Scouting Report: Chelsea FC

Formed in 2003, with a massed wealth stolen from the blooded lips of Russian proletariat, Chelsea Football Club adorn the Premier League like Juan Cuadrado's hair. It may be on top, but you wouldn't want to swap.

Like Roman Abramovich, Cuadrado's fringe is quite crooked

It may seem churlish to overtly criticise the actions of such a callow club, with so little history and experience behind them, but every Chelsea mother knows that only sustained and vicious criticism can bully a child into the anorexic and shrill-voiced ideal. Chelsea's juvenile missteps have been legion, and as the cast of Made in Chelsea experienced first-hand, the best education entails a certain amount of buggery. So let us unbuckle our belts, unzip our flies, and teach them a Lesson.

Chelsea Football Club, you stand accused of arrogance, of racial hatred, of the worst kind of vulgar and wasteful excess. There will be no opportunity to plead. We will show you no mercy, as you have shown none to the dead babies of Russia, their jaundiced jaws clamped to the withered breasts of emaciated mothers. Do you care how they suffer? You do not. So long as their poverty and deprivation continues to finance the diamond-encrusted clitoral clamps of your piggish Chelsea Wags, you couldn't give a fuck.

Chelsea vs Arrogance

There can be no more definite example of unchecked arrogance in recent, if not all football history, than in 2012, when Chelsea Football Club considered it appropriate to win the Champions League, whilst retaining Roberto Di Matteo as manager. Roberto Di Matteo! They could not have shown more contempt for this venerable competition, had they collectively pissed in the trophy and given Michel Platini a typical French bath. It is akin to Lewis Hamilton winning the Monaco Grand Prix with the parking brake engaged, and the only thing worse, is that they were but one hilarious John Terry slip from doing the exact same thing in 2008, with Avram fucking Grant.

Chelsea vs Racial Hatred

It is my opinion, or if it's not I'm going to pretend it is, for the purpose of this essay, that the normal human condition is to think well of ourselves, and meanly of others. Every point of variance that divides a stranger from our own beloved person, is a mark of antipathy. The cut of their hair, the extravagance of their waistline, the colour of their skin, their preferred brand of washing powder, are all to be despised, insofar as they differ from our own. But it's somehow much worse when Chelsea do it.

Few can have overlooked the recent scandal, when Chelsea didn't allow their black players into train. That was pretty bad! Black people have as much right to train as white people, and it is no longer acceptable to treat them as if they were French. Even if they are.

Also, is there any other club who would employ a Spanish immigrant, and openly call him Dago?

These are just two examples, picked from a host of villainy, and though the facts may be wrong, though it may have been onto train rather than into train, and they may call him Diego rather than Dago, this does not devalue my argument in the slightest. The use of stereotypes, and the practice of judging a wide body of people based purely on one common flaw, is completely deplorable, and I wish to go on record that every Chelsea supporter, every man, woman and child who has even so much as smelt Stamford Bridge, are scum, and ought to be dragged out onto the Fulham Road and burned alive.

Chelsea vs Vulgar and Wasteful Excess

Player Bro-Files

John Terry

Sit on it. Go on. Your wife did.

Do you ever wonder how people come to have surnames? It's quite simple: you get it from your dad. If your father owns a coffee shop, then your surname is Costa; if he had a breakdown, and got done for flashing, your surname is Hazard. If you are born a bastard, and your mother is so slack she can only remember your father's first name, then his first name, becomes your last.

John Terry is the captain of Chelsea Football Club, in the same way that Hitler was the captain of Germany. He is the mortal embodiment of their ideals. The most arrogant, racist and vulgar man at the club, which is like being the biggest cunt in the England National Football Team. Which he also achieved.

This is his favourite road sign:

Humped Bridge

Verdict: Bro. For all his faults, he does, at the very least, hate Rio Ferdinand.

