Author: Bert Tiddle

Sponsored post: Leo Messi sometimes doesn’t wash his hands after using the bathroom

Disclosure: The content of this post was written by a sponsor that wished not to be named. 

Have you ever watched Leo Messi, a player who owes his legendary career to the unparalleled excellence of FC Barcelona, and thought “I wonder if he washes his hands after he uses the bathroom?” Well, newsflash: sometimes he doesn’t.

Yes, it’s a deeply troubling fact that should make you question his judgment on everything from when he doubts the unassailable brilliance of FC Barcelona President Josep Maria Bartomeu and the club’s breathtakingly handsome board of directors to when he suggests that he may one day turn his back on the fans and play for another club. Of course, he is still a brilliant player and you should buy his latest official FC Barcelona shirt and purchase tickets to watch him from a luxury suite at the Camp Nou, just don’t listen to anything he says or shake his hand after he emerges from the restroom.

That is the primary takeaway here. Well, that and the fact that President Bartomeu once saved a child from having the end of Frozen 2 spoiled for them. Actually, he saved children from that horrible fate on 17 different occasions.

Do you know who wanted to ruin the film for them? Gerard Pique. Why? Like Messi, he has terrible judgment that cannot be trusted. Whenever he opens his mouth to speak, just sing a Shakira song to yourself to drown him out and you’ll be much better off.

Also, Carles Puyol thinks shampoo is “demon syrup.” No one has any idea what that even means.

On another note, Xavi Hernandez talks to grass like it’s people and Pep Guardiola wears clothing made out of cat hair.

Of course, if debonair President Bartomeu, with his endless vision, warmth and generosity, one day bestows positions within the club upon any of those men, it will be a credit to his humble genius and willingness to overlook their shortcomings as imperfect beings — an experience that is entirely foreign to him. He is the closest thing we have to a superhero in real life.

In conclusion, Messi has pee hands; Pique deprives children of joy; President Bartomeu might one day cure all diseases known to mankind if everyone is nice to him; FC Barcelona’s board collectively has a robust, Hugh Jackman-like scent; Carles Puyol believes the devil has corrupted most commercially available haircare products; Xavi thinks blades of grass have opinions on politics; and Pep Guardiola’s wardrobe is basically the world’s largest collection of designer fur balls.

Then end it with something like “I am so smart!” — I mean, “President Bartomeu is so smart!” Yeah, that’s perfect.

A lesson from the Bert Tiddle School of Goalkeeping for Children Who Don’t Fucking Pay Attention

For just 100 quid a week, I will shove your child into making brilliant saves while they stare off into outer fucking space. What we’re doing is revolutionary. Just look at these endorsements from luminaries of the game:

“If you get arrested for this, I don’t know you.” —Sam Allardyce, brilliant tactician and soulmate

“I’m on the toilet!” —Alan Shearer, Ballon d’Or finalist and good mate

“Get out of my shed.” —Steve Ogrizovic, Coventry City teammate and numpty

Sign up now by slipping me cash or bitcoin behind the Wetherspoons near Sam’s house. No refunds and no grasses.

Xavi’s cease and desist letter to the NFL

To whom it may concern,

I am Xavi, self-appointed Imperial Defender of Pitch Sanctity for FIFA. I am writing this letter to command you to stop desecrating football pitches with your hideously excessive markings and grass murdering behemoths AT ONCE! Though I do not have legal authority over your organization, I do have moral authority over all sporting entities, as decreed by my lifelong affiliation with the ultimate arbiter of all that is good and just, FC Barcelona, and that is much better. Given this, you must respect my command or face the swift and merciless punishment of knowing that I, Xavi, self-appointed Imperial Defender of Pitch Sanctity for FIFA, am dissatisfied.

