This week, we consider our sturdy centre-half Mr. Masterson’s sense of geography and his special moves, Troy Deeney’s Tiny Weenie, Soccer Tits Magical Soccer T*t, and Tottenham’s ongoing attempts to copy Arsenal.
First, let us ruminate on the subject of Mr. Masterson’s positional awareness. The facts are: We won 2-0, a victory so emasculating for Watford that Troy Deeney’s Tiny Weenie shrank into his nether regions, becoming something akin to a baby’s chin dimple. His own shrivelled cojones tragically now resemble two small fleshy ball-bearings wrapped in latex, two poor little hirsute pendants a monument to his own premature celebration from last season. This much we know. Mr. Masterson, delighted as he was with a victory that was won despite his performance, took to the twitter to announce his rapture thusly:
Clean Sheet, 2 goals, 3 points! Tough game but in the end a deserved London derby win.
Quite why he is celebrating a clean sheet is beyond me, considering how often he (ladies, please avert thine eyes) shits the bed. Thanks, old boy, you didn’t profusely soil the sheet. We thank you kindly. Yet that is not the most disagreeable aspect of this particular epistle.
For overseas readers, and indeed those not from the south east, Watford is not in London. Watford is in Hertfordshire, 15 miles outside central London, separated from Greater London by the parish of Watford Rural in the Three Rivers District. Gadzooks, Sir, I hear you cry; cut the blighter some geographical slack! It is an easy mistake to make, considering that Tottenham only became a London club in 1961! Yes, very well, but I wonder whether it speaks to a deeper neurological problem? Forgive me if I am getting too technical here in the scientific and academic language of medicine, but: Has his brain gone wonky?
Cast your mind’s eye, if you can, across his last two dozen or so performances. Yes, I know this causes severe pain, but bear with me. He is often unaware that attackers can often be found in attacking positions. I would hypothesise that this is because his brain has gone wonky. His range of passing these days seems limited to no pressure passes of four to twelve yards. Any further than this and the ball will end up in touch or at the feet of the opponent.
Again, my theory is that he has no sense of spatial awareness. Is he perhaps monocular and not told anyone? Should he be wearing an eyepatch? Perhaps two? That might improve things. He is often found in sub-optimal positions on the pitch. Brain wonkiness. His pace? This is not a symptom of limited physical aptitude, it is that a football pitch feels like the deck of a fishing boat in a rolling sea to him. Brain wonkiness.
I have even devised a new-fangled statistical measure to help me further my understanding of this most perplexing and frustrating of defenders: XF. The number of Expected Foul Ups in a match. Currently this is running at 12.4. The fellow must be told that his time is up, as Soccer Tits cannot keep helping him out. Perhaps a move to London’s Watford?
Talking of Soccer Tits, it was most pleasing to see him bag one against Carrier Bag last evening, and especially poetic as he scored it with the very move from which is nickname comes.
And lastly, we note with amusement that Spurs attempts to copy The Arsenal continue. Not content with copying our stadium design, adding only a little touch de toilette, they seem to be imitating post-Highbury Arsenal: Punching above their weight in the league, non-existent recruitment policy, young team put together at bargain prices, and given a footballing lesson by Barcelona.
It is exciting to watch, and when the house of cards comes tumbling down, I shall be there, laughing long and hard. It is also worth pointing out that we beat the strongest Barca side for some years with a side featuring non other than Arsenal legend Emmanuel Eboue. Form is temporary, as they say.
Tinkety tonk old fruit and down with the Nazis.