Top Wag

Even though Carry on Doctor is my favourite film of all time, I'm going to give Eva Carniero a pass, this time. Seeing tits on a football field is no longer the novelty it once was. I saw three thousand at Villa Park only yesterday. Let us instead take a close look at Michele Zuanne:

Until recently, Michele had been assuming the position of a Premier League defence, and I doubt that being ruthlessly penetrated by Dago Costa is any more fun in reality, than it is on Match of the Day. The relationship ended, by her account, when she caught Dago offside with her sister. Imagine that! This will help:

It seems that Dago betrayed duty and honour, and tried to score with a slightly less celebrated equivalent, only to find, when the big event came, that he couldn't perform.

But that's enough about the World Cup.

Scouting Report: Tottenham Hotspur

David Baddiel Will Not Like That

In consequence of being the only plain one in the family, Mary worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, and was always impatient for display. Yet she had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. A lot like Spurs really.

- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 1813

Due to a poisonous cocktail of happenstance, bad luck and poor life choices I happen to know an extraordinary number of Spurs fans. The archetype of course is the cab driver, making a nuisance of himself on Talksport while he runs the gauntlet of traffic lights and speed cameras on the northbound A10 at 2am on a Sunday morning, returning to the Spurs hinterlands of Cheshunt and Waltham Cross, but my researches are not restricted thus. I know Tottenham fans in all walks of life. Captains of industry, bricklayers, rent boys, those unfortunate bros who hand you paper towels in club toilets, I know them all, and they are all Spurs. And to a man, each of them is an utter, unremitting helmet.

By what design have the Lords of Football made it thus, that every Spurs fan should be afflicted by the same instability of mind, defective temper and ludicrous over-estimation of their own self worth? The answer, I fear, must lie with Arsenal. The meagre, twisted mind of the Spurs fan is forged by decades of oppression and subjugation to a near neighbour who is without question grander, superior and more successful in every possible facet. It must be mortifying. When your brother, given the same opportunities in life achieves greatness, your own miserable reflection unadorned by celebrity and acclaim will naturally become a cause of anguish and unseemly bitterness. Every small and hard-earned triumph becomes ash in the mouth of a cuckolded man. This is how it feels to be born Brian Messi, or Frank Ronaldo, or Spurs.

The situation of course is grossly antagonised by the actions of Arsene Wenger, who takes great delight in trolling the Spurs fans each summer. "What is this? Oh non! I have forgot to buy a defensive midfielder again! We will never make top 4 this season! Probably some other North London club will take our Champions League spot..."

That the Spurs fans unfailingly fall for this every year is as much credit to their enthusiasm as it is deleterious to their understanding. They are, in many respects, more to be pitied than censured. Every right-thinking football club should adopt a Spurs fan this Christmas, to show them that there is a better way to live your life, and that there is still joy to be found even in the bleak purgatory that persists below 5th.

The Manager

General Levy: He's Incredible

By some manouevre of cunning or fortune General Levy has managed to engender a reputation as a fearsome and implacable negotiator. The kind of man who shakes your hand and leaves you counting your fingers. Assuming the case is as stated we can only speculate what the fuck the original asking price was on Roberto Soldado, that this master manipulator could walk away thinking he had the better end of a £27m transfer. I doubt that the money wasted here is even compromised by 30 years of saved barber bills.

On a slightly related issue, there is a school of thought that the glistening top-dome is an irresistable aphrodisiac to ladies, the globular gateway to superior fanny. Indeed, it is only an opinion you hear expressed by pre-existing slap-merchants, but you hear it said nonetheless. I have thought about this a great deal, as my own father is in possession of a worryingly genetic-looking boiled egg, but as he himself expressed, "You will only ever attract a certain kind of woman, by looking like a dildo."

Note: There is also some other head-coach at Spurs this week. I shouldn't bother to learn his name though, if I were you. He won't last, and in any case I promise you, he hasn't bothered to learn yours.

The Cockerel

Cockerels make a lot of noise but ultimately, they don't produce any eggs*.