Though I do not sully my vision by watching English football, I was informed by my dear friend and brother in arms against pitch desecration, Pep Guardiola, of what your brutish spectacle did to the Wembley playing surface. This is wholly unacceptable. Why must you do these things? Are you hoping that all the lines and numbers will distract spectators from the constant stoppages between padded giants bashing into each other? Do you not hear the ghost of Bojan Krkic cry out an agony each time a patch of canvas for passing artistry is pummeled into rotten muck? Are you so insecure that you must emblazon your crest across the center of everything that is good and pure? Does Jose Mourinho put you up to this?! In the name of Deco, I demand answers!

It is far too late to rectify this atrocity, but there are several things you can do in effort to atone for your crimes:

-Personally apologize to me for forcing me to take time out from my busy schedule of counting my Qatari lottery winnings to write this letter.

-Personally apologize to Pep Guardiola for forcing him to express his unparalleled and underappreciated genius on a tragically brutalized surface.

-Establish a charitable organization that teaches children not to paint large numbers on the ground.

-Visit Qatar—it is a magical place that I would probably still endorse even if they weren’t paying me to do so in this letter.

-Plant grass seeds anywhere there is a child with a dream to pass a ball thousands and thousands of times.

-Punch Jose Mourinho in the face.

Complete all of these tasks and I may be willing to remove your organization from my List of Pitch Defilers Who I Will Never Forgive. If you do not complete these tasks, I will continue to write you strongly worded letters until you either see the error of your ways or simply throw them out without reading them. And that’s more than a promise.

Threateningly yours,

Xavi
Self-appointed Imperial Defender of Pitch Sanctity for FIFA

P.S. Seriously, you should visit Qatar. It has a trampoline park and everything.

Berbatov is narrating videos of his goals on Instagram

Long-time Dirty Tackle contributor Dimitar Berbatov hung up his boots (and his mayonnaise filled gloves) after a 20-year footballing career and now he’s passing the time by narrating some of his greatest goals on his Instagram account. I would do the same thing, but 1) I can’t be bothered to start an Instagram, and 2) All footage of the goals I scored over my career has been confiscated as part of an ongoing match-fixing investigation.

Anyway, Berbatov’s commentary is brilliant. His confidence, knowledge, and his use of the word “fuck” really set him apart from the numpties who do commentary on the tele. Have a look:

 

“Simple as fuck and so beautiful” is a perfect description of the game at its finest and how Victoria Beckham once described her husband to me after I convinced him to try and start an MLS team in Miami, Florida.

Anyways, Go to The Berba’s Instagram for the goal commentary and stay for the photos of him posing with unsettling portraits of himself.

Mourinho pays tribute to Aretha Franklin

 

People think Gose Mourinho is cruel, selfish, narcissistic, and miserable human being, which is why I adore him. But he does have a softer side, too. Case in point, after suffering the worst home defeat of his entire career, losing 0-3 to Spurs at Old Trafford, he interrupted the gutless piranha journos reveling in his misfortune to deliver a bit of class.

“Respect,” he said, over and over—a clear tribute to legendary singer Aretha Franklin, who recently passed on. You could tell just thinking about her beautiful voice was getting him teary eyed as he walked out of the press room.

To honour someone else during one of the darkest moments of his career, with the press out for his blood, just shows what kind of person he is. To quote Ms. Franklin, “Every chain has got a weak link…and it’s definitely Luke Shaw.”

Mourinho also rambled on about the number three, pointing out that he has more Premier League titles than the other 19 managers combined. You know what other significance the number three has? It’s the number of minutes it takes Big Sam to consume an entire wheel of cheese without chewing. Keep that in mind when the time comes to replace Mourinho, Manchester United. Sam is available. And he’s ready for a big job. He’d probably be willing to take charge at Old Trafford while he waits for one, though.

 

Kylian Mbappe’s open letter to Cristiano Ronaldo, Leo Messi, and Neymar

Straight after winning the World Cup, the Mbappe lad sent me this letter to publish on DT (he even spelled out his name to be sure I got it right), so have a read. —Bert

 

Dear Cristiano, Leo, and Neymar,

LOL. So is that it?

