BREAKING WIND

JUVENTUS 1 REAL MADRID 4

Watching Ronaldo celebrate (himself, mostly) is like being forced to say that the nibbly bit of crap you've just eaten is a tasty and wholesome treat, because everybody says it is, when everybody knows that in the real world you wouldn't feed it to your cat, because it would make your cat sick, in that spectacularly noisy and pretentious way that cats are sick. And watching Ramos still cheating when the match is already won is like listening to a complete effing moron make comments like "You've got to admire his mastery of the Dark Arts" or some such tosh, when everybody knows he has always been a member of the Proud to be a Cheating Tosser's club and deserves nothing more than to be incorporated in the cat sick provided by the previous discussion.
The moral of this story is that just because somebody has talent doesn't mean that you're not allowed to dislike them. Intensely.

UDDERSFEEL WIN ON GERMANS

Uddersfeld (get it?) reached the Sky Premier League by beating Reading Ladies on penalties. We can't recall the exact margin of victory because by that time we had almost certainly died of Tedium Finalis, a condition brought on by listening to two hours of something being tortured on a football pitch. It was a genuinely horrible match, a display sucked dry of ambition by the twin evils of fear and greed, described by the twin irritants of Claridge and Maclaren, and commentated upon by some Irish bloke who referred to one player as Kermigaunt and regularly exploded with synthetic excitement when somebody kicked the ball in the right direction. Uddersfeld now have £170 million pounds to spend on the NHS, and Reading Ladies are skint. Fair enough.

FAC FINAL: ARSE 2 CHELSEA 1

That was just brilliant. After the sterile pap in Stockholm the other day, this match was a wonderful affirmation of how gut-bustingly thrilling a football match can be. The best bit was the quality of the football itself - top class players seeing and finding passes that would be impossible for mere mortals. No, the best bit was the intensity of Arse's pressing and their energetic resilience at the back. No, the best bit was Mertesacker, who should have been given the MoM award, or Sanchez, who was. No, the best bit was the ref, who was brave enough and good enough to enhance the game rather than cripple it, or the joy delivered by a competition written off by cynics. God knows what the best bit was. Perhaps that was the best bit of all.

THE LOINS ARE BACK

The Championship welcomes back Mewo, that plucky little community club whose fans did so much to console their opposite numbers at the end of the play-off final. Such generosity of spirit is rare in football these days.

LEICESTER 1 SPURS 6

Finally, confirmation that Leicester's achievements under Ranieri and Shakespeare were nothing more than a drunken dream. Their rat and cudgel style of football has, hopefully, had its day.

FOREST OVERTAKEN

Nottingham Forest have been overtaken by chic gripping typhoon and owner of Olympiakos, Evangelos Marinakis, a man who is bigger than everybody we know put together. Marinakis and another bloke have acted quickly to appoint a lot of genuinely grown up people to positions of responsibility sadly neglected by previous owner Fawaz al Hasawi, whose departure was accompanied by a fusillade of cheap shots from twatters and journalists, like kids throwing bags of poop at a tramp. They still do that, don't they?

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

POSITION TEAM PLAYED G. DIFF. POINTS
20 BURTON UP 46 -14 52
21 NOTTINGHAM FOREST 46 -10 51
22 BLACKBUm 46 -12 51
23 WIGGUM 46 -17 42
24 ROTHERINGHAM 46 -58 23


OTHER STUFF

This little bruiser is grandson Joseph George, now 18 months old. He lives in Manchester, his mum's family supports ManUre, but, as you can see, his dad's winning the battle.









Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.