhuman excrement, but I’m prepared to concede that he does have other things on his mind than getting on the lap top to fire off several screeds of warm words, promising to get stuck in and sort out a deal whereby a squalid, blood and petrodollar fiefdom with a track record for human rights abuses even worse than Northumbria Police, can take over the club lock, stock and roll out a barrel of crude. Alright, so Johnson and Matt Hancock probably took on the Blades Business Crew outside The Eldon the other week, which is why Britain’s foremost Islamaphobe Patel was left to mishandle the daily briefing, but he’s not really interested in grown men cyber sobbing about Jeff Hendrick getting a starting place ahead of Shelvey. Then again, Newcastle fans have absolutely no sense of perspective, or indeed irony, when it comes to the importance of the club in the wider world. What do you expect from a collective who seem to regard Almiron as anything more than the worst bits of Muto and Lua Lua combined
You know, we should lay off the insults directed towards Brooooth and NCSL as Steve Wraith, perhaps for the noblest reasons, has been lobbying for an end to the trolling campaign of hatred that has seen one idiot turn up outside his door on a midweek morning for a row. The same nutter, we’ll call him Frank Dallas, has recently accepted a police caution for making violent threats to perhaps the worst NUFC troll on Twitter, Ian Hannon. This is a bloke who agreed to be on a 1 hour You Tube documentary with Steve, to argue the toss with his nemesis Ben Johnson. Simply because this Ben lad, who seems to be generally alright, if a bit prone to anger, doesn’t rate Brooooth, Hannon started a campaign of sordid hatred and vilification, including setting up multiple Grindr profiles, to enact some kind of twisted vengeance. A small, rotund, atrichous, dead-eyed sociopath, Hannon speaks in an unnerving monotone and frankly appears not to feel he has done anything wrong. Well, as the tectonic plates of law enforcement round Pontefract continue to move imperceptibly, we’ll just have to wait a while longer until he gets his day in court and six months in the Big House.
In the meantime, Pontefract Peachy has cosied up with King Keith, no doubt to the accompaniment of a DJ Marshy playlist, featuring the greatest moments of the Violent Femmes. It was either that or building up a profile of Brooooth on Grindr after his Gerald Ratner style press conference after the Blades and before the Arse, when he sounded like every other fat, boring, middle-aged fan, whining about the players not trying. Was this playing to the gallery or did he mean it? Who knows; whatever the reason the effect was the same; a predictable second half capitulation where Emil Krafth looked like he was suffering from some kind of inner ear infection that played havoc with his balance. Don’t stop there; Lewis on the other flank was dogshit, Lascelles is a nice bloke and a fine club captain, but he’s either not recovered from Covid or not good enough to play first choice centre back, not least because he’s the worst one at the club and Shelvey is a lazy liability whose Hollywood balls are now strictly straight to DVD Alan Smithies material.
The serious point is that, having thrown half the squad under the bus after the Sheffield United debacle, the other half fared no better in the final analysis against Arsenal. Don’t get me wrong; we have enough good players to put out a good team. The problem is the manager knows nothing about tactics, simply can’t motivate the team and has fewer allies in the dressing room than Trump has on Capitol Hill. We might be fucked you know.
With Villa, Leeds, Everton, Palace and Chelsea as our next 5 games, losses in the first 2 of those will mean our absentee landlord and his bong-eyed Captain Boycott having to make a decision. However, if the only show in town is Mark Hughes, why bother? The only good thing about the Welshman is he’s so quietly spoken you’ll not hear the horseshit he comes out with in interviews. Frankly, our only hope is Saint Maximim returns in his splendour. He was convalescing for so long I had thought about trying to crowdfund a documentary, called Looking for Number 10, then not making it after Joe Public stumped up a decent wad of cash.
Perhaps the saddest thing for me is that the dross served up by Newcastle United is making me turn my nose up at the rest of the fare on offer. As for the rest of the Premier League, I would say that I only truly enjoy watching Man City and Leicester in full flight, as even Liverpool, now that Salah appears to have gone on a work-to-rule, are pedestrian and uninspiring. I don’t know whether it’s my age or what, but being genuinely shocked that Wayne Rooney is old enough to retire or that Theo Walcott has almost reached his mid-30s shows the disengagement I have from the top flight, except for Mourinho’s still superb press conferences. Don’t get me wrong, I continue to love Championship football, as I’m preparing for Newcastle’s challenges next season.
No comments:
Post a Comment