by Niels and Erich
In sports, as in life, pleasure comes as much from the suffering of one’s enemies as from the success of one’s allies and heroes. What would warm my commie heart more? A Nader presidency or a coupling of gonorrhea and kidney stones for each member of the Bush administration? I cannot say.
So, which brand of football offers the greatest opportunity for schadenfreude? The only way to answer this question is to discover which sport has the biggest cunts, in whose suffering and failure we might rejoice. So we will play a game of war, each of us having stacked our deck of cunt cards in advance with the most despicable athletes that our continents have managed to produce.
Is there a more celebrated player in the NFL than Ray Lewis? I’ve seen his little pre-game, “I’m the leader of this defense” song and dance more over my lifetime than the moonwalk and robot combined. And, apart from the time that Ray and his friends murdered a man by beating him to death, then Ray ratted out his buddies to avoid jail time and sent them down the river, you have to admit that Lewis is a stand up guy. Seriously, I don’t get it. Sports writers love convenient platforms to moralize. Steroids, gambling, skipping practices, taking plays off–all excuses for bogus sanctimony. But stomping some poor bastard into the grave? “We’ll give you a pass on that one, just keep dancin’ Ray Ray. And don’t murder any white people, for Pete’s sake.”
Ray makes OJ look like Jean Valjean. Not only did he get away with murder from a legal point of view, he still gets to do commercials. He laid the icing on the cake this year by claiming that his quarterback, Steve McNair, was unceremoniously dismissed from his previous team (in favor of another black quarterback) because of racism. Sorry sport, when you splatter somebody’s face across the sidewalk and wind up with million dollar endorsement deals, your race card is revoked. The biggest problem with Ray is that, there is no suffering to delight in and no taunts to participate in. Because the media have let him slide, the fans have as well. Where are the chants of “murrrr-derrrrr?” Why haven’t Cleveland’s fans nicknamed him The Juice? For those of us with memories spanning beyond the last Pepsi commercial, the only hope for an entertaining Ray Lewis is a snapped femur on a Monday night. There was a taste of satisfaction this year as he missed the Pro Bowl and attributed it to the fact that the other players “don’t know how to vote.” Here’s hoping that this is an appetizer in a feast of Lewis failures and melt downs.
The word ’cunt’ has a kind of negative ring to it, doesn’t it? And yet, the most hateable bastards in football are the bread and butter of the game. They draw the headlines, they fill the stands and – in the case of Ollie Kahn – literally provide the daily bread for banana vendors all over Europe.
A pet cunt of mine is former German international Stefan Effenberg (probably still plying his trade in Quatar where all great players go to die). Effe got his last cap for a good while during WC 1994, when he greeted booing Germany fans with the Stinkefinger.
So Ray Lewis killed a man? That’s a solid 10 for sheer cuntitude to be sure, but Stefan Effenberg’s trail of scandals score in the double digits for hilarity and number of “fuck yous”’ to friend and foe alike. Effe, you’ll be missed.
Those of us who enjoy a good train wreck will always miss Freddie Mitchell; the man who developed a rep as a buffoonish braggart, while playing the same position on the same team as TO. Freddie also proved once and for all that whatever gene increases the chance of sickle cell anemia is paired with another that destroys the fashion sense center in the brain. A time line of Freddie’s brief career, in his own words:
“I’d like to thank my hands for being so great.”
“the Patriots aren’t that good.”
“Coach Vermeil asked me not to talk.”
“They said it was a business decision, … It wasn’t about my athletic ability or anything else. They know I have a tear in my meniscus [cartilage]. There were no bridges burned. I’m going to get ready to play, and maybe I’ll be back. I’m open to [all 32] teams right now, and there’s no telling what I’ll do.”
No telling what he’ll do indeed. Rumor has it that Freddie moved onward and upward to the field of substitute teaching, before “being cut” for hitting up high school girls for their numbers. I’d like to think Freddie’s still running his mouth against rivals, perhaps claiming to not even know the names of Mayor McCheese and the Hamburglar.
Jesus Gíl y Gíl
Many a football fan suffers from the delusion that the big guns in FIFA and UEFA are the worst scum in the business. What they forget is that people like Blatter and Johansson have made it to the top because they had at least a semblance of respectability about them. No, for real in-your-face cocksuckery, look to the club presidents of Southern Europe. I’ll give Bernard Tapie and Silvio Berlusconi a pass this time and instead focus on a man who never let a sense of right and wrong interfere with business: The late president of Atlético Madrid, Jesus Gíl y Gíl.