The other interesting thing I know about cockerels, and I'm not saying that this is necessarily common with Spurs fans, is that they exclusively partake in anal sex. I'm not even joking, this is a genuine fact! God laid a floater when he invented cockerels and designed them all gay. Not that I am opposed to gay cockerels per se, or gay anythings for that matter, but God ought to have thought it through. "Not all of them G," I should have said to God had he consulted me on this matter, "someone needs to make the babies. Maybe just make 20% of cockerels woofters, leave some cockerel cock for the chicks". But he didn't ask me. Dumbass. Luckily for God however, Charles Darwin came up with quite an elegant solution. What Charles Darwin did, right, was fix it so that girl-chickens keep their vagina in their bumhole.

Girl-chickens keeping their vagina in their bumhole is another highly interesting biological fact that I have not made up. It may be news to you however because the knowledge that all chicken porn is, biologically speaking, "D.P." is not something they teach at schools, even though it could save a lot of anguish and embarrassment in the future lives of avian gynaecologists, or whatever. They also never tell you that scrambled egg on toast is actually a hen's period served on a slab of leavened plant jizz, which it most certainly is. No wonder this country is in such a mess!

* Metaphor - ˈmɛtəfə,-fɔː/ - noun - The assertion that a subject is, on some point of comparison, the same as an otherwise unrelated object. E.g. Rooney's hair.

Player Bro-files

Emmanuel Adebayor

Sometimes, Adebayor looks like a really good player. Pace, strength, skills, he's got the lot! Other times it's like he's trolling Ron Atkinson. Inconstancy however, scores highly on the Bro-Scale, so he is our Spurs Bro Leader!

Verdict: Bro

Hugo Lloris

A slightly tough one this. I can't decide if he's more the quiet intellectual, or a kind of French pikey. His looks pull equally in each direction, I could imagine him reading Voltaire in a quiet cafe bar off the Seine, or just as easily in a trackie on a weekday hauling about an angry looking dog on a bit of string. Either way, he's not bro.

Verdict: Not Bro.

Top Wag

This sort is called Hazel O'Sullivan. She is getting rooted by Andros Townsend amongst, according to my researches (and it would be a sad thing if word were to get back to him, so say nothing about it), various others.

Townsend you should imagine is quite an unsatisfactory lover for an experienced wag like Hazel, his normal modus operandi being to dribble for a bit and then shoot widely off target. It's not much really, but at least he does it consistently. He could do it for England.

Scouting Report: Fulham FC

Fulham play at Cowardly Sex-Toilet

The Manager

When Martin Jol turned 16 he was visited by his Fairy Godmother. "Martin," she said, "you have been a good boy, I will grant you one wish."

"That's great news! What sort of thing can I get?"

"Anything you like. Whatever your heart desires."

"Can I be a world class football manager?"

"Be reasonable!"

Martin sighed. "Oh well," he said blushingly. "There is one thing... I do wish I could get more head."

The Fairy Godmother was shocked. "How much more?"

"Loads more. I want to get more head than anyone in the whole world."

His wish was granted. I remember in my first Scouting Report describing Steve Clarke's head as mashed potato. Martin Jol is more jacket. A real King Edward. It's a very substantial cranium, a titanic ice-berg, a planetary mass. If I could only see one thing before my death, I would watch Martin Jol trying to put on a jumper. I bet it's hilarious!

Fun Fact:

In his playing career Martin Jol played 400 club games, but only three times for Holland. He would of got more but the cost of providing Jol with caps was making the Dutch FA insolvent.

The Chairman

Shahid Khan took over at Fulham after former chairman Mohamed Al Fayed got killed at the end of Taken.* I know nothing of him beyond his moustache, but frankly that is enough. It's magnificent!

* Movie starring Liam Neeson.

