HORSE TRAILER enigma

Not three words we ever guessed we’d see cojoined in the same headline.

Yup, we’ve a monstrous size puss on today, have had all week, still at least it’s Thursday, which means there’s only one more afternoon of tedium to endure, until the blessed weekend knits up our ravelled sleeve of care and rescues us from our unyielding toils for the Man.

That and post-party Golden Delicious lethargy are probably why we haven’t posted all week, but we guess things could be worse... we could be Marcus Bent. Well we presume it’s the Brum City striker who emailed us at work, no less, to deliver the following:

HELLO DEAR MR/MISS,
AM MARCUS BENT , I WILL LIKE TO KNOW IF YOU CARRY HORSE TRAILER FOR SELL ,IF SO I WILL LIKE TO EMAIL ME BACK WITH THE TYPES YOU HAVE AND THE PRICES I WILL BE GLAD TO DO BUSINESS WITH YOU .. I END HERE HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU VERY SOON, BEST REGARDS,
MARCUS BENT.

Damn and we sold our last one over the weekend. And why is he so specifically interested in HORSE TRAILERS? Is it anything to do with brother Darren’s recent England call up? Frankly, it’s way beyond us and we leave it to you and the sanctity of the comments section to provide the answer.

Second string

Ah the restorative power of spurt. There we were yesterday, with a black cloud hanging around us which seemed sent from the dark lord himself (Sepp Blatter) when the biggest shock of the day suddenly left us with a smile a mile wide.

Nope we’re not talking about John Sergeant’s surprise withdrawal from Strictly, but England’s magnificent 2-1 victory over the Bosch, as we bearded them in their own back yard and which left us with a warmer glow than the sheep around Selafield.

We’ve always had more hunches than Quasimodo, but we called it exactly right (see Round-up, wind-down below) when we said we fancied our second stringers’ chances.

It wasn’t just winning it was the manner of the victory, where we thoroughly outplayed the Germans in every area, showing resilience, flair and endeavour, three words rarely seen in the same sentence as 'England'.

Good to see it was treated properly too without the usual rash of pointless substitutions which alter the shape and coherence of any team. Downing finally looked vaguely convincing as a genuine left winger, Carrick was immense, SWP had a stormer and hell, even Glen Johnson had a good game.

Of course it wouldn’t be Enger-land if the comedy button hadn’t been pressed at some stage, and while John ‘JT’ Terry manfully took the blame on his broad shoulders, the hapless Scott Carson must take at least part of the blame. A nice clear ‘get rid’ would have simplified matters.

Still, ‘mustn’t grumble’ as the old saw goes. This performance proved we have strength in depth and that Senor Fabio can even marshal a mix of disgruntleds and bench warmers into delivering a coherent performance.

Senor Fabio li salutiamo il tuo genio!

Round-up, wind down

It’s a portfolio edition today with tales carefully sliced from around the spurting firmament as we do another one of our lazy round-ups, finding no single issue worthy of our undivided attention.

First to cricket, where following one shellacking and one marginally less embarrassing spanking from India, the colossal intellects in charge of the England one-day side have decided to call up Graeme Swann and are considering issuing a hectic ‘get here sharpish’ to Monty Panesar following the shock revelation that spinners might come in a bit handy on the subcontinent wickets.

Really? You think? By Jove I think they may finally have cracked it.

And now to football and with England due to take on the Hun in a ‘friendly’ tonight, we’re actually fancying the second XI’s chances after the relatively shock revelation that our national side haven’t lost anything in Berlin (four wins, three draws) since 1945 when Bomber Command’s counted them all out, but didn’t quite count them all back in again.

BTW in a ‘let’s mock those wacky continentals moment’ watch out tonight if Bayern Leverkusen’s Patrick Helmes scores, apparently he’ll be casting teary eyes to the skies to dedicate any goals scored to his recently deceased Labrador, Emmy. Bless. (Thanks to The Spoiler for the spot).

Finally homo-erotic glamour pin up sulky Galactico wannabe Cristiano Ronaldo has apparently humbly opined he’s not only the greatest player in the world, but the ‘first, second and third greatest player’.