You guys have been crying over this World Cup business for years now, but I just won it on my first try. Was this supposed to be hard? Smh.

I mean, Leo and Cristiano, neither one of you have ever even scored a goal in the knockout stage, but I scored three in my first go, including one in the final. I’m 19 and both of you are like a million years old. How have neither of you done this yet? Pele scored in the final as a teenager too, so it’s not like I’m the only one. Winning in Fortnite is harder. I mean, this was so easy that I feel bad keeping the money they gave me for playing, so I’m giving it all to charity.

Cristiano, I used to have pictures of you all over my bedroom when I was little. It inspired me (up to a certain point lol). So maybe you should put pictures of me all over your bedroom now. It could inspire you to do better, you know? I’ll send you and Leo and bunch of pics of me holding the World Cup trophy so you can do whatever you want with them. Consider them a gift, but you don’t have to thank me. I just feel really bad that you guys can’t do this. Is it, like, some kind of stage fright? Do you somehow forget what to do when the whole world is watching? I don’t understand. Just do what I did: Go out, score goals, and win the World Cup. Simple.

I know, I know—you guys have had to deal with teammates like Higuain and Pepe, but I had Giroud. So you can’t say I didn’t have obstacles like you.

But even though you guys somehow haven’t won the World Cup, you have both still done lots of cool stuff! Winning all those Ballon d’Or awards—wow! You have, what, a total of 10 between you? Since I’m still only 19, that means I could win that many by the time I’m 30. Wouldn’t it be funny if I won the World Cup AND as many Ballons d’Or as both of you combined? Hahaha.

Anyway, I have to stop writing now because Pavard’s arm is getting tired from holding the World Cup trophy for too long. It’s pretty crazy that even he has more World Cup knockout stage goals than both of you. He’s only 22 btw. And he’s a defender. 😂

Oh, and Neymar…welcome to life in my shadow, bruh.

Enviably yours,

The New King

P.S. Leo, can you see if they’ll invite France to a Copa America soon? It would be amazing to win that before you, too!

Pochettino is to blame for England’s World Cup collapse

“Scoring anything other than a penalty in a World Cup match is considered a war crime in some countries, Garry.”

Before this World Cup, people wouldn’t shut up about how this England team were built upon Bauricio Pochettino’s work at Spurs. Six players in the squad who have played for Pochettino had them thinking he was the architect of any success England would have in Russia. And it turns out, they were right—the Three Lions got off to a blinding start only to bottle it at the end just like Spurs. Well done, Pochettino. You made England just as shit when it matters most as your own team.

Big Sam and Gareth Southgate tried all they could to instill a winning mentality into this squad, but Pochettino and Jurgen Klopp’s years of daily influence over the players was too much to overcome. Just look at Garry Kane. Won the golden boot with three penalties, an unintentional deflection off his heel and a pair of goals against Tunisia. Didn’t score in the semifinal or the third-place match. Congratulations on getting an award for beating up on the minnows before disappearing, Garry. You worthless minger.

It’s no coincidence that two of the only players who did themselves proud in the later stages of the tournament were Gordan Pickford, who worked under Sam Allardyce at two different clubs, and Barry Maguire, who is Sam’s secret lovechild. If England brought more players from Everton, Sunderland, Crystal Palace, and Sam’s loins, football would’ve come home. Instead, it’s gone to France, where it will probably contract a sex disease after having a threesome with a mime and…another mime.

This is entirely your fault, Pochettino. Even the one player you did have on the winning side had an absolute howler that nearly let Croatia back into it.

Not even Sep Guardiola could overcome the poisonous influence of Pochettino and Klopp. Spain used a load of his Barca players when they won in 2010, Germany used a load of his Bayern players when they won in 2014, but when England use his players in 2018, they end up losing the same number of matches as PANAMA—the worst team in the competition. The Pochettino and Klopp lads ruin it.