The Squad

St. John's Ambulance watch on nervously as Scott Parker attempts a "Run"

Martin Jol is all about preparation, or in the case of the majority of his first team squad, preparation H. Like clockwork every match-day zimmer frames are greased and polished, false teeth are rinsed in Steradent and players are bussed in from Eastbourne. The new Fulham kit comes with built in corn plasters and long johns. They have names on their shirts in case someone forgets who they are. At half time everyone has Rich Tea biscuits and talks about the war. Often they forget to come out for the second half. They'd sooner have a little nap.

Famous fans

Ten years before his statue, we see the first Michael Jackson erection at Craven Cottage.

17th October 1999, Michael Jackson was invited by his good friend Mohamed Al Fayed to his new Cottagers Club in London. Michael jumped at the opportunity! Especially when Al Fayed advised him that they would certainly score.

The trip proved a bit of a wash. Imagine MJ's disappointment! Dolled out in his best Fedora, with a significant flower in his lapel, he found on arrival not the underage sex dungeon of his imagination, but a mere soccer ball contest attended by toothless pensioners.

Nevertheless the true philosopher will find pleasure where he can, and Michael soon identified kindred spirits among the ball boys and U14s soccer side. He gathered all the lads together in the Craven Cottage shower rooms and offered to sing for them. Unfortunately, the song he chose was hit single "Bad", and the first line of that happens to be, "Your butt is mine." Soon as he uttered this refrain, all the boys scarpered. It was the quickest evacuation since Jason Puncheon vs Everton.*

* Southampton in-joke yo.

Top Wag

Part #57 in our ongoing series of blondie big-boobs willing to do almost anything, or rather anyone, to secure a Wag lifestyle is ginger apologist, Krystell Sidwell.

I kid you not, her genuine name is "Krystell". There are only two occupations available for girls with a name like Krystell; Stripper or ex-Stripper. Krystell Sidwell falls into the latter category. She's now co-owner of Wag's Boutique, and spends her days walking glumly through her stores wistfully thinking of the one fashion accessory she can never upgrade, her buck-toothed, ginger-freak husband.

Next week, Abigail Clancy.

Scouting Report: Crystal Palace

The Holmesdale Ultras

"Much like the team, we'll be whipping boys"

There are many reasons fans suffer through the trouble and inconvenience of attending football matches. A lot of them are just happy to have somewhere to go where the wife is unwilling to follow, as even the most clingy spouse draws the line at sitting outdoors on a plastic seat for 90 minutes watching sports. Some fans are there to chuck warm, flat lager down their neck and to burn their lips on the inner core of a super-heated pie. One or two people probably even watch the match.

Then there is another breed of fan, who just want someone to notice them. They will do almost anything for attention, up to and not excluding wearing comedy wigs and exposing their fat moobs to the ridicule of the world. If that doesn't work, if everyone is watching the football and paying them no attention, if they get really desperate, they join the Holmesdale Ultras. It's the gay-pride of football fandom.

The assorted members of the Holmesdale Ultras are of course, compensating for the injuries of childhood. They were not popular at High School, they were never invited to parties. If a virgin needed deflowering they were never allowed to come watch. There are kids like that at every school, I don't remember their names, I don't suppose anyone does, but I'm pretty sure they were there.

Then the school days are over and these youths are released into society, armed with a D grade in geography and no useful acquaintance. They punctuate their meagre lives by attending football matches, scrimping together the remnants of their weekly benefits to purchase a fortnightly ticket. In the stands they gravitate towards a group of older, vocal males, attracted by the glamour of yellow teeth and anti-social behaviour. They don't know it yet, but they have met their future selves.

Tactics

CPFC has always been synonymous with live sex shows. The club was originally founded by patrons of a brothel named Crystal's Palace, famed for having the only whores in South London with all their own teeth, and a very relaxed attitude to anal hygiene.

