A Ray of Hope

So in a week where football news has been dominated by our Lord Potato-head, we have finally had some resolution, thank his Rooney-ness. Yes, after a public dirty laundry-airing that Kerry Katona would have been proud of, Rooney and Fergie had a press conference-off earlier in the week, then cancelled some press conferences, before finally coming out with the Final Press Conference: Resolution Rooney. Yes, he’s staying put. All that hype, all that mud-slinging, all those attempts by Wayne to actually sound like a master of the English language (he wasn‘t fooling anyone), all for nothing. We end the week the same as we began it. Rooney is a Man United player. Wow. What a lot of knicker-twisting for absolutely no action. Give me strength.

But the footballing gods provided Manna from heaven this week in the form of Ian Holloway, with his general south-west heart-on-his-sleeve ranty-ness and his use of the phrase ‘you’re having me over, me old cocker’; diamond geezer! And more importantly, the reinforcement of my lovely little football club as one of the nicest, most family and community-oriented clubs in the country. Like a shot in the arm of those wearied by Rooney and his pathetic stropping, came a story to warm the hearts of all those who still hold out hope that football has some goodness left in its still-warm corpse, even if it is only the little toe.

Watford super-fan Don Fraser, a devoted fan who for many years has attended all matches despite his physical disabilities and has previously won Radio 5 Live’s ‘supporter of the year’ award, injured himself in an accident and was admitted to hospital (Watford General, situated in Vicarage Road itself, of course) for a hip operation earlier this week. As a result of this he was forced to miss our midweek encounter with Roy Keane’s Ipswich. This is no obstacle to Watford, however. The day after the match, the two goalscorers from the match Marvin ‘Scoredell’ Sordell and Stephen McGinn, visited Mr Fraser in hospital and delivered a DVD of our 2-1 win for him to savour. How nice is that. How much further away from the tarting about of that overpaid, over-rated cheating scumbag of a supposed footballing superstar can you get. And that’s my club, people. Proud? Am I ever.

To top it all off, I make my first appearance of the season at Vicarage Road (the football ground, not the hospital, barring a late-night red wine-induced disaster) tomorrow, and I hope that the winning streak will continue. Because if anyone deserves it, Malky Mackay and the hard-working, genuine set of lads he commands do. How I love my little club, still flying high at 3rd place in the Championship. That’s just 5 places below Liverpool, don’t you know.

Not to be outdone, the most annoying administrator ever to walk the earth, Andrew Andronikou, has today had yet another chance to fan his over-sized ego following the news that Portsmouth may yet again be up Poop Creek without a steering device. Doesn’t he know administrators are meant to be seen and not heard. Or preferably, not seen at all. I mean really, is he necessary? Never has one man had so much publicity over so little (obviously I am not belittling Pompey's dire circumstances, but rather, despairing over the day that an administrator became a spokeperson of such gravity. And I am one. Albeit, a less important one). He’s no better than the traffic warden who has just slapped a ticket on the prime minister’s car. Except, we might actually like him.

Best of luck to Pompey in bringing themselves back from the brink once again. and best of luck to my little team for in their match against another little team, Scunthorpe, tomorrow. As for Rooney, I hope his 'ankle' heals in good time for him to continue to do absolutely nothing for United for the foreseeable future.

Insert Tabloid-esque Rooney-related Headline Here

Discussing football is starting to actually hurt me, physically. I can’t resist it, however, and will always allow myself to be drawn into a conversation on the subject, despite the almost bolted on certainty that it will end with me either sighing heavily enough to induce a pulmonary embolism or damaging property belonging to myself or (preferably) someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my little Watford and that will never, ever change. As the saying goes, cut me open and I bleed red and gold. In fact, I’m literally about to go and visit the National Blood Service to prove this very fact as they take out a pint of the stuff to be replaced by a cup of orange squash and a Tuc biscuit. Beat that bitches!

But anyway, I digress (riding off on the name of my blog again, apparently!). When it comes to England, and most Premiership clubs and footballers, I literally can’t take much more. I hate them. All of them (well, most of them - I do still have a soft spot for Sunderland, although I will admit I'm a bit biased). I had a discussion on Monday about Wayne Rooney’s potential future at Manchester City that actually made me want to physically expel the contents of my stomach out of the car window. I was travelling quite quickly around a large, crowded roundabout at the time and the thought occurs that it could actually have been quite interesting to study the trajectory of said stomach contents but again, I digress.

Apparently it was suggested that good old, salt of the earth club Cit-eh might pay His Holy potato-headed-ness half a million pounds a week to secure his seemingly magical footballing services. That’s £500,000, people. Per week. That’s seven days. If you’re interested, that breaks down to £2,976.19 per hour. Watch that second hand tick round for a few minutes. If you’re Rooney, you’ve now got enough to buy a tailored suit, or a top of the range watch. Jog up and down a patch of grass and kick a bit of plastic with air inside it for less than a day and you’ve got enough for a brand new BMW. Or 50-odd high class hookers. Just sayin’.

Illustration by S D Madgwick

Now, I’ve clearly missed something. It must have recently emerged that Rooney’s feet are in fact made entirely of Swarovski crystal, encrusted with one carat diamonds. His touch must quite clearly be as light as a downy feather plucked from the plump breast of a Christmas goose. One strike of the ball from Sir Wayne of Roonshire will make the fine women of England-land fall elegantly to their knees, panting and fanning themselves delicately whilst weeping tears of liquid silver.

Could it be that this one man, with skills silkier than blankets made from the pelts of a thousand Andrex puppies, this man with an understanding of football so far removed from us mere mortals that he actually exists in another realm entirely, has reached such a level of exaltedness that his breath-taking, palpitation-inducing, panty-moistening talent thus excuses the actions of his corporeal being? This is a human form, a physical host which unlike the infallible godlike athlete that inhabits it, slopes about the football pitch with cheeks bright red and sweat beading on its prehistoric brow, whilst off the pitch indulging in the delights of the local nightlife and procreating with the elderly and ladies of the night. It certainly offers no good reason for making it a millionaire on a fortnightly basis. Therefore, one can only conclude, that Wayne Rooney is basically God.

The burden of proof has landed squarely in the gold-tassled lap of Sheik Mansour, and he may or may not choose to reveal to the world its new Messiah; this man whose talents are so far elevated above the perceptions of us lowly plebeians that we cannot even SEE them. They exist purely in our imagination, or the collective unconscious, like the ability to learn language or the incomprehensible desire to try to put our big toes in our own mouths or receive mild electric shocks for no apparent reason. The holy man chooses not to manifest these skills in such demeaning and rudimentary contests as ‘The World Cup’ and ‘The Premier League’, instead selecting to reserve them for his other deity buddies, playing keepy-uppies in the heavens with Buddha, Jesus and The Prophet Mohammed. Hence why no-one can actually figure out if he’s actually any good anymore. But it has become apparent to me that blind faith alone is the only recourse in these dark and desperate times, as it has been so many times in the history of our species. We shall gaze upon God-Wayne with unerring devotion, until such time as he deigns to employ his crystalline feet in the pursuit of winning a football match once more.

Yes, well. That’s what I think about that in a rather over-sized nutshell. It has since been confirmed that Rooney will leave United, and I hope for his sake and ours that he chooses a club in Spain, Italy or perhaps even Uzbekistan. Lord knows he needs a break from the British media and Christ f%*king knows we all need a long and peaceful break from him. Let the potato famine begin.