Whale Stopped Play

Like putting a mercy bullet through the skull of a long-treasured though now doubly incontinent family pet, it almost breaks our heart to do it, but even we have to admit (through gritted teeth) that Cristiano Ronaldo fully deserves the Ballon D’Or as he was named European footballer of the year yesterday.

Ronnie chose to celebrate with an unaccustomed slice of humble pie, saying it was the greatest day of his life (what even more than that threesome with those disco sluts?), and the Ronster concluded ‘Those who know me, who live with me, know that this is finally a dream come true for me. ...Winning this trophy .... I dreamed about it as a kid.'

Fair enough, the Ronster deserves his plaudits for last season, less so though Jorge Mendes his agent, who’s apparently seized the day to inform Inter that Ronnie might be up for playing for them under the Special One, Jose Mourninho. Undoubtedly it’s a none-to-subtle ploy, to raise the Ronster’s weekly wage from the paucity of a credit crunching 120k a week to a more recession-busting 150k.

We actually went to Milan once, for an F1 track day and we have to say the city, never mind the changing room didn’t seem big enough to accommodate both of those ginormous, surging egos.

Elsewhere to the hitherto unexplored world of sailing a bit of a departure for your spurt but what the fuck we'll go anywhere in search of a good gag (not that we often find one).

Now to the business and we’ve heard some sporting excuses in our time but few to possibly rival ‘whale stopped play.’

Okay we exaggerate a little for effect but Britain’s Jonny Malbon has just such an excuse in the Vendee Globe after his 60ft Artemis smacked one such unfortunate cetacean as it gambolled innocently through the ocean spume.
“I could clearly see the animal astern in a lot of trouble,’ admitted Malbon.

Not half as much trouble as if Greenpeace get to hear about it Jonny. They've got angry little boats and everything.

Still, probably worth it for 'Whale stopped play'. That is to one to put down for a fireside chat with the granddkids.

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.

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.

Forgiveness

Not much doing on the sporting front today, apparently there’s some golf going on or something and Nick Faldo’s revealed his Open pairings. Sounds painful but two competing motives vie for our affections on the receipt of this news: firstly couldn’t give less of a shit about golf if were a constipated water buffalo which is only slightly offset by our natural urge to beat the Yanks at anything at all costs.

So go Europe for the win, yay! Dominate those links! Sink those putts. Or something.

Ahem anyway the only other item of interest was the return of Cristiano Ronaldo who was apparently met by a rousing standing ovation at Old Trafford when came off the bench in last night’s European tie.

Were we surprised by the lack of outrage from the Man Utd fans? Not much. Despite
Ronny practically lying on his back with legs akimbo for Real all summer, nothing was ever properly consummated and United fans know they need faithless young Ronny on board if they’re going to have any hope of remaining English and European champions this season.

Still it’s not exactly going to be an easy marriage when despite the apparent and very public rapprochement, Ronny’s still willing to commit footy adultery first opportunity he gets.

Da do one Ron....

We were going to talk about the cricket today, celebrating KP’s splendid century and a half, Bell’s equally impressive 100 and perhaps lob in some gently teasing on SAF’s alleged fearsome foursome, perhaps rebranding them as the failsome foursome.

But frankly we couldn’t let this one pass...

We were prepared for the Christiano Ronaldo saga to drag on and on and on, with claim, counter claim, pouty statement, assorted hissy fit and the odd hairdryer interlude, but frankly this one takes the Rich Tea and dunks it into a scalding hot cup of Rosy before ramming it roughly down the cake hole.

Frankly the quotes coming out from the Ronny camp this morning are beyond parody (naturally though we’ll give it a go), as he agreed with Sepp ‘Fat Cat’ Blatter that, yes, he was a virtual modern slave at Manchester United.

Yup we agree Ron, you’re a slave. It’s almost exactly the same as those poor benighted souls who endured the Middle passage.

The resemblance is eerie.

Okay they sported leg irons rather than diamond studs, they weren’t paid the best part of 100,000 a week for nancying around like a show pony and their most difficult decision wasn’t which sports car should I buy today, but rather is there enough room to lay down and die before I arrive in Dixie.

But apart from that virtually the same, yeah.

Crass, petulant, egotistical and self-absorbed to a point that would make even Narcicus a deep shade of crimson on his behalf, yup Ronny has virtually the complete game for Real Madrid.

He may be a brilliant footballer, but that statement proves Ronny scarcely passes muster as a human being....

Take the £70m United, let it end and make Ron do one...

Modesty Forbids

Where we spurt others most surely follow and while modest forbids and all that, it was undoubtedly the Spurt wot done it with Wednesday’s fine upstanding column finally tipping the balance and ensuring Cristiano went public on his fondly held desire to head off to sunny Spain next season.

But enough of our triumphs and onto England’s. Ahem. Following yesterday utter disarray when our middle order made a Saturday night post pub kebab shop queue look orderly and well disciplined, it was down to good ol’ KP to rescue us with a thrilling century which not so much hauled the fat out of the fire, but shoved it to bottom the freezer and supercooled it for three months.

With a fine supporting act from diminutive Tim Ambrose it was the best last hope stand since a combined Welsh XI held off the Zulus at the Rorke’s Drift oval in 1879.

There’s been much talk of not changing a winning team, consistency of selection and backing players even if they’re totally out of form and couldn’t hit a ban door with a sledgehammer and to an extent that is true; to the extent that it’s absolute bollocks.

Not changing a winning team? If the Fred was fit he’d walk straight back in. End of.
Loyalty to players in a bad trot is fine up to a point but just like certain deranged evangelical Christians who went faced with a difficult dilemma ask ‘What would Jesus do?’, the cricketing equivalent is asking ‘what would the Aussies do?

The answer is drop Bell and Collingwood like a shot and bring in Ravi Bopara and poor neglected Owais Shah.

Toodle pip.

Should I stay or should I go?

A world weary sigh escapes our lips today over the ongoing saga of Should I stay or should I go? Cristiano ‘Ronnie’ Ronaldo the world’s most exciting playerTM and his ongoing and very public flirting with Real Madrid, which would quite frankly put the cast of We’re All Nymphos Come Hither and Shag Us Big Boy* to shame.

Despite Sir Alex Ferguson’s direst warnings about Real’s very public courting (pot, kettle anyone?) and even ‘Saint’ David Beckham warnings, Ronny’s apparently now finally made up his little mind (no changing, no turning back, finally, definitely, promise) to head Bernabeu-wards for £75m in fees, a 150k a week after tax (wtf?), hotter pussy senoritas and a warmer climate.

The waters have most definitely been muddied by Ronnie’s curiously bi-lingual approach to the problem, ask him in Spanish and he’s all ‘Si senor, I will be there mañana,’ ask him in English and it’s ‘nay lad I’m staying as I’m addicted to black pudding, fat lasses and European cups’.

So like that famous conundrum when confronted by a hot tub full of willing nubiles, which way should he ultimately swing?

Well we simply report, it’s you, the readers who ultimately decide.

*This is not an actual real porno, but given that title we made up perhaps it should be?