Things have moved on since those halcyon days, and the current whores of Selhurst Park provide a more sedate and superficially PG-rated live sex show. The only relief on offer these days is a sprint down to the gents toilets to thud one out in a locked cubical before kick-off. Consequently the toilet queues at Selhurst Park are by far the longest in the country, and visiting fans requiring an innocent number 2 are advised to wait till they get home, or at the very least avoid physical contact with the door handle.

Providing fans with masturbatory materials is not the primary function of the Crystals however. Every week before kick off they accidentally enter the wrong changing rooms and proceed to finger each other in front of the visiting squad. This apparently innocent mistake is actually a devious tactic on behalf of the club management, who have calculated that playing effective attacking football is 64% more difficult when you have boner.

The Squad

Bronia Gosling

"Hi Bro"

Squad No.: 32A
Position: Doggy.
Summary: Good honest pro, big in the tackle. She's got real balls.

Grace Marguet

Squad No.: 34C
Position: Reverse cowgirl
Summary: Good player, but frustrating. Doesn't go down easy.

Amie Latter

Squad No.: 34D
Position: Windmill
Summary: Very impressive up front.

Exclusive Twitter Interview with Star Player, Amie Latter

Brian Earsy @BrianEarsy3h

@AmieElle Hi Amie! I'm doing match preview for Southampton FC. Do you mind answering some questions pls?

Amie Latter @AmieElle3h

@BrianEarsy Hi Brian. Yeah I'm a genuine Palace fan and excited for the match. What do you want to know?

Brian Earsy @BrianEarsy3h

@AmieElle Thanks! Which of the Crystals is most big-boobs?

No response at time of print.

Things people say about Crystal Palace

Neil Hawkins - Crystals #1 Fan

Every time the Crystals update their Facebook page, Neil Hawkins posts a comment within 5 minutes. I love Neil Hawkins! All his messages are slightly creepy and littered with typos, like he's tapping them out one handed. Here is a sample of his genuine comments: 

• 

  Neil Hawkins The are very beautiful Photos Crystals and I like if one of your new photos Crystals.

  September 25 at 6:13pm via mobile

• 

  Neil Hawkins This is a very nice to no on a very beautiful Abbie has a Crystal girl and I do like Abbie. X

  September 25 at 6:54pm via mobile

• 

  Neil Hawkins It is so nice to no what you do and what you like in your live Grace. X
  
  

  about an hour ago via mobile

• 

  Neil Hawkins Why you nevar reply to my messages? I will fuckng cut you Crystals. X
  
  

  about 5 minutes ago via mobile

Pun of the Week

Crystal Palace are called Eagles, because they're always under par.  - Arsene Wenger

The Rickie Lambert Story

August 2011, Kirby Beetroot Factory, Liverpool

The factory was a run down reminder of Victorian times. Electricity had not yet arrived in this district and the building was lit only by beetroot stained skylights and the dim burn of wax candles. A purple man slaved in the tank, his ample frame twisted from the arduous task of retrieving beetroot parts from the glutinous waters. He was naked, and the beetroot juices stained his skin and nails in a way which was to prove permanent. It was one of the most dangerous and demeaning jobs in Liverpool, worse even than benefits inspector. Dozens of men had died from prolonged exposure to beetroot carcinogens.

This man was Rickie Lambert. In just two years time he would be playing, and scoring, for England. This is how that miracle came to pass.

The early years

A young Rickie Lambert enjoys his first taste of beetroot

Rickie was born in the slums of Kirby,  in the coal cellar of an abandoned horse factory. There were no pediatric nurses on hand, Rickie was pulled from his mother's snatch by the filthy mittens of a toothless tramp named Sanchez, who at that time shared their family living space.

Rickie's mother scratched out a meagre living selling used vegetables to local students. Material comforts were want, but she always ensured that her son had the best clothes and nourishment that the Morrisons skips could provide. She always claimed that Rickie's father was a professional footballer, but it seemed more likely that he was fathered by a drunken one-night stand, or that she had fallen foul of Liverpool's lively rape culture. In either case, Rickie was resigned to never knowing his true parentage. He did not complain, it was nice to fit in with the other kids at school.

