Scouting Report: West Ham United

Four horseman of the apocalypse. Horse not pictured (injured)

The Manager

"Four Four Fooking Two!"

You can understand why the boleyn faithful object to Sam Allardyce managing their team. Everything about him is wrong. He's more whippets than greyhounds. More meat pie than jellied eels. More Jack Duckworth than Pat Butcher. All wrong. If West Ham want a manager to uphold their great traditions of over-spending and getting relegated, then surely, surely Harry Redknapp is the man.

There are clubs where Sam Allardyce would be successful, of course. If the Borg Collective were putting together a football league using a square ball and playing in 0.6G then Sam Allardyce would be ideal. No tiki-taka on the Borg homeworld. The Sam Allardyce Collective would brutally assimilate their way to Champions League glory.

On this world, Sam Allardyce manages West Ham United. It's like paring Heather Mills and Stephen Hawking in a 3-legged race. Neither party is shown off to advantage.

One To Watch

One of the great unexplained mysteries of televised football is why they cut away from a hot streaker citing public decency, but find it acceptable to show a Kevin Nolan goal celebration in full and unflinching detail.

It's a deeply unpleasant sight. Is it a chicken? Is it a duck? Or a grown man who should know better. Makes one reminisce almost fondly of the Robbie Keane roly-poly two pistol salute.

Famous Fans

Alright, Katy Perry isn't a real fan, but she's willing to pretend to be. You get this type of behaviour a lot with girls but I'm not sure it's healthy. Why do we have to like the same stuff? I don't go round pretending to give a fuck about pilates.

Top Wag

Some stories are so appealing that their veracity becomes a mere side issue. Joe Cole doing Keeley Hazell from behind over the washing machine and scarpering out the kitchen window when her old man rocked up, is one such story. I'm very attached to this story, I can totally picture it. The wobble of her boobs, the gurn of his face, the sound of a key in the front door, the couple of slaps from her old man, the "Leave him Frank! He's not worth it!" from treacherous Keeley, the jump out the window and the barefoot sprint to nearby cab office. All of human drama is here.

Unfortunately though, when put to critical examination the holes in this story do begin to appear. Little Joe Cole for example, doing a grown woman from behind. He must of been stood on a stool. I also can't picture him out-pacing a cuckolded paramour over uneven ground, especially with no shoes and a boner.

Still, I am fond of the story. My only regret is that it happened so long ago, I would love to hear the thoughts of official West Ham spokesman, Jack Sullivan on this subject. "My dad is v.angry with JC," he would twitter, "but has offered £50K for the photo rights."

Team News

Andy Carroll has an injured fetlock. He may need to be put down.

Stuart Downing is still shit.

West Ham co-owner, David Sullivan is only 4ft 3" tall.

Things people say about West Ham United

Blowing Bubbles, slang, To make foolish or erroneous statements. To talk shit. I.e. "Yes, we do need a 54,000 seat stadium"   - The Dictionary

"What is the difference between minced fetus and West Ham United FC."   - Arsene Wenger*

* Wenger is a cerebral guy and this is actually quite a clever joke. I mean, not funny, but clever. If you understand Wenger's gag, please mention in the comments section. He would be pleased to know that there is more benefit to be had watching Countdown than the sight of Rachel Riley's arse.

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.

Scouting Report: Norwich City

"We are not a Noddy club!"

The Manager

When the Great Scandal breaks and all Premier League Managers are sent to prison, it is little Chrissy Hughton that will suffer most. One fears for him. Some managers like Martin Jol and Sam Allardyce will make the transition with little difficulty. Chrissy Hughton will be forced into a life of servitude and sexual abuse.

When Davey Moyes needs his socks darned it is Little Chrissy Hughton that he will call upon. When Malky "Mister" Mackay grows lonely on a cold winter's night it is Little Chrissy Hughton that the prison guards will find battered, bloodied and bent over a washing machine in the prison laundry. When Brendan Rogers wants a date for the Dartmoor Summer Ball it will be Little Chrissy Hughton dressed up in evening gown and suspenders.

One can only hope that the Guvnor will put Chrissy Hughton into solitary for his own protection. Even then he will be viciously traumatised and unable to control his basic bodily functions. He certainly won't be having any clean sheets, but then he's used to that.

One to watch

A wolf's penis has a large knot in it. During ejaculation the knot keeps the penis inside Mrs.Wolf, or the secretary wolf at work, or next-door's cat or whoever the wolf happens to be knobbing. This ensures that the wolf ejaculates as much as possible inside his victim and so it doesn't get all over the bed sheets or whatever.

The other interesting thing about a wolf's penis is that it has an actual bone in it. Darwin designed it this way so that wolf would not have difficulty getting hard if his bird was a dog, so to speak.

