In this post I'm hoping to accurately summarise some of the wayward thoughts that have drifted through my mind regarding the week's football action. If you are expecting strong opinions or tactical breakdowns, you're in the wrong pub Jimmy. Go over the road to that minimalist wine bar, for all you'll get here are flaggons of my finest mind froth. Taste the pain.
Monday saw Blackpool hosting an all out of sorts Chelsea. I'll tell you what was in sorts (I know, I don't know what I'm writing either) was David Luiz's barnet. That shit is splendourous. Not only that but it sits on the head of an elegant, cultured centre back, the likes of which the Premier League has been lacking for far too long. I pitch a tent every time I see a centre-half reading a through ball, nipping in front of a striker and then gliding forward before spraying a delicious 40 yarder to the winger. David Luiz does this on a regular basis, for truth.
Back to the out of sorts though. Fernando Torres is currently ignoring the idea of scoring goals and is wholeheartedly concentrating on perfecting his new trademark look. The downcast eyes, hands on hips look. It's all he seems to do. Admittedly he ocassionally attempts to control a ball before having to lumber after the inevitable miscontrol and then reaching for a twenty yard shot that was never there, only to see it bounce of a defender or watch as it sails st
raight into the keeper's size: Large Sondicos.Let's take a break from all this actual watching of matches malarky and concentrate on one of the truly important elements of the game, the kits.
France's new away shirt has been released and has recieved much criticism for looking like a dandy sailor's shirt and combining the release with photos taken by Chanel owner Karl Lagerfeld. I'm going to scream one sentence at people who have been mocking: "WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU EXPECT FROM THE FRENCH?!?!?!" I don;t know about you but I'm a complete bastard for nations living up to stereotypes and I'd expect nothing less from those lovely, little Gauls. I like it. I shall buy it. I shall wear it to five-a-side. I shall return from five-a-side with a pulverised face.
I suppose we'd better talk about the tosh we all had to sit through on Tuesday night. What a load of rubbish. I was this close to breaking out my complete boxset of Bruce Parry's award-winning 'Tribe' series but I peservered and managed to sit through the ninety minutes of Barcelona vs. Arsenal. Of course I tease, it was wonderous from Barcelona, as it always is. The splendid chap known as Greg Theoharis can fill you in if you're not down with what these guys from Catalonia do: http://gregtheoharis.wordpress.com/2010/12/01/barcelona/
As I watched the game, France's new maritime attire at the forefront of my mind, I came to gaze upon a metaphor. Both of these sides are akin to swashbuckling pirates of olde. All about style, flamboyancy and doing things with a criminal swagger because that was what their code demanded (thier code also included raping, pillaging and homosexual relationships aboard stinking, rotting galleons but banish those truths from your mind. Please. Thank you). However, as Barcelona kept the ball away from Arsenal, popping the ball about with unparralleled panache it was clear that they were two very different types of pirate. The Spanish pirate, bedecked in the finest jewellery: Champions Leagues, Copa Del Rays and La Liga titles very recently pilfered. Their swashbuckling technique perfect, concise and pristine. The rapier with which they strike is sharp and cuts down opponents with relative ease. They were dueling with a pirate who has fallen on hard times, whose crew are on the verge of abandoning ship through a notable lack of booty. The Captain of this ship, usually so inspiring and steadfast is making uncharacteristic errors as they do battle. I gazed upon this metaphor and there was an inevitable outcome: Barcelona, the more accomplished Pirate would come out on top and have Arsenal walking the plank eventually. Thus it came to pass that eventually the North London side would succumb leaving Arsene Wenger bemoaning a very harsh sending off (although the man in question, RvP could have been sent off for an old fashioned 'face-rake' earlier in the game) and injuries. His half-time rallying vry of "They don't know how strong we are" sounded inspired as they pulled a goal back but his Al Pacino-esque efforts were not to come to fruition.
On a lighter note here are some other observations:
A.) Adriano had the worst game I've seen a Barcelona player have for quite some time. He lacked the ability to look up and actually pick a player out, too often did he stumble past Sagna and just play the ball across the goal without picking an individual out.
B.) Manuel Almunia resembles a Slowpoke.
'nuff love homeslices.@Johnny_Rudge - Hit me up on Twitterex and I'll give you a verbal high-five while dolphins leap over us in the clear moonlight. Seriously, it will rock like Vietnam.
No comments:
Post a Comment