One memorable day, young Rickie turned out for the St. Kenny's Primary School football team. He took to the field barefoot and with his trouser legs rolled up, as he was far too poor to afford proper kit. He scored 6 penalties that day, each of them more unerringly accurate than the last until the referee caught up with him and pointed out that he didn't go to this school, and could he please fuck off as they were trying to have a match. Rickie tramped from the field dejected, and vowed never again to participate in organised sports.

The Wilderness Years

Nothing is known of Rickie from the ages of 12 to 29.

Nigel Adkins

Nigel Adkins was a former professional footballer who had been recently appointed manager of newly formed Premier League club Southampton FC. Native of Liverpool, he liked to return to that City on his free days to walk the slum districts writing inspirational poetry, and to see if he could pick up anyone tasty at the docks.

Chance, or fate, drew him to Kirby Beetroot Factory that day. He wandered into the main warehouse and stood in the doorway with a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose. There was a large vat in the centre of the warehouse. As Adkins watched, a creature burst from the waters like a salmon and volleyed a beetroot 30 yards across the factory and directly into a collection sack. The creature splashed back into the waters and disappeared. Before Adkins could write a single line of inspirational poetry, it happened again. And then again. Each volley was struck with the shooting accuracy of Lee Harvey Oswald. Adkins was amazed, "What is that?" he asked of a passing man in a stained overcoat. "Oh, that's Rickie Lambert. We call him The Fish."

Adkins stumbled back. Images were tumbling through his head of a girl he once knew in Kirby. Her name was Lambert and she always sad that were she to have a son, she would name him Rickie. Could it be? Was it possible? "Is this my son?" said Adkins, his voice hoarse from the toxic fumes of beetroot.

The Premier League

No son of Nigel Adkins would spend his life beetroot fishing in Victorian factories. Out of obligation and charity, Adkins gave Lambert a minor contract at Southampton Football Club. Rickie was never expected to play, but due to a mixture of circumstance and injury, Lambert found himself on the Southampton bench for the first game of the season.

Mid-way through the second half, with the scores tied, star Southampton forward Guly Do Prado was scythed down in the Manchester City penalty box. Do Prado was injured, unable to continue, but he was the only one Adkins trusted to take penalties. Adkins looked at his bench thoughtfully. "Rickie, you're on. Take the penalty."

Rickie was aghast. "But dad... I haven't... I don't know how!"

"Just relax. Imagine you're back in the factory. The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack."

Rickie scored with ease. He went on to score a further 14 penalties that year as Southampton won the Premier League.

England Call Up

For all his exploits in the Premier League, Rickie would never be called up for England. There was always someone younger, quicker or pony-tailed in his way.

Finally, with the World Cup Final of Scotland vs England looming, Nigel Adkins took matters into his own hands. He twisted Andy Carroll's ankle. He knobbled Daniel Sturridge's knees. He severed Wayne Rooney's head with a gash more voluminous than the rancid vagina of Katie Price. Finally it was enough. Rickie was in the England Squad!

World Cup Final

August 14th 2013, World Cup Final, England vs. Scotland, Wembley Stadium.

England were in trouble. The scores were tied 2-2, time was running out and all that England had on the bench was an uncapped former beetroot factory worker. Finally, England manager Gary Neville, acting more from desperation than hope, threw Rickie Lambert into action. 

Almost immediately Scotland manager Gordan Strachan hand-balled in the area and England were awarded a penalty! With the world watching, Rickie Lambert sensed his chance. He chinned Frank Lampard with a vicious upper-cut and took hold of the match ball. He placed it carefully on the penalty spot.

"The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack. The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack," repeated Rickie to himself.

The goal was scored! The World Cup was won! Rickie Lambert cried purple tears as all of England rejoiced and beetroot was declared the new national vegetable.