Another triumph for tact and diplomacy from the boy blunder; rumours that his ego is now grown so swollen and huge it’s negotiating its own separate endorsements and transfer deals are believed to be pretty much right on the mark.

We do not forgive or forget...

Of all our distasteful, disgraceful and possibly downright illegal habits, a long standing though now regretfully lapsed addiction to Star Trek is probably just about amongst the most publishable.

We only mention this in passing by way of a sprawling intro because a splendid Klingon phrase sprang unbidden into our minds this morning when we read of Terry Butcher’s long standing grudge against former Argentinean 'great' Diego Maradona.

‘We do not forgive ...or forget’ (This should be uttered in a sinister sibilant hiss as if you intend to visit unspecified but extremely unpleasant future violence upon your subject).

To set the scene: Butcher’s now assistant manager for the Sweaties and Maradona is of course the new coach of Argentina, but Blood ‘n Thunder Butcher will apparently refuse to shake Diego’s hand following tomorrow night’s friendly at Hampden.

Quite right too. Butcher’s is a rare voice of reason amongst all the sycophantic ex-pros currently queuing up to hail the ‘world’s greatest playerTM’, who is in fact the 'world’s greatest fucking cheatTM'

As you can guess we still haven’t forgiven or forgotten ‘Dirty’ Diego either for his Hand of God cuntishness which cheated Argentina through the quarter-finals all those years ago.

He may have been a brilliant player, but no one deserves the label ‘All Time Great’ if they’re such a cheating twat. Besides who’s such a tight arse that they give a kid their hat and gloves as a reward when he finds one of their player’s missing gold pendants?

Rubbish.

It is or at least it should be every spurter’s acknowledged right to hold a life long and unreasoning grudge against whomsoever they choose and we’re coming out firmly in support of Butcher as we continue to tenderly nurse our own long standing grievance against the world’s greatest footballing cheat even - after all these years.

Club versus Country

It’s back to work on Monday where we return suffering from the last vestiges of a lingering hangover from our adventures in the land of Po and a proper Polish wedding where we drank for England into the wee small hours

But while we’ve been holding up our end, what of our great national hopes? Well it’s business as usual we’re afraid, England spanked in both forms of Rugby, thrashed twice in the cricket and Andy Murray’s semi-final defeat meaning it hasn’t been a good few days for the Great Britishers.

And we also walk straight back into the eternal club v country debate as the Scouser’s Stevie G is forced to report for England duty despite apparently crocking his hooves during the weekend’s fixtures.

Now the past has seen clubs and the wilier managers declare all sorts of spurious injuries to let their key men duck out: bloaty head, freaky stomach and hurty knees being among the more credible of the past sick notes.

But this time Senor Fabio has decided to flex his muscles and make the Liverpool skipper turn up for assessment by the England sawbones to make sure he (or more accurately Rafa) is not pulling a sicky.

You’ve got to feel a little sorry for the clubs with the congested fixture schedule, but if we’re going to challenge for an international trophy again. Senor Fab must have his way even if it’s in a meaningless* friendly.

(*no friendly against Germany is ever meaningless);

Feathered friends

They say never work with children or animals – a sentiment we’d heartily endorse after that incident with the toddler, the chainsaw and that spare bag of ferrets.

Still, it’s news from the stranger side of spurt today, with a number of incidents provoked or inspired by our furry or feathered friends.

First up Man United’s relatively poor start to the season has finally been explained and nope it’s not the global hair gel shortage which has affected Ronaldo, nor indeed the loss of Rooney’s locks which have resulted in a Samson-like reduction of the spud faced nipper’s pace and power.

Nope according to the super soaraway Sun (fascist rag) it’s all down to Man Utd’s training ground sessions being disrupted by dive bombing geese flying in from a nearby nature reserve.

Perhaps they were after that mouse Anderson concealed in Garry Neville’s shirt? Surely the most tenuous (for which read piss poor) story of the week from the Mirror.

Elsewhere Roy Keane’s dog has made the news as the Sunderland boss admitted "There are ex-players and ex-referees being given air-time who I wouldn't listen to in a pub... I wouldn't trust them to walk my dog."

From ‘mad dog’ Keano that’s quite a thing to say, but rumours that the mutt is being lined up to dunk his paws into the Newcastle poison chalice are believed to be wide of the mark.

