Crab Football

BREAKING NEWS: JOE COLE ABLE TO FEED SELF

The Crab — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 12:48:55 +0000

Joe 'Einstein' Cole

Football fans the world-over have been forced to re-appraise the degree of Joe Cole’s mental retardation. In an otherwise unremarkable press conference, Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish accidentally caused a minor sensation whilst praising the cretinous midfielder:“Joe’s got the ability to open up a can of beans. He’s a talented footballer and we’ve got to make sure he is right and ready. He’s done nothing but good over the last few weeks.”

The insinuation that Cole is capable enough to breach a sealed package was understandably met by howls of mocking laughter from the assembled press until it became uncomfortably apparent the Merseyside legend was not deliberately being funny.

Dalglish’s backing appeared to have a positive effect, as Cole put in a solid shift during Liverpool’s 1-0 win against SC Braga. More importantly, the revelation that Cole has the potential to feed himself unsupervised has increased his market value exponentially.

A club insider revealed:

“Look, Joe’s a lovely lad but the rumours that his wife is registered as his permanent carer has definitely raised questions as to his value and reliability…what if she leaves him? Who’s going to ensure he’s washed and has the required nourishment to play a full 90 minutes? This may not affect his ability to assume the captaincy of the national team, but at club level….he’s going to struggle.”

Once vaunted as the most naturally gifted English footballer since Paul Gascoigne, Cole is tragically ill-equipped to appreciate the irony of this comparison, let alone the concept of irony, or language.

However, Dalglish’s continued support can prove only to lift Cole’s reputation from the stagnant depths of idiocy upon which it currently foams. Certainly, this website has now learned not to judge a footballer by his constant look of open-mouthed wonder and vacant stare.

Tottenham Sign Worlds Most Expensive Mascot

The Crab — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 22:24:30 +0000

Beckham arrives at Spurs

Tottenham Hotspur fans were literally dancing in the discarded heroin needle littered streets of North London after Daniel Levy confirmed David Beckhams arrival at White Hart Lane on a short term deal.

Levels of smug were reaching dangerous proportions as Levy lauded the capture, describing Beckham, 35, as ‘the greatest PR signing of the season.’ Telling press that his arrival will transform the teams fortunes on the pitch and would help sell replica shirts to the far east.

“In Japan we’re just really known fo being Manchester United’s feeder club,” said Levy, parading Beckham like a shiny bauble, “but not any more – now we’re on the map!”

But manager Redknapp was quick to dash suggestions that the ageing war horse was only there to boost the clubs profile and help in the bid to secure the Stratford Olympic Stadium. Nosiree. Reminding press that Mr Beckham would also be helping Lennon learn how to cross, a concept he’d struggled with for nearly four years.

You Are The Ref Mo’Fo

The Crab — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 15:56:12 +0000

Disclaimer: this isn’t our art work.

“It’s just around the corner Mr Abramovich,” confirms Hill Top Taxis

The Crab — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 14:07:17 +0000

"To Heathrow?"

The owner of Hill Top Taxis, Dale Watkins, last night confirmed to press that his finest Estonian taxi driver had been dispatched to Stamford Bridge to collect “one passenger.”

‘It’s just rand the corner,’ Mr Watkins was quoted as saying, verifying internet rumours that Mr Abramovich had ordered a taxi for Italian supremo Carlo Ancelotti following Chelsea’s 3-1 capitulation to Arsenal FC.

In unrelated news Ray Wilkins is said to be pissing himself with laughter.

Ferguson: – Hargreaves is ‘technically still breathing.’

The Crab — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 16:32:01 +0000

"A real trooper."

Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson today threw cold water over rumours linking the league leaders to Lassana Diarra; stating that midfield dynamo Owen Hargreaves, last seen in the year of our Lord 1839, was ‘raring to heal.’

Ferguson described Hargreaves ‘as a real battler’, regaling press with tales of how the England international had recently fought off the spectre of Death with his crutches at the Carrington training ground, much to the delight of his watching team mates.

‘Owen is gearing up for excessive period of healing which will hopefully lead to some training, maybe some reserve games and potentially some tangible first team action in the form of the Carling Cup. If not it’s the knackers yard.’

Sam Allardyce Announced as New Greggs Manager

The Crab — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 22:38:24 +0000

Promising to deliver 'no nonsense' pasties

West Ham fans were briefing a sigh of relief this weekend after High Street bakery Greggs announced the signing of Big Sam Allardyce as their new regional manager for Scunthorpe.

