Champions League Final. Manchester United vs Chelsea. Live Blogging at Its Worst.

I’m watching this game and trying to figure out what the fuck it’s all about.  One gang of fannydancers are trying to get the ball past the other crowd of fucking fannydancers, and every so often one of them falls down pretending to be injured.

They each have a goal, so it’s one-all.  1-1.  A goal apiece.  Equal.  Level.

There’s a couple of really horrible bastards like Rooney, Ferdinand and Drogba, and then there’s a gang of slightly less objectionable fuckers like Lampard, Terry, Giggs and Tevez.  Then there’s that slimy winking motherfucker, Ronaldo.  Didn’t he get the mutant Rooney sent off in the World Cup?  I can’t understand why the mutant Rooney doesn’t bite his arm off the way mutants do in the movies.

Right now, the ninety minutes are finished and they’re about to start extra time, but I really don’t know what to think about it.

Wait.  They’re running around again, and Chelsea have hit the post again, like that ugly fucker Drogba did in the second half, though he’s not nearly as ugly as that manager fucker, Bernard Shrek.  No.  Sorry, not Bernard Shrek.  I got them mixed up.  Bernard Shrek is an ugly fat fucker who runs a pub in Limerick, and though he’s the spitting image of Avram Grant, he has nothing to do with running Chelsea, which is probably a very good thing for Chelsea, as they wouldn’t want everything they drink watered down in a stinking back room when nobody is looking.  And they wouldn’t want to be mismanaged while walking around in the dark in a filthy old pub all the time with piss on the floor.  So no.  Bernard Shrek doesn’t manage Chelsea.

Sorry.  I got distracted with all the boredom attending this ridiculous game called soccer. It’s just that ten minutes passed with nothing at all happening and I drifted into a feeling of vengeful bile, but I’ve fought it off now, and I’m watching the match again over my shoulder, wishing I could be a Russian policeman so that I could run onto the field with my Kalashnikov and mow down a dozen of these overpaid, miserable, narcissistic fuckers.

Oh wait!  Something nearly happened!

No.  Sorry.  I was wrong.  Now we’re at the end of the first half of extra time.  Should I go and put on the kettle?  Fill the teapot with magic mushrooms.  Swallow a fistful of speed.  Put matchsticks between my eyelids.

Ah fuck, they’re off again, these fannydancers, running around without doing anything, while half of England shouts into the Muscovite sky.  God!  Spare me!  Somebody score a goal, ye miserable fuckers.  Score a fucking goal, for fucksake!  Do something!

Wait.  What’s this?  A lone Russian policeman running onto the pitch machine-gunning all the players and waving to the TV cameras.  Excellent.  Oh wait.  No, it’s only a paper bag.

More time passes while fuck-all happens, but that’s soccer for you. I’ll get back to you if anything changes.

Drogba misses a free and waves in a petulant, highly-paid manner.  Don’t you love these English commentators?  Car-valley-oh.

Now there’s loads of people falling around in front of the Chelsea goal and some of them are getting cramp and pains in their arses, and I’m getting a severe pain in the fucking neck.  How the fuck could you follow this fucking game?  Oh wait!  there’s a fight.  Excellent.  At least something is happening.  I hope one of them pulls out a gun and there’s a big gunfight .

Oh look! Drogba sent off!  He’s like a pig over it.  He isn’t happy.  I wouldn’t like to be his wife when he gets home.  Now who’s going to take the penalties?

Pathetic fallacy takes over.  It’s started to rain, but unfortunately it’s only water, not blood or frogs.

Now, it’s nearly time up and it won’t be long before these guys start banging penalties at each other, but look!  More people falling down due to being fucking pussies.  I’d love to see how long these fuckers would survive in Cardiff next Saturday.

Look.  The fuckers in red nearly scored but it was a pathetic attempt.  Now they’re all bringing on substitutes but I suppose it’s just for the penalty shoot-out.

Yep.  That’s it.  The game goes to penalties.  What a load of shite.

The waiting.  The waiting.

Crowds of drunken British soccer supporters chant away in the stadium while the Spetsnaz fondle their machine pistols.

Here comes the penalty shoot-out.


Tevez scores. Bang!

Ballack steps up for Chelsea.  Slots it.  Calmly.

Carrick for United sends the keeper the wrong way.  Goal.

Belletti scores for Chelsea.

Ronaldo steps up.  Kisses the ball.  Stops.  Does another little fanny-dance.  Fuckin misses!!  Saved!!!!  No goal.  Peter Cech saves!!!

