It’s sad to admit, but our 21st Century society has become nothing short of a bevy of neurotic hypochondriacs… or should I say cyberchondriacs. Alas, for I speak of internet diagnoses!
For years when people had health problems a simple appointment with their doctors would suffice but now (oh how things have changed!), now we speak of our GP’s with a wave of fear in our words. “Go see a doctor!”, they’d say – what used to be nothing more than 4 words of simple encouragement has turned into a phrase of dread, as if your loved ones have turned against you, summoning you to the dark depths of hell!
Phewy chop suey, it was just a dream! But it isn’t, it’s reality. So what do we do (well, I say we, I mean most men…)? We decide to take matters into our own hands and diagnose the problem ourselves. That’s right, instead of confiding in someone who’s had years of medical training we decide to google (other search engines are available) the blooming thing so as to allow everyone to see several pages of ‘testicular pain’ filling up your history like some sort of nightmarish shopping list! I mean, why oh why do we assume that for some barmy reason we’re going to find:
- the correct diagnosis
- the diagnosis we want to hear
Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every 6 months – Oscar Wilde
Never have I ever seen a more horrendous sight than the ankles of a man sporting socks with sandals. Crime against fashion I
hear you cry? Yes, but surely it’s a crime against social decorum! I mean, who on earth ever believed that such a bizarre concoction should have the right to create amazing results? The sort of results that have women swooning at the mere sight of a man’s bottom half stepping off a bus; or have them rushing over to an escalator to see their hideous combination slowly being unveiled like some sordid prize on a quiz show… No, no, NO! No one, surely no one believed this could ever be possible, so why even try it?!
Only a small minority would think this, to spend that extra amount of time rummaging through their drawers looking for the most repulsive pair of white socks – as if drawing attention to yourself is a good idea! What is more, they agonise over trying to achieve that perfect S&S look – sock colour? Check. Sandals colour? Check. Sock height? Check. The latter is the one that really gets me. I assume that, if the measurements aren’t perfect and you’re sock doesn’t grip your shin about half-way up, you’re not allowed to gain Saint of the Socks and Sandals status (or, as we like to call them here at wordpress.com – St. S&S). Indeed one must earn the right to join such a clique through hard work and dedication… but most importantly – terrible fashion sense.
Admittedly, wearing socks with shoes does have its benefits (albeit only 3):
- Socks help keep your feet clean, protecting them from dust and moisture (although toe-fluff isn’t exactly the nicest thing… unless you’re throwing it at your enemies)
- Socks stop your shoes from rotting like old apples (no one likes rotting fruit)
- Socks make nice puppets (everyone loves a good ol’ sock bunny)
… or is it?! Duhn, duhn, DUHHNN!
Phew… it’s over! As the curtain falls on God’s greatest creation, we can all take a moment to breathe, a slight hiatus to all us to regroup and reflect on what has been a truly remarkable season of football. From chickens draped in flags of protestation to grown men chaining themselves to goalposts (...with handcuffs of protestation) it’s hard to think of a more dramatic season. However, I’ve managed to narrow it down to 5, and here they are…
5. Conquered Catalonia (and Neville’s Orgasm)
As Chelsea marched through the gates of the Barcelona Empire, they knew that, despite winning the first battle, the war was not over. An army of 18 strong men, laden with armour, swords and shields strode onto the grass and refused to move an inch. Chelsea took the first blow going 1-0 down before their leader, self-proclaimed ‘Commander of Monogamy’ shot himself in the foot as he looked to flee from the supposedly sinking ship (…these wartime metaphors doing anything for you?). Another goal would inevitably ensue until… what’s this?… a moment of Brazilian brilliance (minus the cockney input of Lampard) made it advantage Chelsea! Barcelona were stunned into silence – in fact, the only things heard were the dulcet tones of John Terry’s Barking accent as he tried to seduce Di Matteo’s wife in the stand (by the way, all this is fictional… so please don’t sue Zoe).
Yet, suddenly, the crowd were awoken again as 2nd in Command, self-proclaimed ‘Executive Officer of Playacting’ caused a player (I don’t remember who exactly, ok?) to tumble in the box. Penalty Barcelona, Penalty Messi, Goal Messi… but no! Denied! Would they ever find that 3rd crucial blow or would this continental battle turn into a war of attrition?
To cut a long story short, they didn’t find that goal that would’ve sealed their ticket to Munich. In fact, I’ll show the moment when Chelsea finally slew the dragon courtesy of the most unlikely of knights…
(P.S. Gary Neville’s climax at the end is worth being on the list alone however I thought it would be fitting to marry the two)
4. Super(cilious) Mario
Now, I know it’s not a very rare sight to see arrogance on a football pitch – deary me, it’s full of overpaid children puffing out their chests, spreading their peacock feathers while carrying around the latest brand of STI’s, however one man takes the mickey. OK, so it can’t be certain that he has syphilis (Jennifer Thompson didn’t spill all) but what can be sure is that he shows as much (if not more!) chutzpah than one of his biggest fans – Liam Gallagher. Some might say he’s arrogant, some might say he’s hilarious but we can all agree that he is good value for money (if you’re willing to pay £22 million for a children’s entertainer!). From scoring goals with a shrug of a shoulder to promoting firework safety (days after having burned down his bathroom with… a firework), he’s provided all we could have asked for in a player! If I’m honest, I sure am going to miss his mercurial talents if he leaves next season!
Oh, did I mention that he can’t dress himself?
