The Spoiler’s Five New Year’s Football Resolutions
No more saucy little minxes for a start
As countless magazines are telling women around this time of year, it’s a new year, time for a NEW YOU. That might be overstating it somewhat, but, even so, after the jump, you’ll find a list of five things that should be outlawed from the beautiful game over the next twelve months.
Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments section…
For all that is wonderful about Twitter – it will absolutely revolutionise current affairs given time – it so far strikes out for providing a ridiculous forum where brainless idiots can quack their every waking thought as if they’ve just discovered Bin Laden cowering behind a sofa in the corner of a cave. It’s absurd. For 2011, footballers would be wise to stay away from the thing. And by footballers, we obviously mean Paul Konchesky’s mum, David Bentley’s girlfriend, and anyone who has been royally boffed by Mario Balotelli (^).
2010 might have been a rich year for women of the night, with Wayne Rooney and Peter Crouch both on the receiving end of a paid-for shag from a beautiful tart. But guess what – it’s not cool. It’s neither big. Nor is it clever. And if you do it, you will definitely get the clap, she’ll get pregnant, and then you’ll die. No more of this tomfoolery. It ends now.
As things stand, the criteria needed to become a professional football pundit includes: a decent playing career, a total inability to stick to one tense for an entire sentence, the legs to carry off a shiny pair of slacks. Genuine insight is optional. Should this alarming trend continue, then expect one day to tune it to Match of the Day to find a studio full of Alan Shearers repeatedly explaining how goals win matches until their heads explode. Less Shearer. More Dixon.
Time was when a footballer’s tatt might be a teenage mistake on his shoulder, or a secret dolphin at the small of Frank Lampard’s back, but the whole thing has taken on preposterous proportions – to the point where you’d be hard pushed to find a young English footballer without an armful of ink work, consisting mainly of cod-philosophy, inspirational Robbie Williams pop lyrics, and pointless jungle animals. Stop it. This isn’t darts.
The downside is that whenever technology takes a giant leap for mankind, mankind then immediately wonders how this thing might help him get his rocks off. This can be traced all the way back to the first wheel – which was duly dry humped by a mob of cavemen thinking it was “woman”. The internet was intended to be a nipple-free “information superhighway”, and now footballers are constantly rumoured to be using mobile phones to whisper absolute filth to girls with WAG aspirations. Or, in Ashley Cole’s case, send them pictures of his plonker. There’s just no need for it.