Karl Henry in makeup for his cinematic debut
"Get your replica kit off for the girls, get your replica kit off for the girls..."
Mike Ashley’s docket of PR gaffes reach a new low when, attending the Newcastle United Supporter’s Club’s Annual Dinner in a mankini emblazoned with the Sunderland crest, several weeks of shoving a smooth-headed Alan Shearer dildo up his asshole catch up with him spectacularly as, halfway through keynote speaker Freddie Shepherd’s ill-judged address ‘Tyneside, Pride, and Have Yous Ever Seen a Canny Fanny so Wide?’, his sphincter gives way and he is forced to blackmail Paul Gascoigne (whose therapy he was paying for) into taking off the Newcastle shirt in which he debuted in 1985 (and is proudly wearing at this fans’ function) so that he can use it to wipe his gaping, shit-covered arsehole. He promptly falls asleep in a drunken, sweaty mound, mumbling something about Sir Bobby Robson being a cunt. The leader in the states simply: “Wor Ashley’s mebbes, like, went in a bit strong ’n’ that, y’naaah.”
|Stepover King, CR7|
reports that new Michael Jackson, the improbable bairn-wielding Cristiano Ronaldo, has gone missing and is “at present believed to be crossing
Mancha en route to the Andalucian semi-desert”. The €80m Madeira
fruitcake was “last seen on Saturday driving into the final third at the
Bernabéu” and starting a series of elaborate step-overs, at which point there
was some sort of neurological short-circuit in his oversized head and he step-overed
his way straight down the tunnel, out of the stadium and off down the Paseo de
la Castellana, feet moving in a blur like a demented roadrunner, spasming and
frothing at the mouth. There are unconfirmed sightings near Ciudad Real some 36
hours later (although satellite images also pick up dust clouds close to the
spot where a confused and hallucinating Rafael Benítez now stands,
gesticulating at tumbleweed in an effort to have them “stay compact”),
claiming that the gay icon’s synthetic, oleaginous face was twitching like Harry
Redknapp on an 11-day crystal meth bender.
super maRIO: proper mental
MUTV presenter Steve Pravda wins Sports Broadcaster of the Year for reporting on the secret Panini-trading rendezvous of Mario Balotelli and Rio Ferdinand. Here’s a transcript:
FERDINAND: “Got, got, got, got, need, got, need, need, got, got, got, erm…got (I fink), got, need, NEED!, got, got, need, got, need, need, need, got, got.”
BALOTELLI: “OK, I swap you N’Zonzi, N’Zogbia, Drogba, Zubar, Pienaar, Ba, Sá, Saha, Diao, Gyan, Dann… Dann… Dann… Dann… Dann… Dann… Dunn, Petrov, Petrov, Petrovic, Vidic, O’Hara, Berra, Grella, Sagna, Silva, Mata, Lita, and Agger for Duff, Cleverley, Given, Young, Krul, Bent, Tonge, Song, Bassong, Frimpong, Mulumbu, Etuhu, Lukaku, Yakubu, Shittu, Situ, Pugh, Perch, Sammon, Gosling, Fox, Ruddy, Puncheon, Brunt, Hoolahan, and Obertan.”
FERDINAND: Cool. How many of my Danns do you want, M-Dog?
BALOTELLI: Just one. It is joke,
You not see Don’t
you know shit, Rio?
In an uncanny convergence of three of the decade’s most popular and deeply embedded cultural trends – banal and narcissistic self-promotion via social media; ill-conceived supra-neckline flesh-ink; neo-simpletonism among footblurghs – non-league side Romford Rovers’ crack striker JColin Craven has the Facebook ‘Like’ symbol tattooed across the entirety of his face, yeah? The FA, however, neither like nor ‘Like’ it; in fact, they rule that it contravenes several extant commercial agreements, not to mention piquing a general autocratic whimsy as to who’s-the-fucking-boss-around-here, and duly pronounce that he must now play in a burkha. When a link to a sympathetic news report in magazine was posted to Facebook, JColin tried to issue a statement, but stringing several words together in a meaningful and syntactically cogent form ultimately proved beyond him, so he simply, like, ‘Liked’ it, like, yeah? F’real.