Mixing it up

Just like Canned Heat, we're back on the road again today and down in Sunny Bath, sampling both the ancient delights and the local pasties, which are often one and the same thing down in these parts.

We begin with F1 and with pre-season now in full swing, mad bad news from the world of Bernie with the revelation that this year's drivers' championship will be decided by the number of wins, rather than the number of points scored. Nice in theory, shit in practice and you can't help thinking it's designed specifically for the edification of Ferrari once more, because they didn't win last year. Aw diddums. Surely F1 driving is about consistency over a season and points are the best way to decide this? We could've accepted 12 points for a win, but this way it could be all over by the British GP....

Football now and Phlegm and the world of phlegm men, did that nice young Spanish lad Cesc really flop a lugey at Hull's assistant manager Brian Horton. Predictably Le Professor saw nothing, but who does Fabregas think he is: El-Hadj Diouf?

And finally... could everyone just leave West Ham alone please? Up to 20 Sheffield United players, plus ex-manager Neil Warnock are suing the Hammers over the Carlos Tevez affair.

We say: back off and get in line - we were there first. Our writs courtesy of Messrs. Sue, Nabbit and Fukov are already in. Not sure what we'll do them for yet, but by the time it gets to court we'll have thought of a damn good reason don't you worry.

Is it Wayne you’re looking for?

Yeah we know, we know, we know, updates recently have been as irregular as Jade Goody’s heartbeat, it’s this new work shit, keeps us far too busy - we can’t recommend it you know.

Still, we couldn’t pass up a chance to update this particular lunchtime after a particularly compelling insight into life chez Rooney, with the spud faced nipper apparently currently spending most of his spare time serenading wife Coleen with a barrage of Lionel Richie songs.

We are occasionally forced to endure (through the comforting medium of an especially large G&T) Coleen’s Real Women by Mrs Spurt and we’ve always wondered about that title. Who are the ‘fake women’ that this show is meant to be the antidote to? Don’t they have the requisite real parts or something?

Ahem anyway here’s some suggestions for more Richie Karaoke classic’s for the Spudster as he guides Coleen's hands around a large King Edward lovingly peeled to resemble his noggin.

Hello (is it goals you’re looking for?)

All Night Long (OAPs only)

Dancing on Defender’s ankles bones

Say you, Say Me, (say ‘I hate Liverpool FC’)


Oh 200th post btw, get us!

Turning the other cheek

He’s just the manager who keeps on giving, offering more value per pound that Sainsbury’s Basics range (cheques in the post please).

Still, no magic tunnels for Jose Felix Mourinho last night (other than the one he dug for himself) following a footballing lesson from Manchester United which sent the Serie A leaders tumbling headlong – like Satan from heaven to go all Miltonian for a second – out of the Champions League.

So how did Jose react to one of his rare defeats against Sir Alex? Was it a rueful acknowledgement over a vintage bottle of red? Did he stare moodily for hours into the middle distance until he saw something he liked (ie. himself).

Nope instead he (allegedly) lamped a United fan who had the effrontery to shout ‘Going home, going home, going home!’ (which curiously is precisely what he was doing).

What wit, what repartee, truly the reaction of a renaissance man.

The Quintuple

So the quintuple’s on and by that we don’t mean our usual Monday morning vodka, JD, Drambuie, crème de menthe and advocat chaser, but of course Man United’s potential five trophy clean sweep following yesterday’s League Cup win.

‘Nuff props to Ben Foster for the penalty saves, but Hornets fans have long known all about the excellent young gloveman for ages and we reckon Senor Fabio could do a lot worse than chuck him into the starting line-up right now.

Yet amid the Red Devils triumph emerges a story that is just plainly wrong on so many levels, namely They Call Him Rio and fiancée Rebecca Ellison’s plan to have a barn owl swoop down the aisle and deliver their rings when they get married next August.

Now having read that back we had to pinch ourselves, a) to make sure we’re not still drunk and b) just because seriously WTF?!

It raises so may questions: Where do you get such highly trained Strigiformes outside of a JK Rowling novel in the first place and surely, if such creatures do exist, wouldn’t they be better employed battling Al Quaida rather than adorning the ‘natural successor to Bobby Moore’s’ impending nuptials.

The mind truly, truly, truly boggles.

Tomorrow: John Terry, my best man the velociraptor.

Crack of the Whip...

Spare a thought to today for Big Phil Scolari and 'Little' Tony Adams, twin casualties of the managerial credit crunch, both released into the bleak midwinter and probably down to their last million.