Lampard.  bang!  It’s in.

Hargreaves.  To the left.  Goal!

Ashley Cole.  Scores.

Nani scores

John Terry.  Oh my God!!!  Wide.  He missed the entire fucking goal.  Oh for fucksake.

Now it’s sudden death.

Anderson for United.  Buried!  Goal!

Kalou for Chelsea, calmly slotted.

Giggs for United.  Oldest player on the field.  Professional finish.  Buried.

Anelka steps up for Chelsea.  Edwin Van der Saar saves.  And it’s over.

The end.

United win the Champions League.


Great penalty shoot-out.  Ridiculous game.  Much like the Eurovision Song Contest.

19 thoughts on “Champions League Final. Manchester United vs Chelsea. Live Blogging at Its Worst.

  1. ‘He missed the entire fucking goal!’


    But as to the rest of your commentary, I doubt that a pack of steroid enhanced oafs charging into each other over and over and over again is going to be any more entertaining for the neutral observer.

  2. True enough, as far as it goes.

    Blogging etiquette, and the reality of a shared pint, obliges me to offer you a choice.

    Are you willing to accept the offer of a gratuitous “fuck off” or not?

  3. I demand nothing less, sir.

    And for the record, I do hope that your bunch of knuckleheads mindlessly barges into the other bunch of knuckleheads to the point of ‘victory’.

  4. Very popular in our house.
    And Christiano played well this evening, she did. Look, it’s sorta like that quantum leap Davie Trimble spoke about above so just go with the romace thing and forget about it being about a bunch of mercinary dillitante cynics.


    Munster abu too

    Gimme, you gotta do for the kids.

  5. Good man, Sniffle. Were you out watching it in the pub, or at home? But more importantly,are you going to Wales?

  6. “Oh wait! Something nearly happened!”
    Yukyukyuk! Snortle, chort, guffaw, hahahahahaha!
    That line kinda sums up exactly what I think of soccer. Overpaid grown men running around in shorts and kicking a ball. Yawn!
    Give me real sport like Baseball(Philadelphia Phillies), Rugby(Ireland) or Football(Philadelphia Eagles)

  7. Baseball and (american) football… Fuck. Up there with Rugby league, curling, hurling, dressage, breast stroke (in swimming) snipe shooting and Gaelic football.

    Small games played in backwaters of the world by local lads striving for a small bit of fame. It may only come locally but if it gets a free drink in the bar it’s on.


    It accepted that you may watch these games – in the privacy of your own house please, remember the children – but never, repeat never, let on that you know anything about them or have any regard for them except total contempt.

    Soccer, at its worst is still better than all the above. Beats even rugby union but there’s no real competition there, is there. Trying to compare a game of chess with the actions of JCB’s. No finesse. No room for individuals. My team is heavier than your team so game over.

    Enjoy the weekend, I look forward to the report.

  8. Fair play to ya, Bock – you sat through the whole thing.

    I got hauled to the pub once to watch Ireland play Holland in the world cup and only survived to half-time. I took my pint and newspaper around to the bookies’ next door and he and I read it cover to cover to pass the time.

  9. snookertony, Are you busting on Baseball? Shame on you. I figure that watching a (so called) game wherein when one guy passes the ball to another is exciting and a reason to shout and yell is in fact fun and exciting. By the way, I’ve been to Old Trafford so I’m not so ignorant as you may think.
    I like how I use to put it to a former boss of mine.
    soccer is a game and Baseball is a sport!

  10. Eolaí: I switched over when the Irish commentator said “my word!”

    Brian and Tony: I’ll just leave you to slug it out. Except to ask Tony about the JCBs. Did you have in mind giants like Stringer, Dowling and Howlett, as opposed to gentle souls like Drogba and Hargreaves?

    Primal: I do these things so you don’t have to.

  11. Hey Bock can’t make the Cardiff affair. One of the lads got a place on the Cookie bus and he’s getting bitterer (you know) by the day. Is there really a boat leaving Kinsale? That’s mad! There’s a strange calm about, which can only be a prelude to the storm. Safe journey now and shove it into them …………….

  12. Caesar’s death was foretold by a shower of shin-pads in the sky.

    No. Wait. It was a shower of metaphors.

  13. I was barred from watching the matches last year when United was suffering a run of poor form. Limerick Gal kicked me out of the pub, and demanded that I no longer watch matches, and I ended up giving her my kits.

    And now they win.


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