Top Wag

Delia prepares a Christmas Spit-Roast

Norwich City Christmas Party, 2012

The great hall was apparently deserted. Plated meals sat half-eaten on gilded tables, chairs were thrown back and overturned. Abandoned cutlery glistened beneath flickering disco lights. Under tables and behind curtains, the players of Norwich City Football Club cowered and hid.

The doors were thrown back and Delia Smith stumbled drunkenly into the hall. "Where are you?" she slurred, stalking between the tables. She slid a hand down into her ample nylons and fingered her pussy. "Let's be having you!". Little Jonny Howson, curled in the frame of a bass drum, trembled and crossed himself.

Delia stumbled into the gent's toilets and began rattling cubicle doors. "Where are you?" she growled huskily. The last door she met with the heft of her ample frame, the lock snapped and it flung back. Delia glowered down on a youth team player as he sat perched on the toilet seat, clutching his ankles and with widened eyes like a startled gazelle. "Let's be having you," growled Delia, hitching up her skirts.

Famous Fans

Stephen Fry is most famous for inventing twitter, he did this because no-one needs more than 140 characters to call him a smug cunt.

I read a book of his once, I don't remember what it was called but it was about a teenage boy who fucked a horse. It might of been his autobiography or something. The most disturbing thing was not that a teenage boy fucked a horse but that Fry's description of the event gave me a boner. I like to think that this is because of the high quality of his prose, and not due to any previously unsuspected preference of my own for bumming ponies.

Other famous fans include Jake Humphries, Hugh Jackman and Sir David Frost. Norwich probably also have some straight fans but my researches didn't extend that far.

Fun Facts

"The Canaries" is the softest of all Premier League nick-names, with the possible exception of "Cottagers".

When the great floods come, Norwich will be the first to go. One more reason to keep buying 60w light bulbs.

Things people say about Norwich

"Living in Norwich is not just a way of life. Norwich is an attitude."   - Alan Partridge

REAL WIFE STORIES: Suck For My Silence

Have you ever watched a porno the whole way through, including the talking bits? No, me neither. I don't suppose anyone has. This is what happens when you do...

About our star:

I like Jenni Lee, she seems nice. She doesn't seem like someone born to star in pornos. While she is definitely hot, she is hot in a classical, small-breasted kind of way. She has a pretty face and does not even seem to be particularly dumb. If she hadn't been molested as a child she might have become a secretary at a high-price law firm sucking off the partners during lunch break, or working the counter in Selfridges or something classy like that. She has a tattoo of a sun-God above her snatch and when you look closely her face shows signs of spunkne (conjunctive term for acne resulting from jizzface) but other than that, she seems largely unspoiled by her life of grime.

Fun google fact: Jenni Lee discovered at a young age that she was born with absolute zero gag reflex. None! Nada! No matter what Jenni Lee shoves down her throat, and she's had a lot of stuff down there, she never suffers from involuntary regurgitation. It is unclear if this is the next step in human evolution, or just a lucky coincidence.

About our co-stars:

Some dudes.

Synopsis:

We find Jenni Lee in the kitchen, messing with some vegetables. She's not shoving cucumbers up her snatch, she's chopping peppers and roughing up lettuces. She's making a salad.

A guy approaches from behind, opens her dressing gown and starts feeling her up. It seems they are acquainted. If she's the eponymous Real Wife I imagine this guy is the Real Husband. He enquires about what time is my food is gonna be ready woman and mentions that he's invited a mate of his, Kieran, over for dinner. Jenni doesn't seem pleased about this. We're detecting that she isn't fond of this Kieran character. But what's she gonna do? The husband is rich, judging by the house, and she's got to keep him on side.

"Good girl," he says patronisingly, slaps her arse and exits stage right.

Bitch immediately gets on her phone and calls Kieran. He's a smug fuck. They do a cut-away to his office and he swings around in his executive chair and sneers at the camera like he's Blofeld or something. Jenni Lee is suspicious of this guy. She feels he's up to something. It's probably his English accent. We're not all Alan Rickman!

Turns out she has more legitimate reasons. Kieran encountered Jenni at a restaurant the previous night having dinner with an "old friend". Translation, Jenni Lee has been caught doing the dirty on her sap husband and is naturally concerned that Kieran is going to cause trouble. He denies this and the call ends quite amicably, but what Jenni Lee does not know, what only we are privy to, is that when she hangs up Kieran looks sneeringly at the phone and says, "You cheating cunt!"

Good situation! Feel the drama! We are 1m26s in. This porno is 32m39s long.

Jenni Lee re-appears in a sexy pink mini-dress, dolled up for dinner. We watch her walk down the stairs and are invited to look up her skirt. It seems that she has forgotten to put on her undercrackers. Probably due to the stress of Kieran's devious intentions.