Okay perhaps your sympathies aren't wholly engaged by the travails of wealthy men in the current financial clime, when you're forced to survive by throwing your last orphan on the fire. But, unlike Max Mosely it's difficult to believe either man has had a fair crack of the whip.

Adams certainly cuts a sympathetic figure: having to step into 'arry's shoes mid season was a tough act to follow at the best of times, but to have financial uncertainty your constant companion and two of your best players decamp to Spurs and Real Madrid can't have helped either.

Scolari on the other hand: well this was the big boss we looked to, to challenge Sir Alex's death grip on the silverware and yet now he's gone in just over half a season? Madness. His reign promised so much, but delivered very little. Dressing room dissent, a failure to capture key signings like Robinho to revive the Blues aging squad and Abramovich looking like he couldn't give less of a toss all means we've been denied a chance to see Big Phil make his mark.

If the Premiership can eat up and spit out a manager of the Scolari's calibre, what hope is there for anyone else?

Investigative Journalism

With the transfer window wide open, everyone’s looking for a bargain, a hitherto undiscovered footy genius to rescue the second half of their season and turn a fierce relegation battle into a surge for a European place.

Now not everyone’s got 130m Euro to spunk like Man City, but with agents’ phones glowing red hot, extensive scouting networks scouring the globe, YouTube signings and the eyes of the footy world on even 12 year old park players, it’s not so easy to track down a real bargain.

Certainly not for the Times hack who managed to name Masal Bugduv of Moldavia in his list of undiscovered footy superstars. Bugduv was down at number 30 but had been ‘linked to a move with Arsenal and plenty of other clubs’, so might have been worth a punt?

Just one problem? Bugduv really is undiscovered, as he doesn’t actually exist. Shit, we used to work on that site. Standards really must be slipping.

Anyway it got us thinking, if it’s good enough for The Times, it’s good enough for us, so here’s the Spurt’s guide to the top five hottest (and entirely fictional) undiscovered prospects on the footy scene today.

Enrinque Madeup
Paunchy Eritrean shot stopping keeper, who’s vast consumption of porridge beer has swollen him to such a size that he virtually fills the entire goal. Not so much the Cat, as the fat. Bargain at 6m.

Julio Explodio
Temperamental fleet footed Catalan winger who’s mazy dribbles and ability to hug the touchline are offset by his liability to self-combust at half time. Offers in the region of 2 million - comes with a free fire extinguisher.

Klaus Von Nephilim
Gloomy uncompromising German centre half, currently for turning out for Shalker 45. Highly unskilled clogger but real strength lies in man marking strikers and putting them off their game by convincing them of the essential existential bleakness of modern life. Will sign for biscuits.

Ricardo Forstrup
Diminutive Danish striker who’s so small he’s barely detectable to the naked eye. When defenders claim to have him in their pocket, quite often he literally is, springing out to score a surprise winner.

Hank Yank
Big hearted and buttocked midfield dynamo from the good ol’ US of A. Yank appears to have everything: silky ball skills, box to box coverage and the appropriate sized engine. Yet Yank hampered by a complete lack of understanding of the rules of the sport he calls, ‘soccer footyball’. Test Harvard Yarvard’s resolve with bids in excess of 150k.

In the Kaka...

It’s Wednesday, a quiet day in the spurting galaxy and with no shocks in last night’s FA cup, precious few in prospect tonight and even Gazza behaving himself for once, we raise our eyes to the heavens and implore the spurting gods ‘FFS give us something to work with here’.

Fortunately salvation comes in the form of the transfer merry-go-round and the quite-simply-staggering prospect of Brazilian genius Kaka moving to Man City for the bargain price of 100m Euro or Quid, with wages of around 500k a week.

We’re as divided as a pair of post-op co-joined twins. As well as having a vaguely amusing name (if you’re American and like scatological references) Kaka’s a bone fide genius and we’d absolutely love to see him play over here.

Yet that’s over double Zidane’s record breaking price and surely some kind of sanity must prevail? If City managed to pull this off we’ll have to invent a new term for nouveau riche. Mucho riche anyone?

Kind of puts the whole Roque Santa Cruz saga into perspective too.

Perhaps sanity will prevail though as Kaka’s agent Diogo Kotscho as well as slipping in a sly dig in at fellow Brazilian, told Corriere dello Sport "He [Kaka] would never do something like Robinho, who, just to earn more, contented himself with a solution that was not a winning one."

