Tuesday, February 22, 2011

DESERT DISPATCH - February Issue

Travel DispatchFAR OUT EAST: Rooney’s Shot Still Travelling To Mongolia! The Rest of Us Are Already in Goal Heaven!!!! By Arthur Slather in the Sky Studios
“Let’s just look at it one more time shall we. Oh go on then, roll the tape”
Derby Match Hero and, indeed, clear and obvious Sky Man of the Match Wayne Rooney, stood like Jesus Christ himself (at least a modern day minted sort of messiah with a potato head and a Chloé-clad Mary waiting at the stable with the four-by-four), back arched theatrically, arms adrift and a tell-tale bulge in his back pocket. He had deservedly won the game for Manchester against their noisy neighbours, Bastard manchester city, with a goal that journalists will not tire of talking about for some fifteen to twenty years from now. These are the moments for which one staggers into a profession like this one. Not the over-sugared tea, the slightly too old fig rolls, the occasional unwanted glimpse of Daphne toiling over the malfunctioning photocopier in her slightly-too-short ra-ra skirt, the deadlines that creep up, the beery breath of one’s colleagues, the terrible trouble with adverbs, the need for one last cliché before bed. Then this. A moment of pure pleasure, of bliss, of joy. It’s just so good to know that the goodies have won again AND THE NOISY ONES HAVE BEEN SILENCED FOR EVER!
TACTICS TRUCK - Picking balls from strange places
New balls, please
Manchester City’s stunning 4-2-3-1 formation, using a deep-lying accordianist, Tony Henry and a North Atlantic walrus pup certainly did for Aris Salonika. The Greeks looked bewildered by it all. No reverting to Pythagoras or Plato could dam the gaps that had been created by Mancini’s stunning tactical variations. All hail the Chicken tikka taka. The old 4-2-3-1 is such a weapon of destruction in tight matches of this kind that it becomes more than just a formation. It transcends everything, becoming shapely and divine like Natalie Portman, a kind of serene Black Swan with overlapping fullbacks and very nearly bare buttocks. It is feline, fluid, and figure hugging. It is not just Aleksander Kolarov swishing his left foot like a Serbian scythe and Micah ploughing the line like a runaway trans-Alpine freight train. It is the music of Shostakovitch playing whilst Maria Sharapova attempts to fetch a florescent yet pleasantly furry tennis ball from her underpants. When Mancini switched again in the 2nd half, deploying a sudden and devastating 0-0-4-1-4-1-0 dramatic results were so nearly to hand. Balotelli, playing the withdrawn role and Dzeko, playing the badly drawn Bosnian role, could almost smell Aris, they were now so close to it. If only Shaun Wright Phillips had been asked to go run the baths a bit earlier.
Mike: doing his talking on the pitch
From Our Own ex-Sky Soccer Pundit: This was clearly Mike Summerbee’s Galipoli. He sat quietly watching James Redknapp and Tobias Borthwick eulogize The Second Coming of Christ, the backdrop to his pain, millions of little red bucket seats still warm and steaming from the excited antics of foreigners’ bottoms. He looked at his co-panelists with the expression of deflated resignation sometimes etched on the face of an axe murderer before the first cathartic swipe. It has come thus far and must go no further. Words welled up in his throat and finally when he coughed them all out, they appeared in the wrong order, with the normal ones due for the middle of the sentence completely missing. “64%, must have had, total control, I’ll say it again, over his shoulder goes one, Sir Alex 60%...” he spluttered, axe heavy in his sweat stained hand. Borthwick grinned a toothy grin. Teeth everywhere. Redknapp, dapper in kilt and sporran, suspenders and Indian head-dress, mocked “Cam orn, United deserve this. United deserve everything they get”. Mr Summerbee flinched, the late sun winding itself down over the cranes shone in his left eye, making him visibly recoil. His axe hand quivered. Sweat lined up on his creased forehead and began to drip. Clocks ticked. Pundit land steadied itself. A grim silence whispered like the breeze. A little voice to the side could be heard saying “Did he smash it? Did he smash it?”. There could be only one response left.
"Over ere, Shaun, I'll show you me sprinklers"
House & Home -  This month Steven Ireland shows us his unrivaled Ottoman silk worm underpant collection, his saphire and steel renaissance garden shed (with ruby crusted rake and cinamon flavoured authentic Alaskan water sprinklers) and walks us around his palatial new crinoline faux-bedouin tent four-poster bed.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Other Tedious Stuff

Poets and Lyricists