There is a knock on the door. "That must be Kieran," observes the sap husband. "I'll let him in!" says Jenni anxiously, and we watch her arse sashay to the door. It's a nice arse. I prefer Jenni Lee's arse to a lot of girl's face. Kieran thinks so too, first thing he does is cop a hold of it and she squirms awkwardly until the sap husband breaks up the party. He doesn't suspect anything. He doesn't know that his wife is a cheating cunt.

They all sit down for dinner. This is the situation:

The guy on the left is the sap husband, the guy on the right is Kieran. Kieran immediately begins chatting about the restaurant he went to last night, "Have you ever been there, Jenni?" he asks innocently. "No Kieran, I have not." Lying cunt!

Kieran takes advantage of the break in conversation to reach a sneaky hand under the table, run it up Jenni Lee's leg and start playing hunt the thimble in her vag. Her face is a picture! She would prefer her vagina un-fingered but cannot figure a method of extraction that would not put the husband on alert. You can see her running various scenarios through her head, but it takes her a minute to come to the simple expedient of standing up. She excuses herself to the kitchen to check on dessert. Kieran says he needs the toilet, and follows her. Sap husband continues stuffing his face. Greedy hog.

We're back in the kitchen and Jenni Lee is again approached from behind. This happens a lot to her, but on this occasion, it's Kieran. She struggles but he is too strong. "If I'd of known what a cheating cunt you were," he says, forcing her down onto her knees, "I'd of done this ages ago."

He inserts his knob into her mouth-hole and she sucks it quite accommodatingly, only breaking off now and again to answer her husband's calls from the next room. He's cleared his plate and is wondering after his pudding. Jenni Lee hasn't finished her main course yet.

Jenni drops some oats and nose-bag off with the sap husband, and then unaccountably follows Kieran upstairs. They spend the next 26 minutes fucking. One assumes the husband is a slow eater. Also deaf. There is a fair old racket going on what with Kieran shouting "Am I better than your husband?" and Jenni telling him to shut up with one breath and then squealing with pleasure the next.

It ends with a flourish, and Kieran paints a giant snowflake across her face. "I fucking hate you," says Jenni, but it doesn't stop her wiping spunk from her cheek, and putting it in her mouth.

Conclusion

I don't know how you feel about rape, I've always been against it personally. It's one of those things in society which are not technically illegal but are frowned upon, like picking your nose and wiping it on a train seat. "Suck for my silence" treads the rape line. Jenni Lee does not at any point give the firm and unequivocal "nolle prosequi" that wilts my personal boner. She doesn't start crying or physically fighting off Kieran's lecherous intrusions but still, you know, she wasn't down for getting boned. She was coerced.

Ratings:

Bearsy's Rating: I give it 3 bones out of 5! I enjoyed the storyline and thought Jenni Lee did a terrific job with her role. I also admired the cinematography. On the other hand, no anal.

Duration: 32:39 (srsly)

Where can I watch this filth: Google it yourself yo! I can't do all the work.

Scouting Report: Sunderland AFC

"Is clearly eagle! Why people say cock?"

The Manager

In Italy 1966, amongst the ruins of the colosseum, a virgin was raped by three ancient demons. 666 moons passed and a son was born, torn from the womb by the tusks of a feral pig. It was said that this child would unite fascism, and sell James McClean.

45 years later Paolo Di Canio strode into the Sunderland changing rooms. "Remove your underpants," he said curtly to the assembled first team squad. The manager went player to player, sank to his knees and narrowly scrutinized their genitalia. Some he passed without comment, others he licked his fingers and drew a large yellow star above their groin.

Danny Graham, Matt Kilgallon, Abe Goldstein; these players were proud to be recognised as "Stars". However a few months later they were loaded onto trains and deported from the Stadium of Light, never to be seen again. It's a bit of a mystery.

The Tactics

Di Canio has been talking about getting his team to "play out from the back" this season. It's not clear whether he is serious or just trolling Phil Bardsley, but in either case it should be hilarious to watch. Other tactics to be considered are making Adam Johnson use his right foot and handing John O'Shea Sudoku puzzles.

One to Watch

Di Canio's Sunderland squad takes shape

Sunderland have a whole squad of new signings, but you never heard of any of them. Players left from last year include the permanently injured Steven Fletcher and the permanently shite Wes Brown. Di Canio spent the whole summer trying to sell Phil Bardsley too, but unfortunately Bardsley is less appealing than jizz flavoured chewing gum, so he's still there.

New signing Jose Altidore is an unusual player, and for that matter an unusual human being, in that his neck is actually wider than his head. You see this sometimes in American Football players, the morbidly obese and penguins, but it's a first for the Premier League.

Top Wag

"The bridge to pussy is paved with football contracts"

Phil Bardsley makes out that his girlfriend is one-time FHM model, Tanya Robinson. So far, so plausible. There is no reason why he shouldn't be dating FHM models, no matter how much he personally resembles a ballsack. However a casual perusal of the internet reveals something quite remarkable about Tanya Robinson: She doesn't even exist. Every photo you can find of her shows not a human being but a heavily airbrushed, painted facsimile. Tanya Robinson's photos are not taken, they're drawn, jizzed over, wiped clean and then drawn again.