We’re also starting our shameless ‘come and get me plea’ award of the day which has to go to Newcastle’s moody Frenchy Charles N’Zogbia who told a French sports daily. “The club want to sell some players, so why not me? Lyon, make a move!"

Classy Charles, very classy.

The Window

It’s Day Two in the tortuous return to working life and despite a bit of competition from the Aussie v SAF series, it’s the transfer window – which has not so much opened as been kicked asunder – which is occupying our thoughts.

Clubs and bosses may openly say they dread it, but players and agents love it, especially the current winter one where allegedly ‘no significant business is done’.

Bollocks.

For fans, the winter window is a boon during the dark days of January when thoughts turn to the loaded revolver in the drawer and the rest of the year stretches out before you like a prison sentence.

This is a time when you positively need those outrageous rumours, public hissy fits and the perennial ‘who’s going to gamble on Michael Owen’ sweepstake.

Okay so far it’s been pretty predictable stuff: with Lassan Diarra off to Real and Jermain freshly confirmed back at Spurs this lunchtime, but the rest of the month promises lots of interest and a fair amount of intrigue.

Carlos Tevez has openly rebelled at Man Utd (inadvisable), Andrei Arshavin threatening to buy out his contract to join Arsenal (huh?) and Man City have been linked to every single existing footballer on Earth (even our agent has been approached, but we’ve turned it down).

So here’s to the window: relish it, celebrate it, savour every column inch and outrageous rumour no matter how improbable. It is the stuff of which dreams (and nightmares) are made.

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.

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.

Normal service...

“You fucking ...fricking ...fracking ...frocking ...freckers."

“You bunch of ...cunts ...cnuts ...scunts ...tuncts."

"Why should I believe you wankers ...wonkers ...winkers?"

You bunch of bastards ...bistards ...bustards."

“I’m not coming here to have the piss ...pass ....puss taken out of me...

And now putting it all together...

“You can Fruck off your fricking fruckers. You’re all a bunch of cnuts. Write what you like you bustards, you’re all a team of winkers anyways. I’ve not come here to have the puss taken out of me you frockers. Now frack off!’”

Splendid, it’s finally finished!

Thanks for your patience and sorry for the prolonged absence, we’ve been hard at work on a real-life swear filter for Joe Kinnear.

Normal spurting service or what passes for it will hopefully resumed tomorrow.

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.

Give us back our sport

Fresh developments today on the whole Setanta highlights debacle which Steve B’s so eloquently dissected below, with Labour MP John Grogan demanding that World Cup Qualifier highlights should join the list of protected sporting events.

A rare sunbeam of sanity in a black void of sporting despair, Grogan’s call is of course welcome, but shows just how far we’ve fallen from the ethos of being able to catch a glimpse of any of our national teams, without having to cough up a small fortune or heading pubwards in return.

England v Andorra marked another watershed moment in the long slow rape of free-to-air sport with no highlights on any terrestrial channel whatsoever. You might consider that a blessing having being spared the full horror, but with the Beeb and ITV refusing to pay through the nose – and Setanta counterclaiming they were too tight, the only people to lose out were the fans.

To put it in context: Even Uncle Rupe’s Sky could be relied on to do the decent thing after they’d shown the game live and it’s not exactly known as being the most generous and altruistic of broadcasting operations.

So we’ve got A-List events like Wimbledon and the FA cup which must be shown live on terrestrial TV and even Second Tier events which are guaranteed highlights, but they’re being eroded as surely as the East Anglia coastline. Remember when cricket use to be A-List? How long before another bunch of chancers get to build their fortune by exerting a strangehold on our passion for sport?

Ultimately all it will do is damage the off-the-air sports themselves, who lest they forget are in direct competition with free-to-air and accessible sports for people’s time and affections. If you can’t see it, you simply won’t support it, something the FA might care to remember next time they discover Wembley tickets and replica shirt sales have gone through the floor.

Setanta Ranter Part 2

Once again we’re proud to welcome guest scribe Steve B who joins the Spurt for another Setanta rant and to weigh up England’s prospects in Croatia

Missed the England-Andorra game: I was tied up. In a Chelsea dungeon. OK, that’s not strictly true and, indeed, had I been in one of those infamous establishments favoured by Max Mosley, in search of the most esoteric dose of masochism available, then I probably would have seen England’s motley assemblage of multimillionaire chavs, dubious mobile phone-practitioners and lapdancer-shaggers strutting their by all accounts passionless and inept stuff. For what could be more masochistic than watching the England football team on Setanta?

