HOLA! As you can guess from my radical foreign language skills I'm going to have a little type about 'El Classico' that went down at the weekend. I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on La Liga but if I were a betting man I know where I'd be putting my money for the Spanish league title this year and I'm glad I would be putting it on a team with the kind of ethos Barcelona have. A club of the people, out to entertain the people with majestic football. Watching the boys in blue and red move the ball around in a fashion akin to a living, breathing, heaving piece of art against a team I didn't think could be bettered in pure footballing terms, Arsené Wenger's Arsenal, was my highlight of the year. Then to see them go up against a Real Madrid team, as overloaded with big names as they have ever been, and not even have to move out of first gear to seal a convincing win left me with the knowledge that I am now in possession of the kind of memory that my Dad and Grandad have spoken about to me many times. I now have something real to hold on to and tell my children and grandchildren about.
John Jr. (I'm not decided on whether to name him Jésus or Apollo yet so we'll go with that):
"Daddy, you are so awesome and radical and bodacious in every way. Pray tell, what was the best team you ever saw play the beautiful game?"
Me: "Son, it was Pep Guardiola's Barcelona side. They were one of the few teams who could lay claim to making the beautiful game truly beautiful."
John Jr.: "Dad, you rock so much. Can we go and fire my BB gun at a picture of Didier Drogba again then go for a swift pint of lager beer?"
Although Real were simply outplayed and outclassed in every way, one of my overriding feelings regarding the derby was how disappointing they were. They looked sluggish, almost burdened by their star signings. While Barcelona looked balletic, moving organically as one being; Madrid looked like a heavy goods vehicle trying to navigate a slalom course designed for a Fisher Price tricycle.
Rather than reaffirming my mild hatred for the club, it made me feel sorry for their genuine supporters who have watched the club fall into such a state, while still trying to claim the title of best club in Spain. Surely, even the most devoted Madrid supporter can accept that they just look like an ageing heavyweight who really shouldn't be trying to fight the inevitable decline.
I love the idea of Portsmouth FC as a kind of band of rag-tag Chosen Men a la Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe winning against the odds and the uniform class and quality of superstar players.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2010/apr/11/portsmouth-avram-grant
Uncle Avvie, really does deserve the mantle of terrace legend that the Pompey faithful have bestowed upon him for not only sticking by a club that he clearly holds dear as they navigate their way through choppy waters comparable to the kind of choppy waters seen in Homer's Oddyssey but for giving them a half-decent chance at lifting some silverware this season. Quality manager, quality bloke, I just hope he can wipe the permanently smug look from off Didier Drogba's permanently smug face that sits on top of his permanently smug torso, that in turn is attached to his permanently smug pelvic base... You get the idea.
Below is a picture of Avram Grant being a total badass and firing one of his many exocet missiles at Didier Drogba who then poos himself. Look, he's done so much poo. Bloody hell.
My final thought:
Did you know Alberto Aquilani isn't a name, it's an ancient Italian phrase meaning 'outrageously long human'.