Chief Executive Rajah Smith declared his delight at signing Big Sam and predicted almost immediate results, stating that exciting changes were ahead for the ailing chain following the implementation of Sam’s ‘back to basics’ business plan.

“We’re delighted to have Sam on board,” Mr Smith told the BBC, “not only is he a massive presence behind the counter but also a single minded leader. It wasn’t easy to convince him to join us, he was close to becoming Fergie’s personal arse licker on a full time basis, but he couldn’t resist the allure of a fresh bake. Just like our customers!”Big Sam has promised customers a new stream lined service, a revamp of the chains dusty image and to concentrate on it’s traditional ’strengths.’ Which Sam has identified as earthy fare in the vein of pasties, pies, sausage rolls, ‘big fuck off pies’ and solid lumps of coal drowned in gravy; whilst planning to phase out ‘nonce fuel’ such as ‘paninis and ciabattas.’

More to follow.

Michael Owen’s Diary: Catch Me If You Can

The Crab — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 17:38:58 +0000

"I see you."

Morning muggles. Sorry I haven’t blogged of late it’s been tough getting a wi-fi connection out here on the goal trail. Yeah that’s right, goals as in plural. Not only did I net a brace against Scunthorpe (which you can watch here, preserved forever like my youthful, never ageing face, I’m the Dorian Grey of the Premiership bitches) but I also bagged another header against Bolton. In the Premier League no less. We might as well just call it what it is; a hat-trick of goals.

So I suppose what we’re saying is this, in Wayne’s absence I am Manchester United’s numero uno hit man (in more ways than one). There I said it. Admittedly Javier Hernandez scored a goal against Valencia (big whooop) but we all know that was a fluke. A one off. Alot of people think Little Pea is the next big thing but I know he’s not. And I tell him everyweek so he never forgets. I don’t even call him Little Pea like everyone else, I call him ‘Baby Pea’ because I stub cigarettes out on his arms when Fergie isn’t looking. Just so he knows his place.

I’m sure Neville does the same to Rafael. I see it in his eyes.

So what else has been a happening? Firstly the new series of Dexter started of TV. Excellent. Semi alert. Secondly I bought a new shovel. And thirdly Greater Manchester Police called off the investigation into the disappearance of Paolo, mainly because we received a post card from him the other day. Turns out he’s in Valencia doing a spot of back packing and ‘won’t be coming back.’ Personal trainers I tell you! Glad that’s all resolved even if Louise seems unconvinced. She pointed out that his hand writting has changed and he’s forgotten how to spell his name correctly but as I explained to her, that’s just details. Small little details no one cares about.

Anyway to celebrate the end of this unsavioury episode I burnt everything he’d left behind in the barbecue. As I told Louise it’ll help her move on if we destroy everything that reminded her of him. The clothes he left in the wardrobe, his toiletries, his gym towel, his bed clothes, the letters he wrote to her that I found hidden under her bed, the dress he bought her for her birthday, absolutely everything to do with the perma tanned nonce reduced to ashes. ASHES. It’s like he never fucking existed.

Right I’m off to find Louise. She’s been very silly this week and flirting with me non stop! She’s probably playing hid and seek again as we speak.

But I see her.

Lots of love

Michael Phillip Owen

Hodgson Denies Talk of Crisis as Torres Activates Escape Pod

The Crab — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 23:26:03 +0000

"Do you stop at Eastlands?"

Beleaguered Liverpool boss Woy Hodgson denied that the Merseyside club were on the brink of collapse following their disappointing 0-0 draw with FC Utrecht.

The club, having endured a lacklustre start to the Premier League season, are said to concerned about the mental state of star striker Fernando Torres who didn’t board the team coach after the game, opting instead to activate an escape capsule.

Hodgson told press, whilst avoiding crumbling pillars and cataclysmic fissures between his legs, that things “were fine, tickity boo, business as usual” and confirmed he was not “missing Fulham in anyway shape or form.”

Michael Owen’s Diary: New Season, New Me

The Crab — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 18:13:05 +0000

Well well well we meet again loyal readers. What are the chances? Me an international football icon who can be mistaken for Ryan Reynolds at a distance and you, a nondescript fellow of minimal importance groping in the dark recess of the internet for porn, who no doubt stumbled upon my diary by googling LIVERPOOL + SEX GOD + PROLIFIC.