A solid half an hour’s trawling around on Sky Plus confirmed what has since become a minor story: that if you object to subscribing to Setanta, as I do (having discovered last year that cancelling a Setanta subscription is harder than escaping from a set of shackles suspended from a dripping ceiling), you won’t even be able to see the highlights of England’s World Cup qualifiers. Or perhaps “highlights”, given that it’s England is the wrong word. With the Setanta deal, the FA have really outdone themselves (they’ve been putting out some choice “Nothing to do with us” quotes which, translated from FA-speak, mean: “We just took the money and ran. That’s what we do.”) Maybe they took the Irish folding stuff after realising they’d managed to unearth an outfit which was even less popular than themselves.

One good thing did emerge from England’s reputedly dire 2-0 victory, and I’m not talking about the amusing Andorran quotes about losing by a mere two goals being a “Moral victory”. Trying to gauge just how bad England were, I trawled the Sunday papers, many of which (especially the ones owned by Murdoch) reported that at one stage of the match, the England fans in Barcelona had chanted: “We hate Setanta”. Let’s hope this becomes a regular chant. Perhaps Capello could help by doing things like banishing the embarrassment known as Stuart Downing from the squad, selecting the man who has been England’s best player for ages – Joe Cole – from the start and generally decreasing the time it takes for England fans to get bored with booing their own players and to think of more imaginative (but no less valid) targets for their entirely understandable frustration and bile.

I will, however, go to a pub and watch Wednesday’s match against Croatia – not to sup hungrily upon whatever pearls of erudition might drop from Steve McManaman’s lips, but just to get a sense of Capello’s approach. Given that he has excluded Peter Crouch – the one available target-man who has a decent goals per game aggregate for England since Alan Shearer – from his squad (I have no problems with the absence of Michael Owen, the new Daren Anderton), I’m expecting England to do an Andorra and park their bus in front of goal. If England escape with a draw, then Fabio will deserve praise. Although even such a mediocre result is about as likely as the FA suddenly announcing that it has finally learned how to find its arse with both hands.


By Steve B

The Downfall of King Kev?

Amidst all the hype and furore surrounding Man City’s acquisition and the various fallout, bitterness, recriminations and hilarity as the transfer window was slammed shut, a rather poignant tale is emerging from the distant northern land of the Toon.

King Kev (Kevin Keegan) is apparently in ‘ongoing talks about his future at the club’, where he’s trapped in the managerial limbo between resigning and being sacked.

Was it really just eight short months ago that the man hailed as the Geordie Messiah took over from doomed Sam Allardyce? Is it really just eight short months for the ‘impossible job’ to have broken him?

Whether it’s a fallout with billionaire owner Mike Ashley, conflict with footballing director Dennis Wise (a man who would apparently start an argument with himself if no-one else was available) or the bitter disappointment of signing no-one major in the transfer window and nearly losing Michael Owen, it looks as if King Kev’s days may be numbered.

Having once shared a shower with the man formerly known as Mighty Mouse (long story but it was communal, post game we might add, nothing kinky), we have to say it will be folly for the Toon to rid themselves of turbulent Kev.

He may have a reputation for tactical naivety on the pitch and even for walking away from difficult situations, but he’s a proponent of attacking football in the dreary modern percentage game, he really does get getting the most out of players and on the training ground there’s simply no finer coach (we’re witnesses to that).

And if King Kev goes now, surely there would be no way back for him after this? In an era where big business dominates the game, Keegan is the direct product of a less cynical and more passionate era and his loss would only ultimately harm the English game.

Big four becomes big five?

Sensayshanul!!!! Sorry to go all down market and tabloid on you, but we’re never afraid to mix it with the red tops and really there’s no other word to sum up what can only be described as the most exciting transfer deadline day in recent history.

We thought it might be all about Berbatov and Robinho and it was, but quite not in the way that we'd imagined. Manchester City stepping out of the shadows to nab Robinho from under Big Phil’s nose and put in an audacious last minute bid to try and spoil Sir Alex’s party. Whoddathoughit?

As statements of intent go it doesn’t get more convincing than that and with the blue half of Manchester now apparently owned by The Abu Dhabi United Group, who have bottomless pockets and an intention to dominate, a new seismic shift in the delicate footballing cosmos has begun.

