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.
Jose Mourinho walked out of his post-match press conference demanding respect after @ManUtd's 3-0 defeat by @SpursOfficial on @SkySportsMNF.
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Big Sam watching England in the pub on his own with a Big Mac.
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.
After looking like they were going to fuck it up like aways, England beat Tunisia—who are the best national team in Tunisia—thanks to two goals from that beautiful slackjawed, Saving Private Ryan looking goal machine Garry Kane, including the winner he headed in during added time. If I have a 19th child, and I want to recognize it’s existence, I will name it Garry in his honor. What a man!
England’s first goal came early on, before they realized that they’re England at a World Cup. Then Style Walker elbowed a Tunisian lad in the face to concede a penalty and say “Alright, we’re here, but we’ve all got holidays booked from the first week of July.” But Big Mouth Garry Kane said, “You can go on that holiday by yourself, Style. The rest of us have got a World Cup to win.” And then he headed in the winner and I drank 66 pints, punched a dentist in the neck, then blacked out and woke up to write this. What a match.
Tunisia weren’t the only thing England beat that night. They also overcame the plague of mosquitos that Putin ordered to attack our boys as they played, knowing that we are the greatest threat to his attempt to hack the World Cup with his army of trained computer wizard bears.
Some twunts have tried to say that Hakeem Sterling had a poor performance, but he was easily the MFotM—the Midge Fighter of the Match.
Contrary to reports, there are only a few mosquitos at the Volgograd Stadium, nothing to worry about really. #ENG#TUNpic.twitter.com/2MHh4rJS4e
— The Athletic Soccer (@TheAthleticSCCR) June 18, 2018
Meanwhile, Kane just swallowed them by the loads to fuel his match-winning performance.
Never closing his mouth gives Kane an advantage. Gets a protein boost from the bugs he swallows as he runs. Brilliant.
With those three points secure, it’s just a waiting game to see who England will face in the final, so the team have apparently decided to do a bunch of LSD and ride around the hotel pool on some floaty unicorns until it’s time to face Brazil or whoever.
Nesse Lingard, absolutely off his nut on the finest acid money can buy.
Old Bert’s ears are bleeding and this time it’s nothing to do with Big Sam convincing me to get a bulldog tattooed directly onto my skull. The World Cup is about to begin and that means every numpty on the planet has to release a song about it. They all make Harry Redknapp sound like Tom Jones, but two of these abominations of music are so bad that they already ruined the whole sodding tournament.
First there’s Real Madrid mixed martial artist Serbian Ramos wearing a shirt that says “Noble Donkey” while sounding like a noble arse after a dodgy paella.
He should stick to breaking people’s shoulders in cup finals and leave the singing to that ginger kid who looks like he’s homeless. At least we know Ramos hasn’t been spending any time with Gerald Pique’s missus.
Next there’s the singer out of Kaiser Chiefs and a muscular potato that used to play cricket ruining a disco classic by making it about Garry Kane.
After hearing this I hope Kane scores seven own goals in the group stage and catches a radioactive cockroach from Chernobyl in his uncloseable mouth. And I say that as someone with one cap for the England B team in 1984 resulting from a clerical error. I am England ’til I die. (Or until they correct that clerical error.)
There is no possible way the 2018 World Cup can recover from these audio horrors. The best thing to do now is call off the tournament and drink Russian vodka until we all vomit into a fish tank and cut off our ears like that one artist fella from 100 years ago.
Idiots keep whinging about Hakeem Sterling and his gun tattoo, but if having a gun tattoo makes you a bad egg, then my three-year-old daughter Cirrhosis is Jeffrey Dahmer. Sterling’s alright. It’s Erin Dier that’s the real problem in this England team.
Here are the facts:
His name is “Dier” which is basically a threat of violence and probably a coded message to his street gang. Is his shirt number the amount of people he’s “Dier’d” so far? Yes. It definitely is. They were probably all puppies, too.
Counting is for stats nerds, so I’m not doing that no more.
“All about the Eagles for the new NFL season”? What about Spurs and England, Erin? The Three Lions need players who are fully committed. And not to gridiron hashtags.
He speaks foreign. As if the Brexit vote never happened.
I’m pretty sure he set up the sting operation that got my best mate Big Sam sacked as England manager.
He looks like an actual rat.
He once spent £17 at KFC when he wasn’t even hungry.
He sucked on a helium balloon so he could talk in a high-pitch voice like an absolute prat.
He won’t shut up about meeting David Beckham when he was a child.
He cuts his beard hair to be the same length as his head hair.
He was late for something at some point in his life and it was incredibly irresponsible.
He might be a robot programmed to sabotage England by the Russians.
He secretly pays the newspapers not to write about Hakeem Sterling instead of all the awful things he does himself.
Dier is truly a menace and if Southgate had any sense at all, he would send this numpty home and then step down so Big Sam could reclaim his rightful place as England’s spiritual leader at Russia 2018.
After playing the entirety of West Ham’s 1-1 draw with Middlesbrough, the last thing Michail Antonio probably wanted to do was get in the car and drive two hours from London to Birmingham. But when he realized he had promised a signed shirt to a charity event there and it was too late to send it, he made the drive to hand deliver the shirt and keep his word.
First Pep Guardiola took away his players’ pizza privileges, which was heartless but perhaps necessary. Now he has entered Kim Jong-un levels of tyranny, though, as Pablo Zabaleta reveals that Guardiola has disconnected the WiFi at Man City’s training base.