3. Papiss: Prolific and Prodigious
13 goals in 13 games – who says that winter transfer signings struggle to settle? Well, whoever it was must be eating their words after what has been a truly remarkable demi-season for this spectacular Senegalese. As Demba Ba’s goals slowly started to dry up, Cissé stepped forward and has delivered some great performances. Forget that he can’t speak a word of English, forget that his neck is longer than a giraffe’s, this man has been a welcome addition to the Premier League. Not only does he score goals but the manner in which he does is a joy to behold… so much so that I think we should let his goals do the talking. Show me the ocular proof!
2. City Cheer While Sir Alex Sobs
“Should I watch the City game or should I just wait until Match of the Day’s on later?” Thank god I made the right decision!
Going into the last game of the season, Man City knew that a win over relegation-battling QPR would see them clinch their first title in 44 years, regardless of what their neighbours conjured up on Wearside… but nothing is that simple is it? As the blue moon rose in the mid-afternoon, everything was going swimmingly until disaster. Man City found themselves 2-1 down early in the 2nd half and, despite being a man to the good (courtesy of Joey Barton doing his best Rambo impression to confirm that he has the worst haircut in the league…). However, in an attempt to emulate what Chelsea did in Barcelona, QPR dug in and wouldn’t lie down. Like dominoes stuck to the ground with extra-strong superglue, they refused to self-destruct until… until… deep into ‘Fergie-time’ Man City found the breakthrough they needed, most importantly, twice.
I don’t even support them but, on hearing the final whistle, I erupted into a state of pandemonium as I couldn’t wait to see the smiles on the smug faces of messieurs Rooney and Ferguson being duly wiped off. In a matter of seconds Man Utd had gone from securing a 20th title to, possibly, witnessing the start of a Blue Revolution – and that’s the beauty of football!
Have Man City broken the Manchester Monopoly or will United recover and come back stronger next year? Either way it’s going to be an exciting prospect for the future!
1. Muamba’s Miracle
“I asked God to help me… and he didn’t let me down.” – Fabrice Muamba
Therese Neumann, Joseph of Cupertino, Jesus… people, certainly in the 21st Century, are sceptical about genuine miracles, attributing such events to coincidence or luck. However, I think we can all agree that, what happened with Bolton midfielder Fabrice Muamba truly was miraculous. “I am walking proof of prayer” – indeed, regardless of whether or not we were affiliated with a religion, everyone was praying for Fabrice.
78 minutes – that’s how long he was ‘technically’ dead for, so to come back, without even suffering repercussions, is incredible! What is more, it brought fans together. No longer were rivalries relevant, indeed relegation seemed a mere, insignificant dot, for one man had stared death in the face… and lived to tell the tale.
So, as what has been a wonderful season (it certainly has had its fair share of ups and downs!) closes on us for another summer its easy to forget the bigger picture sometimes. Indeed, the most spectacular part of the year was not what happened on the pitch, but what occurred outside. Football is more than a just about a 90 minute game, it’s about building a community and, through the support shown for Fabrice, it certainly has got a lot stronger.
(P.S. If I’ve missed a favourite moment of yours, please feel free to comment underneath! Thank you and good night!)
Admittedly, I’m not a fan of clichés so it will come as a bit of a surprise that I’m blaming you for the supposed ‘spring’ we’re having. Are you taking the piss or do you wish to create a nation of drowned rats? Therefore, in protest, I have decided to boycott summer since I believe it will amount to nothing but heavy showers, gale force winds and the re-releasing of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ – so off into hibernation I go!
Yours truly (pissed off),
As heavy eyelids meet under darkened skies, a melancholy leg hangs down from my headboard. Brushing gently against the wood, his hirsute ears stay motionless… listening but never responding; a muted friend, safeguarding me from the nighttime’s unseen mischiefs. As a ticking radiator groans, arousing the watchman’s attentions, my peepers have long been fastened… secretly concocting fruit-flavoured dreams behind closed doors. While elves use up their reserve tank of niceties and fairies run low on magic, my friend sits peacefully, wide awake, devoted to the cause.
They don’t mind if their work goes unappreciated – glory wasn’t part of the deal. Quietly and subtly they get on with the little things. However, like fundamental bricks forming the base of mankind’s most staggering architecture, they’re needed. Man can’t live without water just as much as they can’t live without such creatures, for no bed is the same with a bear-shaped-hole in its pillow… they’re part of the furniture aren’t they? Besides, why break something that doesn’t need fixing…
4, 9, 14, 23, 39, 47, 58, 62, 71, 80… You’re never too old for a teddy… or 3!
(P.S. mine’s called Cyril… what about yours?)
Everything you did was not for me.
Please don’t lie,
I’d like to firstly write a special thanks to whoever it was that made my post ‘The Sin of Socks & Sandals‘ magically appear on Freshly Pressed. I realise that it is a blogger’s dream come true to feature there since it has helped my traffic one heck of a heap I’ll tell you (pardon my French) and it certainly came as quite a shock! Now, although this person/magic wizard still remains anonymous (I suspect it could be Illumniati… but it’s best not to speculate), what I can be sure of is the identities of all you wonderful people who:
- viewed my post
- liked my post
- shared my post
- commented on post
- clicked ‘notify me for follow up comments via email’ (you guys especially seeing as though I probably clogged up your account with a lot of ‘thanks!’)
So, I guess all that’s left for me to say is a great big… wait for it… wait now, it’s coming… calm down, I’ll get there in a minute… THANK YOU! and I look forward to hearing from you again soon (even Keith!)
Just writing to see how the search for your chin was going?
Keep up the good work and look forward to 3 more years of shite,
Dear Sir Alex Ferguson,
We have just got the DNA results back – Howard Webb is your son.
Thought as much,
Dear Music Industry,
Please can you let the unappreciated be appreciated since your current shit is beginning to make Timmy Mallet look good.