With money no object, could we see the big four become a big five? Or will either Arsenal or more likely Liverpool have to make way? Frankly, we scoffed when Ronaldhino to Man City was mooted earlier in the season, but now frankly, anything seems possible.

We’ll stir the mischief pot with the unthinkable. Ronaldo to cross the dividing line? You heard it here first.

Let’s hope they keep Mark Hughes on board though. One of the most talented young British managers around, ‘Sparky’ is one element of the MCFC mix the ADUG would be wise to retain.

Unsung heroes: Fuelling the fire

A normally sedate Monday is instead anything but today, with the football transfer window being left ajar for another 24 hours, it’s a full on feeding frenzy as the midnight hour approaches.

Despite Man City being sold to the Abu Dhabi United Group after Thaksin Shinawatra looked set to fail the ‘fit and proper dictator’s test’ it’s all about transfers today with Robinho to Chelsea and Dimitar Berbatov to Man Utd. being the pick of the bunch.

Although there’s been little to no major surprises as we post this lunchtime, the last minute wheeling and dealing has an undeniably compelling car crash quality and we’re sure there’s plenty more to come.

As we scribble, clubs, chairmen, managers agents and players are all jockeying for position in a cross between Russian roulette and playground picks in a desperate attempt to placate, mollify, cajole or titillate their fans into believing their latest last minute signing is the next messiah who’ll not only rescue the club from ignominy but spearhead their ascent to the next level of football’s hierarchy.

All tosh of course, but we ask you to spare a thought for the unsung heroes of transfer deadline day, the massed ranks of taxi drivers, travel agents, hairdressers, swimming pool attendants and ex-colleague’s brother’s cousins who add fuel to the transfer fire by concocting some of the most improbable sightings since the Bigfoot photos and The Sport’s classic 'B17 Found On the Moon'.

Transfer deadline day wouldn’t be half as interesting without these stalwarts who go above and beyond the call of duty and indeed veracity to spread the most improbable and unlikely of tales which are eagerly lapped up by baying fans.

It simply wouldn’t be the same without them.

It’s all a matter of opinion....and your’s stinks...

Want an opinion on the state of the nation? Screw all that market research, voter sampling or high street polling, this week’s new approved method is simply ask a Premiership footballer...

Not content with dominating our TV schedules these fine upstanding athletes are now appointing themselves as opinion formers too on issues as diverse as the weather, Brits enjoying themselves and even taxation.

Earlier in the week there was Nemanja Vidić’s shock revelation that there was ‘erm too much rain in Manchester’ and that we Brits didn’t know how to enjoy ourselves. Seriously has he never been out on the piss in Manchester of a Friday night?

Ahem anyway next comes Arsenal’s Emmanuel Adebayor stunning state of the nation address on the tax issue, saying if he were prime minister, "I would try to keep down the tax. In London I would like to change the congestion charge. And there’d be extra tax breaks for any strikers issuing come-and-get-me pleas to Barcelona or Milan.’

Okay maybe we made that last one up but whatever next? Dean Windass fronting a week in politics? John Terry heading a domestic policy forum or Rio Ferdinand becoming Foreign Office spokesman on the Russian-Georgian issue?

We await, as they say, developments.

Value for Money

After the excitement of the Olympics, there’s not much cooking on the spurting front today* and we cast a desultory eye over the weekend’s footy with scarcely a backward glance.

We’re sure that’s a phrase that’ll resonate with Andriy ‘Sheva’ Shevchenko, England’s most expensive player and the Chelsea striker who never was.

Today Sheva’s slunk back to Italy with his tail between his legs completed a move back to his spiritual home at AC Milan for an 'undisclosed sum' after failing to make much of an impression apart from on Chelsea’s treatment couch (which now has it’s own permanent memorial Sheva arse-print).

Why this formerly most lethal of strikers couldn’t translate his finishing skills to the PremierShip remains a mystery. Injuries played a part no doubt, but he cast a forlorn figure under Jose Mourinho and big Phil wouldn’t even grant him an audience with the bench this season.

At £30m quid and just nine goals from 47 Premier League games that works out at around 333k recurring per goal which is not exactly a good return on Roman’s investment.

Still we remember the glory days or Sergei Rebrov (another failure in England) and Shevchenko banging them in for the Ukraine and Dynamo Kiev and we wish him well at the Milan home for retired warhorses.

*We did have a strange anecdote concerning ex-Indian skipper and ‘Prince of Calcutta’ Sourav Ganguly and the Sound of Music to fall back on, but we’ll save that for a rainy day.