Apart from his awesome name, Jesus has my undying respect for his time as autocratic club president, autocratic mayor of Marbella and shady businessman. From 1988 to 1994, he hired and fired no less than 12 managers, all of whom had to live by these rules: 1. Gíl chose the team for every match. 2. Gíl could and would appear in the dressing room before, during and after games. 3. Business trumped tactics. Players holding out on signing new contracts would be mocked, buggered and benched. 4. In all respects, president > coach. 5. The coach’s job description included spying on his players in night clubs. 6. If Gíl was away, technical secretary > coach. 7. Transfer policy fell under the president’s jurisdiction. 8. Physios are sissies and quacks. Assessing the fitness of players fell under the president’s jurisdiction. Indeed, nobody fucked with the Jesus.
Other random facts: Gíl y Gíl became mayor representing a party called GÍL .
In 1969, the property tycoon found himself having to explain why the roof on a restaurant he had built collapsed and killed 58 people.
In 2003, he was given a three-and-a-half year sentence for financial transactions in connection with Atlético Madrid.
RIP, GIL. May the lid on your coffin never collapse.
The Flanders Girl Hydra
Ah, football’s most famous family: the Fladerses. Remember when people used to yammer on about how Archie had been a great player on a poor team? And then it wasn’t Peyton’s fault that Tennessee didn’t when a title until he left. Then it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t even get to the Super Bowl with Harrison, Edge and Wayne at his disposal. Now Eli is losing because Shockey and Plaxico are cocks. And Lyndon Larouche would be president if not for the machinations of the British royal family. The last time I saw so much choking, Rocco Siffredi’s left ass cheek was occupying half my computer screen and to be blunt, I was rubbing one out on all of these occasions. The Mannings loose because they have the toughness and scrappiness of the Flanders family, thus their Ruthless nickname. They’re bland, boring players completely lacking flair, fire and scrotums. They are wintergreen, ice milk eating girls. They will always fail in the end, and I will always be masturbating to it.
And how do such a pair of bland motherfuckers as Rod and Todd become media darlings? We’re talking about a couple of young athletes who are have no charisma, are complete lames and loose. What’s so exciting about that?. Every time I see Peyton corpsing it up in some commercial, I think of the “Seinfeld” where Jerry get’s a little boy’s haircut. I’m not going to buy a cell phone or a satellite dish from some hay seed who walks into his barber’s, asks if he can break a ten and gets the “Andy Griffith.”
Thanks to Margaret Thatcher, Britain has nurtured and cultivated its working class like no other western European country. Blue-collar workers are a dying race in the northern part of the continent, and the few remaining speciments all have broadband connections and like to get their weekend buzz from fashionable, pricy Belgian beers. Not so on the British Isles, where a good part of the population still adhere to old fashioned values like slapping the missus around and wearing Adidas tracksuits all day, all week, all year. Bless the old Iron Twat, for without the destitute East London neighbourhoods, I’m sure we would never have had the chance to sip our morning coffee to the many juicy headlines involving Lee Bowyer.
In his first season in the Premiership, 1994, Lee was given a lengthy ban for failing a cannabis test. Ok, smoking weed is not capital murder, but it’s also not exactly a popular drug in the London jet-set. You’d think a Premiership player would have the self-respect to get his hands of some cocaine, but I guess you can’t buy class. From then on, LB continually refined his chav manners with a consistency one has to admire. In 1996, he decided to treat himself to a fancy dinner at a London McDonald’s and allegedly greeted the staff with the line “I don’t want to be served by no Paki.”
One of his ex-girlfriends, who is half-Asian, broke up with him after he declared one night that they couldn’t have any kids together because it might result in a ‘throwback’. When she asked him what he meant, he replied: “You know, we could have a brown baby. It could be the colour of your mum.”
Bon appetite, dear readers.
He was later charged with – and acquitted of – assault on a Pakistani student after a night out in Leeds
Little Lee’s finest hour, however, came in April 2005 when he got into a brawl with teammate Kieron Dyer over…well, nobody knows, really. Attacking the opposition is one thing, but few players fail to understand that physical attacks on teammates tend to have a somewhat negative effect on team spirit on and off the pitch.
In short, Lee Bowyer seems to have spend his entire career going through the UN human rights charter backwards and upside down. For a player who was once considered one of England’s finest young talents, Bowyer’s last few years have mostly looked like the Titanic running aground on Atlantis, and if his latest appearance for West Ham (in a 6-0 hammering by Reading) is anything to go by, he may soon find himself on the seabed.