If England do continue to use players sullied by these two in the future, they better develop an advanced brainwashing technique in order to reprogramme their mental faculties. It worked for the shootout hoodoo, so it should work for this, as well. I’m not entirely sure how they go about this—I once tried to brainwash my 18 kids into being better footballers but now seven of them are bankers and two teach reading to kids. Worthless.

Barry Maguire is Sam Allardyce’s lovechild

The News of the World doesn’t exist anymore, so it’s up to old Bert to break the big stories. I’ve been saving this one so it wouldn’t distract from England’s World Cup, but since that’s gone tits up, here it is: England hero Barry Maguire is Hefty Sam Allardyce’s lovechild. You heard it here first and I heard it from the mammoth lips of Sam himself after a night of drinking absinthe mixed with salad cream. All you have to do is look at young Maguire to know that he’s Big Sam’s offspring. But since many of you reading this are likely daft as a dingleberry, I’ll explain all the traits that prove their relation better than any DNA test ever could.

  1. They’re both large enough to swallow a small Brazilian man whole

Let’s start with the obvious. Maguire and Super Sized Sam are both larger than life. Especially if that life is a small Brazilian man with a pain threshold like wet bog roll. Look at Maguire’s eyes in the photo above. Those are eyes that say “I can consume your entire being and still pop over for a cheeky Nando’s immediately afterwards.” Extra Large Sam has those same eyes.

2. They’re both pure sex

I once saw Fully Engorged Sam chat up a person dressed as Peppa Pig. He didn’t get a phone number, but Peppa was clearly loving it. Seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

3. They both have the same luggage

Barry Maguire showed up to his first ever England camp with his gear in a bin bag. Big Sam carries everything he owns in bin bags wherever he goes. One time the staff at Bolton’s training ground got rid of them thinking it was a build-up of rubbish in Sam’s office. When he found out what had happened, he said “fair play,” bought new gear, and immediately put it all in bin bags. Normal people don’t do this. Only exceptionally non-materialistic people like Big Sam and Big Sam Jr.

4. Maguire scored in the World Cup quarterfinal for England

Like Big Sam, Maguire is a big man for a big occasion. He scored the decisive goal against Sweden while Kane was doing fuck all. Only a giant lad sprung from the loins of a relegation avoiding legend like Samuel Allardyce could rise up against the Swedes on the third largest stage the World Cup has to offer.

5. They’re both have giant fucking heads

Apparently Hamie Vardy calls Maguire “slab head” because he has a head the size of a Volkswagen. You know who else has a head like a scandal plagued car? Sizable. Sam. Allardyce.

There you have it. No DNA test needed. Hopefully Barry takes on his real father’s surname for the start of next season. Wear it proud, you absolute unit.

GORDAN PICKFORD: ENGLAND HERO

NOT HAVING IT MATE

GET INNNNNNNNNNNN!

England have won a penalty shootout at the World Cup and I am still drunk on disbelief (and a massive amount of alcohol). Colombia played like wankstains and got what they deserved. I headbutted someone during that match as well, but when the police and the other patrons of the pub all banded together to kick me out the pub, I had the decency to leave.

Gordan Pickford—the smallest goalkeeper to ever put on a pair of gloves and make Colombia cry like they just witnessed the final show of a Shakira farewell tour—made the big save that stopped me from defecating in Henderson’s back garden every night for the next four years and put England through to the quarterfinals to face the national team of a furniture company.

Pickford had a lot of naysayers, though. The Belgian keeper, Elbow Courtois, said he’s too short. Like he’s one of those creepy hobbit men from Barcelona or something. Even Arsene Wenger, presumably ranting in the queue at a Jobcentre, had a go:

But do you know who believed in the lad? Ginormous Sam Allardyce and yours truly.

And shine he fucking did. Sam managed Pickford at Everton and Sunderland, so he’s basically taught the boy everything he knows. As I said before, Sam’s greasy musk is all over this England team and the keeper position is no different.

