BREAKING WIND

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.