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.

GARRY KANE’S EATING MOSQUITOES AND SCORING GOALS AS ENGLAND RIDE POOL UNICORNS ALL THE WAY TO THE WORLD CUP FINAL

FOOTBALL’S COMING HOME! IT’S COMING HOME! IT’S COMING HOME! IT’S COMING HOOOOOME!

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.

Meanwhile, Kane just swallowed them by the loads to fuel his match-winning performance.

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.

Football: It’s coming home.

Maradona shows Messi what it takes to be a World Cup winner

Maybe if all that tattoo ink wasn’t weighing down your leg you could’ve put it past him, you elfin muppet.

Instead of waiting until the final, Theo Messi shat the bed right from the start in this World Cup by having a penalty saved by a part-time film director from Iceland. How a fucking super market keeps qualifying for these tournaments I will never know (shows just how corrupt FIFA really is)—but that’s besides the point. Argentina couldn’t beat Iceland and it was all Messi’s fault because Nonzalo Higuain was safely on the bench until the 84th minute.

Watching from the stands was another famous Argentine footballer: Maradona. Now, Maradona won back in my day, when footballers knew how to prepare themselves for competition. And by that I mean doing loads of cocaine before before every match.

Though he was too far away for Messi to see, Maradona tried to remind Messi of why he can’t get it done on the game’s biggest stage by rubbing at his nose like it was a sex organ. (Either that, or old Diego is still keeping himself “in shape.”)

If Messi got loaded up on Charlie before World Cup matches, he would’ve won at least a dozen of them trophies by now. Instead, he probably drinks wheat grass extract or something and look what it’s got him: absolutely nothing besides a record-breaking club career. Dandruff, who could very well be the oldest of my 18 kids, once tried to get me to drink something green. I haven’t spoken to him since. That was 12 years ago. Though our lack of communication is mostly down to him getting arrested for stealing cars and filling them with black market puppies shortly after the green drink incident. All my children know that I refuse to communicate with them while they’re incarcerated. I have a hunch it’s why they get locked up so much.

Anyways, Messi’s problems are nothing a little pre-match Maradona marching powder can’t fix. I hear one of the Peruvian lads might have a connection.

Ronaldo’s hat trick at World Cup proves that he’s not that good

We get it, you have knees.

Smart people know that Histriano Ronaldo is no Keith Houchen and he proved it yet again against Spain in the World Cup. Prepare yourselves, because old Bert’s about to do some of that maths nerd statistical analysis.

First, or number 1 (in mathematical talk), Ronaldo fell over like a wet towel to trick the referee into gifting him a penalty in the fourth minute. He scored because even a broccoli could score a penalty. This made him just the fourth man to score in four different World Cups, but he only had one goal in each of his previous three World Cups. That’s basically like scoring none at all. Pele had no less than 85 goals in his four World Cups. That’s probably true.

Second, or number 2, Ronaldo shot the ball directly into the goalkeeper’s hands, but since the keeper was that overrated donut thief from Man United, he pushed it into his own net like the numpty he is. This gave Ronaldo a second undeserved goal and turned his night into the time I won a free ticket on two separate scratchers in the same day.

Third, or number 3, Shakira’s husband decided that Ronaldo needed a chance to complete his hat trick of shame and equalise for Portugal (the lad took a class at Harvard but that doesn’t make him bright), so he fouled him in perfect free-kick position late in the match. After enough dramatic breathing to fill an Indian soap opera, Histriano put one past the numpty keeper to get the hat trick and the draw.

It was his only legitimate goal of the night, but it was only his first goal on a direct free kick at a major tournament in 45 attempts. You give me 45 attempts and I’ll bang in no less than two and a half, guaranteed.

 

So he barely deserves credit for that goal. But now everyone is going on about how wonderful he is for doing this. Nonsense. Biego Costa scored two legitimate goals and blasted Pepe in the throat with his forearm. That’s a proper hat trick.

Costa is the true goat. And by that I mean he’s a grizzled bastard like an actual goat. Should call him Billy.

Bert’s highlights from the first day of the 2018 World Cup

Looks like a knockoff Chinese board game you buy at Poundland for a slow kid.

The World Cup has supposedly begun and it turns out those shite songs were a good indication of what we’re in for. They had an opening ceremony that was worse than a school pageant involving one of my 18-kids and then FIFA let Russia execute a bunch of Saudis for Vladimir Putin’s enjoyment.

There were only a few memorable moments from this mess. Here they are:

Morrissey giving the whole world the finger

Fuck you too, Morrissey

Dressing like a Russian mob boss was a nice touch. One time I wore a leopard suit on a night out with Alex Ferguson. He said he didn’t want to be seen with me dressed like that, so he made me go home and eat an entire jar of horseradish. He didn’t make me eat the horseradish, I just did that because I’m always up for a challenge. Even when no one challenges me. Mark of a winner.

Infantino and Putin being like “Russia sent the most prozzies to FIFA eight years ago so they get to host the tournament and do whatever they want—oh well”

“Sorry, Saudi man. Vlad makes the rules here.”

When Russia scored the first of their eight million goals against the blades of grass Saudi Arabia calls a football team, Infantino and Putin both shrugged in unison at the Prince of Arabia. Two bald chancers who know that the prince knows they’re up to no good and simply don’t give a shit. FIFA and Russia. They go together like alcohol and more alcohol.

Putin and the Prince deciding to wank Infantino at the same time

Two hands are better than one. Even if they belong to a couple of arseholes.

The World Cup is decadent and depraved and to prove it, Putin and the prince decided to put aside their differences and literally wank Infantino in front of a whole stadium full of people. Look at the expression on old Johnny Fants. He’s absolutely loving it. He’s the rancid mayonnaise in a despot sandwich. One day when he’s in exile like that pruney fartbox Sepp Blatter, he’ll think back on this moment and cry…alone…in a Swiss chalet…while Blatter eats the last sausage roll.

And that was it. That was all the highlights of the first day of the fucking World Cup. Just a washed up singer giving a camera the bird and three tyrants stroking each other off both literally and figuratively. What a disgrace.

The two songs that have already ruined the 2018 World Cup

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.

Dier is the true menace on this England team, not Sterling

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:

  1. 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.
  2. Counting is for stats nerds, so I’m not doing that no more.

Dier hangs out with rapists.

He’s more interested in American football than real football.

“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.

Meet the new editor of Dirty Tackle

 

As you hopefully know by now, I’ve joined The Athletic as editor and writer for their new soccer vertical (go subscribe!). Between the launch and the rapidly approaching World Cup, I’ve been very busy over there—too busy even for the DT podcast (more on that soon, I promise!). Since I don’t have the time for DT, I’ve decided to hand it over to a new editor. A person long-time readers of DT will already be familiar with: ex-footballer and two-time vending machine accident victim Bert Tiddle.

Bert was a contributor to DT (and Run of Play) for several years, though Yahoo has smartly purged most of his works from their site. His application to be England manager remains, however, and that’s a good place to learn a bit about him if you’re unfamiliar. He also did an interview once. And you can find him on Twitter.

I believe that Bert’s unique perspective makes him a worthy successor and I fully trust his ability to maintain the standard of nonsense that we’ve been producing for the last 10 years.

Finally, I thank you, our dear readers, for your support through our many moves and changes over the improbably long life of this blog. Please spread the word about this new chapter in DT’s existence and welcome Bert back to the fold. Or don’t, because he probably wouldn’t do the same for any of us.

—Brooks