But before Sam got to him, I laid the groundwork from a young age. His secondary school hired me to shout insults at him and his classmates in a foreign-sounding language of my own invention to help them deal with the pressure of having to perform on an international stage like the World Cup. By “hire”, I mean they didn’t immediately alert the police when I started doing it, but Pickford responded the best out of all them kids. He shouted “fuck off you crusty old twunt weasel” and gave me the old two-finger salute. I’ll never forget that. And on Tuesday he did the same to Bechamel Falcao.

This England squad have a chance to make history. But what’s even more important is that Gordan Pickford already reminded everyone of Massive Sam’s genius and made Wenger look like the wrinkled numpty that he is. That’s what it’s all about.

Watching England 6-1 Panama at the pub with Sam Allardyce

Big Sam after he took off his trousers

Massive Sam is my best mate, so I knew he’s been down about not being in Russia with the England squad after laying the foundation for their success with his PERFECT RECORD as England manager. He taught those lads how to win and he knew football was coming home—he even put it in writing:

I know for a fact that Garry Kane carries this letter with him in his wallet to this day, because I put it there and I replace it with a fresh copy every time he tosses it out.

Anyway, Gargantuan Sam has been feeling down, so I invited him round to mine to watch England play Panama, but once he arrived I remembered that my flat screen has been broken ever since I tried to glass Simon Cowell after he said something even more stupid than usual on X-Factor. So I said, “Right, lets go down the pub. The people of England need to see the true manager of England—which is you, Absolute Unit Sam. Not that numpty Southgate, who can’t even go for a jog by himself without getting hit by a car driven by me and dislocating his shoulder.”

Sam refused at first, but then Glaucoma, one of my 18 kids kept asking him if he wanted to play a game called “taste the scab” and that finally got him out the door.

Here’s the diary I kept during the match:

1’—It took Sam less time than usual to explain to the staff that white wine is best served in pint glasses. This country may have hope yet.

8’—Everyone in the pub cheers. I guess they finally noticed that Huge Sam is here. He waves to the crowd, but they politely keep their distance. That’s the kind of respect he commands.

22’—Another cheer, this time as Sam inhales his fourth burger in record time. Sam smiles for the first time in weeks, finally experiencing true appreciation for his many talents.

25’—I leave the table to order another round for us. At the bar, I get into an argument with a prat in a Gazza shirt going on about “the magic of Italia ’90.” I tell him there was nothing “magic” about the venereal disease I contracted during that World Cup. As this was happening, some hack took a video of Enormous Sam to make it look like he was watching the match alone. Lies.

36’—Another cheer as Sam reminisced about the time his England side beat Slovakia. What a match that was. No coincidence that he showed them how to win it late and what did they do against Tunisia? They did it the Big Sam way. You’re welcome, Gareth. You weak shouldered pillock.

40’—YET ANOTHER CHEER. Sam tells everyone that he appreciates them making him feel welcome, but he just wants to enjoy his 12th pint of wine in peace. They ignore his request, because you never stop singing for a legend.

45’—While buying drugs in the toilet, I hear another cheer for Colossal Sam. He must have shown them his trick for winning the cinnamon challenge (he swallows the whole jar of cinnamon, including the jar—the man is a tactical genius).

HT—We’re told that England are up 5-0. Not bad, but it’s still less goals than Humongous Sam ate burgers during the first half.

55’—Apparently they have the match on the tele. It’s been 10 minutes since the half and not one England goal. Sam shakes his boulder-like head.

62’—Garry Kane finally scores from the spot. What confidence Sam’s note has given him.

78’—Panama score their first ever World Cup goal. “Hart would’ve stopped that,” Immense Sam says as he consumes yet another burger without even chewing. What a lad.

82’—As I black out, I see Giant Sam pulling out a pen to draw cocks on my face and I know I’ve succeeded in raising his spirits.