Ashes to Ashes: The Countdown begins

That’s it, we can’t put it off any longer, consider our stopwatch officially checked, wound and the button on top depressed as the official World of Spurt countdown to next year’s Ashes finally and totally begins.

This is it people, there’s no turning back now, prepare yourself for a winter of Aussie-baiting and a summer of Aussie-thrashing as next summer’s Cric-pocalypse, the mother of all series hoves into view.

We promise to license that poodle rock theme tune by Europe, produce our own merchandise and well pretty much everything you’d expect, to give our coverage the edge over the likes of Sky etc.

Hm, too much? Yet we needed something to cheer us up on this bleak Monday afternoon with the rain coming down outside like so many gallons of piss, and there it was... the Aussie’s losing 2-0 to India.

While It’s way too early to call for the moment, we remain as optimistic as a polygamist who thinks ‘third time lucky’, urged on by the biggest and most important factor of all: no Warne and McGrath.

Our spurting second hand can’t tick around quick enough.

Fond farewells...

It’s Tuesday hooray! And Lewis’s victory still washes over us with a warm gentle glow of satisfaction despite the numerous Ferrari conspiracy theories currently spreading around the net like a dirty water swirling around the plughole.

Massa drove brilliantly and deserves credit for his dignity and magnanimity in defeat but Ferrari have had more than their fair crack o' the whip this season.

There’s just one thing left to say and that’s a resounding and wholehearted ‘thank fock for Glock... ‘

Elsewhere we’re saving our bile for a full and extended rant on Stanford’s sordid fest but well done the Windies boys (masquerading as the Superstars) and poor form from England to patronisingly say ‘they need it more than us’.

But Tuesday is reserved for a sad farewell to Aidy Boothroyd now ex-Watford manager, who parted company with the mighty Hornets yesterday. Watford are in a downward trot, 15 points from 15 games, parachute payments running out and any decent player sold the moment he looks like he’s worth a bob.

Even bent Elt has skipped down from the yellow brick road to say he’s concerned, but it’s difficult to know what our hometown club are thinking. Yup, we’re in a parlous state, but not even ‘arry Houdini could work his magic on the current Horns and Boothroyd is one of the best young managers in the country. Not long ago he was guiding us to the Premiership and the FA cup semis but at this stage can anyone seriously do any better?

Let’s hope this is one decision they don’t have cause to regret.

At the death

Holy shit that was close, closer than a close shave from Charles I’s headsman, but finally, triumphantly, Lewis Hamilton nipped his rain spattered McLaren past Timo Glock on the very last corner at Interlagos to pickpocket fifth place and become the youngest ever Formula One world champion.

This was not a day for faint hearts and it began with a heavy shower on the grid which had virtually the entire field (sans Kubica) scrabbling for intermediates and had the watching audience (ie us) muttering darkly about strange portents and bad omens.

A nerve jangling start eventually saw Hamilton settle comfortably into fourth and throughout the race he kept it there or thereabouts while Massa sped off at the front like a man possessed. All seemed to be running to script, but a Grand Prix is an unpredictable as a woman’s mood and the twist in the tail this time was the rain – normally Hamilton’s natural ally – which started to come down as the race reached its denouement.

The fat lady was just about warming up her pipes, when it was all back into the pits for a last set of intermediates as the few laps ticked down like the second hand at an execution. Pushed to within an inch by the impressive Vettel, Hamilton was forced to concede and dropped to sixth place and it looked it had all slipped away from him again.

Yet if there’s one thing sport in general and racing in particular teaches you, it’s to keep going to the end and as we sat there despairing, McLaren were more sanguine having spotted Glock’s dry-shod Toyota sliding around like a newborn lamb on a skating rink. They cut it fine, finer than a treble zero grade sandpaper, but on the last corner Lewis nipped past Glock and through to deserved Championship glory.

Ferrari’s garage erupted in premature triumph and then desolation as realisation dawned; Massa was a mass of tears underneath the helmet, but Lewis and Britain’s joy was unconfined at this narrowest of victories. Over the course of a long and rollercoaster-like season he deserved it.

It should be the first of many.