The dirty cheating rabbit-faced Kopite hand-balling Uruguayan twat. He's as bent as an Arab's dagger that ugly greasy sweaty little bell end. He's handled more balls than Julian Clary that lad. What do we know about Uruguayans? They disallow perfectly good English goals that are miles over the line and they have to resort to cheating at poor little Mansfield Town to scrape a spawny 2-1 away win. They're worse than the Argies. An unpolished pooh on a plinth is on the way to Anfield. I haven't addressed it to anybody in particular, I reckon they'll know who it's for.
You couldn't make it up could you. I spent much of the weekend dozing on the sofa watching telly. Glastonbury was on, although sad to say there was no Snoop Dog, Bone Jovi or any other canine related artists. The big news seemed to be the lack of female headliners and now we know why as one scored a spectacular own goal. She missed her slot cos she was doing her hair. It takes ages she said. Why NOT start doing your hair well before your show time. Aaagh no where's my handbag I've left it in the car, I've got to back to fetch it.