You lucky beast.

So what have I been doing all these months I hear you ask? Pre-tell Michael what has occupied your days since the World Cup finished and the start of the Premier League season?

Quite a flipping lot I can tell you. Firstly I took it upon myself to show the new signings around their new digs. Cos I’m a saint like that. I took my new ‘rivals’ (Bebe and Hernandez if you didn’t work it out – I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t) on an extensive tour of Manchester’s top tourism sites to help them acclimatize to the north. We took in the The Manchester Art Gallery, The Quarry Bank Mill, The Trafford Shopping Centre…. you name it. It was an hour of culture they’ll never forget. Then after lunch I even drove them to Salford and dressed the guys in ‘ghost’ outfits, took their wallets off them and jettisoned them by a burnt out car for the newbies ‘run home.’ It’s a bit of a tradition at Manchester United that I’m test running this year.

“It’s part of the initiation!” I yelled, as I jabbed Bebe out of my Merc with the aid of broken gin bottle.

You should have seen their little faces! I believe the correct term is ‘LOL’

But it hasn’t only been fun and games and japes in the world of Michael Phillip Owen, nosiree. Poor Louise is still grieving the disappearance of her beloved personal trainer Paolo who went missing roughly two weeks ago on Sunday evening between 11:52pm and 11:54pm, if I had to guess.

I went in to comfort her last night and she was still distraught! The poor lamb.

“I know he’ll be found in a wood by some jogger!” she kept yelling as I held her tightly, looking her square in the shoulder before offering a few reassuring words.

“Firstly dear he won’t be found dead by some over enthusiastic rambler in a wood, erase those morbid thoughts from your mind. No, only an amateur killer would leave a body strewn in a forest or hiking trail, practically begging to be found by a member of the public. A real killer, someone with brains and experience and a heart made of stone, would methodically dismember the body and bury it in a field late at night. You see there are too many roots and scavengers in the woods and the risk of detection is too high. In a field there is nobody to disturb you as you dig dig dig dig. If you were clever you could easily find a recently ploughed field full of soft disturbed ground and dig four feet down within an hour, or an hour and a half if you tweaked a hamstring. And the probability of a farmer noticing anything untoward? Somewhere between zero and fuck all. So no Louise he will not be found in a wood. I promise. If he is dead, and I’m not saying he is, you’ll never find him. Now who is for Pictionary? PICTIONARY!”

Then I yelled at her until she agreed to play me at Pictionary and stop crying. It was like the old days. The happy days. In the evening we even pushed the beds together. But only literally. But it was no mean feat as I still live in Cheshire and she left the chain on. I had to smash through the fucking patio doors at midnight. Still, it proves that where there is a will there is a way and nothing can stop you! It’s the magic formula that got me into the England squad. Just keep plugging away and ignore the voices.

And on Wednesday I got 15 minutes against Rangers. I’ll save that story for another time, but here is a preview. Shot on target.

Wowsar!

Until next time

Michael Phillip Owen.

Arsenal Player Nearly Dies In ‘Innocuous Circumstances’

The Crab — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 23:35:11 +0000

We wish him a speedy recovery. Which is ironic as if he wasn't injured he'd be well quick and ting

Arsenal fans were tonight collectively howling in derision and crying into their fairtrade hummus dipped in Algerian waffers following news that another of their star players faces a lengthy spell on the treatment table. Live wire winger Theo Walcott, who is normally locked safely in a quilted box in the Emirates stadium ‘trophy room’, was left writhing in agony only 10 minutes into England’s Euro qualifier in Switzerland after being lovingly caressed by the opposition.

“It could be worse,” commentated philosophical Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, “if he had been actually tackled he could have been facking killed. Thank Christ it wasn’t De Jong.”

Fabio Capello later confirmed to press that the England winger, who was rushed for scans at a nearby hospital, would be out for ‘two Arsenal weeks.’ Which in real terms means two months/indefinitely/he’ll never recover but instead live a Van Persie-esque half life where he drifts transiently between the ‘world of the fit’ and the ‘world of the dead.’ Occassionally threatening to play consecutive games before-mysteriously-being-struck-down-by-a-fucking-set-back-of-course. Like some super fast ethereal spirit who offers so much and delivers less than a milk man with a diary allergy.