Quite why Bardsley finds it necessary to invent imaginary girlfriends is difficult to say. Changing the subject entirely, here is a picture of Bardsley writhing erotically while men bathe him in fiddys.

In Conclusion

In the north-east, football clubs have long since given up on actually winning trophies and now just compete to see who is the Most Mental. It's a hotly contested title. No sooner had Sunderland appointed Di Canio than Newcastle dragged Joe Kinnear back into St. James's Park and made him a fucking Director. It's like a sick game of managerial top trumps. Watch out for Di Canio's increasingly extreme measures to out-do Uncle Joe. Maybe he'll grow a comical moustache and tell people he's "Charlie Chaplin". Either that or invade Poland.

Things people say about SAFC

"John O'Shea met his bird on the rebound, so they called their son Rick."   - Arsene Wenger

"Concentration, concentration, concentration. That is what I demand of my players. If they do not concentrate, I send them to Concentration Camp."   - Paolo Di Canio

Scouting Report: West Bromwich Albion

See the bird? He's telling Chiles to STFU

The Manager

Nowhere are the ravages of Premier League management more perfectly illustrated than the mashed potato face of West Brom manager, Steve Clarke. Once a virile and handsome man, within 15 minutes of assuming responsibility for the conduct of Peter Odemwingie he became a hairless and slack-jowled gargoyle. His face, his once beautiful face, is now so embarrassed to be associated with the rampant mediocrity of West Bromwich Albion Football Club that it's attempting to turn in on itself, like the gradual collapse of a dwarf star.

Many people have trodden in chewing gum. It's one of the great tragedies of our time, like 9/11 or the situation in Gaza. A recent phenomena though when sitting on a kerb scraping gum from an upturned shoe, is to find a familiar face jowling back at you. “Oh hi, Steve Clarke," you naturally think. "You're looking unusually well today. I like what you've done with your hair.”

Of all managerial opponents he will face this season, it is Southampton's Mauricio Pochettino that Steve Clarke fears most. Him and Michael Laudrup. Pochettino's thick hair and baby-faced handsomeness came as a vicious surprise to Steve Clarke at St. Mary's last season, expecting as he was nothing more embarrassing than the bespectacled nerdiness of former manager Nigel Adkins. West Brom may have won the match that day, but when Steve Clarke closes his eyes it is not Fortune's goal that he sees, it is the cherubic visage of Mauricio Pochettino. It mocks him. It is a reminder of what he has lost.

Style of Play

A change of tactics is required this season. The traditional hoof up to Lukaku is unlikely to prove effective, unless Clarke can find someone capable of hoofing the ball 127 miles to Stamford Bridge. Peter Odemwingie offered to take it down there personally but you know, that's not very practical.

One to watch

Nicolas Anelka

One of the down sides of being an acquisitive football mercenary is that you can end up plying your trade in some of the world's biggest shit-holes. Check Anelka's body language in this photo, holding the team shirt with pinched fingers and an incredulous manner, like he's waiting for the punch line. “You want me to wear this? Srsly?” Here is a man that just climbed from a chauffeured Lexus to be faced by the slums of Sandwell. Possibly he has experienced conversation with a Yam-yam. You wonder at the teams he turned down as less preferable than moving to West Brom. Gaza Strip Rovers? I shouldn't be at all surprised.

This is Anelka's wife. She has got what is known in the plastic surgery game as “Mick McCarthy Nose”. It points resolutely to the east. Nicolas Anelka, a devout Muslim, uses this appendage to correctly orient his prayer mat during morning supplications.

Famous Fans

If there's one man who can empathise with Steve Clarke's plight of looking like a turd, it's Adrian Chiles.

He came to national prominence by being the bookend next to which even Christine Bleakley looks attractive. It must of come as a nasty surprise to Frank Lampard when he finally got her on her own. Chiles has subsequently tried to provide a similar service for pug-uglies such as Andy Townsend and Gareth Southgate, but a man can only do so much. "I am but human," complained Chiles, "No matter how feeble my analysis, Townsend always lowers the bar."

In comparison

If West Brom were a TV show they'd be Take Me Out with Paddy McGuinness. If they were a movie they'd be anything with Sarah Jessica Parker. What I'm trying to say is that while no-one actually admits to liking them, someone must do or they wouldn't exist.

Things people say about WBA

"A lot of people are saying that after years as a number two, Steve Clarke finally looks like a number one. I disagree. He still looks like a number 2."     - Arsene Wenger

"What's more depressing than supporting WBA? Being Adrian Chiles and supporting WBA."     - David Moyes