Flog - Ready? *Ahem*... 'G-Owen Places'. Eat that.

One day this week a British newspaper, which will remain anonymous, let’s just call it The Moon for extra discretion, dished out a copious amount of shitcake regarding football transfers. In total- and oh yes, I did count- it listed eleven transfers which were almost certainly, definitely, undoubtedly going to happen within the very near future. Eleven. And do you know how many have been followed up? Of course you do. Because I wouldn’t ask ‘and do you know…’ in such a patronising way unless we all knew the answer was sweet bollocking all.
And after pretty much every paper in the country ripped the piss out of Michael Owen for having to release a brochure to relay his appeal both in football and apparently modelling (‘good-looking` were the odd words his advisers used), they have all started to celebrate the rebirth of his career under Sir Alex Ferguson. Having said this, it was hilarious. The thought of Premiership managers across the land sifting through holiday brochures with their wives on the sofa, only to come across Owen’s sparkly face on the front of what can only be described as a Bible of marketing craziness is very appealing to me. In my mind I have also called the brochure ‘G-Owen Places’. I reject your groan and choose to ignore it.
The point is, absolutely nothing is happening in football at the moment, other than Real Madrid reportedly making a £100m bid for Saturn and one of it’s moons in a swap deal for Arjen Robben. It’s not true. But I bet you’d start watching La Liga on Sky Sports if it was.
So what to do? I can’t stand pre-season friendlies, seeing as managers consistently complain about a jam packed fixture list in the season proper and ‘burn-out’ of their stars, it seems a bit counter productive to wear the fuck out of their players by sending them to Japan to play a team of school children in the hope of selling a couple of extra shirts. What’s annoying is that it usually works and only makes me jealous that my own team are not loved enough in a foreign land for them to accept us at the airport and treat us to their local culture. Bitterness, bitterness, bitterness.
So here is the bulk of this edition of Flog; a ‘this much I know’ about football at the moment.

1) The more excited and emotionally involved Jamie Redknapp is with a game he is providing punditry for on Sky Sports, the more open his legs become and the more he points his girth worm at the camera. Check it out if Liverpool vs. Spurs is shown live. Those trousers will burst.
2) Real Madrid and Man City will not inherit the Earth because they have splashed a bit of cash. As far as I can see, Robinho is the only world-renowned player that has joined City since the Sheikhermakers came in. As for Real, well, have you seen what happened to the world’s ‘boom’ phase of the economy? I’m not saying in three years we’ll be seeing Raul on the streets eating beans, but he might have to…I don’t know…sell a couple of houses, or something.
3) Betting on the side you don’t support in a game against the side you do does not constitute ‘win-win’. I have had to deal with the consensus that ‘if we win, I’m happy, but if we don’t, I still win money’ for far too long, and my argument is that you are English. Whatever the result is, your perpetual state of disappointment will always make you wish the opposite had happened.
4) You can taunt terrorist victims. You can fight in night clubs. You can burn youth teams with cigars. You can commit robbery or assault. You can speed. You can binge drink. All of which you can get away with being on page 8 of The, er, Moon, but if you can in any way, however loosely, be referred to as a ‘Love Rat’, you make proper headlines. Film it, too.
5) Tom Huddlestone can effortlessly kick a football about as far as I can run without getting out of breath. Too much.
6) Jamie Carragher has the loudest scream ever heard in football. The match I refer to comes from last season when Liverpool travelled to West Ham. Annoyed at Dirk Kuyt’s less than energetic attempt to track back, Carragher turned round and bellowed what can only be compared to the scream of a woman in the company of Sepp Blatter.
7) Fabio Capello is the man to lead England to World Cup glory. But he won’t.

Can’t be bothered with anymore and what’s worse is that this final sentence won’t contain any punctuation so I’m going to dump you straight back into whatever the hell else you were doing before you read this nonsense so therefore it really hits home how bored you must be BYE.