I was up this morning a LOT earlier than THESE lads were to watch this here in Mount Horeb, Wisconsin…Troll Capitol of the World.
I settled into my recliner with a cup of coffee close at hand…and was soon lulled off into a nap…an extra 2 hours of sleep ((counting stoppage and halftime)). I was woken a few times when the ball clanked off the woodwork. But for the most part, I might as well have slept in….slept the sleep of the just, as good ol’ Elvis Costello sang about back in the day before I became an aging balding punker with glasses and a job.
I knew damn well that nothing good would come of this when I noticed that Torres was not in the lineup. He seems to be the only one on Chelsea that actually gives a shit. And what I knew damn well turned out to be home truth. For all the good it did playing the match, they might as well have set out a luncheon table in the middle of Stamford Bridge instead, and all the lads could have trotted themselves out in white oxford cotton shirts with button down collars, club ties appropriate to their respective teams, navy blue blazers, focking Nantucket Red trousers, and Bass Weejuns with no socks. Award each a side a point a piece and then they could have tucked themselves into prawn sandwiches, smoked oysters, codfish cakes, eggs benedict, creme of tomato soup, welsh rarebit ((“Yummy!!’ says Gareth Bale)), beef stroganoff, and Cheese Whiz on Ritz crackers. Harry Rednapp could have gotten up and spoken about ANYTHING for an hour and 37 minutes give or take and it would have been VASTLY more entertaining than the actual match that was played.
But no….we had to watch the sort of football game that makes a lot of my local pals think that soccer focking sucks so why the hell waste time watching…..might as well watch Danica Patrick and Dale Earnhardt Jr turn left all day at 187 miles per hour.
Well after the final whistle peeped like whatever the fock the bird is on the Spurs shirt, assuming that it peeps ((and yes *I* know it’s a cockerel…and that it probably doesn’t peep….but try explaining THAT, or anything ELSE related to Tottenham Hotspur to the average Dale Earnhardt Jr, Jeff Gordon or Tony Stewart or Green Bay Packers fan)), I took off my Chelsea gear, folded it properly, and put it away.
I then put my Norwich City shirt on, took the dogs out, and then drove to the local Kwik-Trip for a box of half a dozen Glazers for $1.99 ((3 for me, 3 for the wife)). Someone today, stayed on the ball, and at last and at least, I could finally enjoy my breakfast.
If the fackin’ Wolverhampton Wanderers can play like they give a fock, then WHY couldn’t Chelsea and Tottenham?? Really now. The Fackin’ Wolves are doomed and yet they made a showing at Carrow Road today (as I write this, of course, naught as you read this). Matt Jarvis, who is on my Premier League Fantasy Football Team, opened the scoring with an uncontested shot in the area at the 25 minute mark. And to think I put him on the bench figuring my Canaries would keep a clean sheet for once, and knowing that Wolves would not. Fuck Matt Jarvis. Damn his eyes!!
Well…not to worry though. Barely a minute later, Man of the Match Grant Holt flicked a shot over Wolves goalie Wayne Hennessey that would have made Lionel Messi jealous. Holt Freakin’ Mania!!
Holt added a penalty kick in extra time before the half. And Norwich held on for a win that leaves them comfortably mid-table.
Here’s the deal. Both Norwich and Wolves had a must-win game today, as did Chelsea and Tottenham. But unlike the big boys (allegedly), Norwich and Wolves played like it. Admittedly, Wolves really don’t stand a chance of staying up….but they still played like they had a chance. Norwich has had a bad run of form lately a needed a win at home to get their wonderful season back on track. Grant Holt stepped up and got them what they needed. But fair play to Wolves for trying, and trying hard. It’s a pity that THIS match wasn’t the one ESPN2 chose to show this morning.
Chelsea and Tottenham, meanwhile, played like scared rabbits. They played not to lose, and while neither of them lost…neither did anyone win. Two teams that NEEDED a win, couldn’t bring themselves to create some semblance of victory. Petr Cech and Brad Friedel spent most of the match reading Science Fiction novels….Cech making a dent in Philip Jose Farmer’s To Your Scattered Bodies Go….and Friedel doing a bit of damage to Big Planet by Jack Vance. Neither team did much to disturb their reading.
When I first saw this little article about Luka Modric today, which touted that Modric is not signing until he knows who’s boss, I blithely assumed he was referring to who the new permanent gaffer will be at Chelsea, not his current team, Tottenham. Harry Rednapp, after all, is being touted by one and all as the next England coach to lead The Three Lions into oblivion. So Luka Modric’s concern is understandable.
It seems like both yesterday and 2 million years ago that we were waiting on a big ass transfer deal to be finalized bringing Modric’s talents to Stamford Bridge…and Luka Modric was (rumoured to be) seen pacing back and forth up and down Fulham Road, and making up, in his mind, little songs that the True Blue Fans in the Matthew Harding Stand and the Shed End would sing about him in perfect stereo.
That seems like forever ago, when the hopes and dreams of Andre Villas-Boas loomed as large as Godzilla and Modric was darting in and out of the Fulham Broadway station hoping that Daniel Levy would finally set him free.
It never happened, of course. Just as the hopes and dreams of Andre Villas-Boas never happened.
So here we are, poised on the edge of wakefulness. And yet talk of Luke Modric will again be like talking in your sleep. Daniel Levy is dangling 140,000 quid a week in front of him. But that’s nothing at moment, nothing better than 5 bob for the railroad ((reserved seat on the Flying Scotsman circa 1973 in an empty car…empty except for me, and another bleeding gob that is…wow we needed THAT reservation, yes?)). Nothing will happen until Luka Modric knows who’s boss….okay okay…not the boss….we all know
John Terry Roman Abromovich is the boss.
But…who will be the one who will wake them from their slumber and lead them into the bright light of the onrushing days?