Having to watch that crap last night, Liverpool losing to Crystal Palace (bloody heck) was like stopping at the scene of a horrific car accident – you don’t really want to, but a certain morbid fascination keeps you glued.
Okay, I admit it: the Champions of Europe suck – we really do. First, I couldn’t tell who the heck was playing with that all-white strip. I think the players seemed a bit confused too: they could hardly string 4 passes together. Harry Kewell looked like the crap he is, dude has no movement at all. Harry Potter and David Raven shouldn’t be playing pro football at all, but Zak Whitbread had a bit of a go, which was bully for him.
And of course, Steven Gerrard was all over the show, predictably, though it’s never really enough, is it? But my story of the game has to be that giraffe, that bean-pole, that bunch of hockey sticks glued together, Spurs, QPR, Pompey, Villa, Norwich, Southampton and now Liverpool’s very own six feet seven inches of Peter Crouch.
Let’s face it people, the guy is crap. Good touch for a big man? Pah, he hardly ever gets any touches. And my 5-yr-old niece could beat him to a high ball. Why did we buy this lanky prayng-mantis of a striker? I just don’t get it. I was one of the aye-sayers, giving the Beni-fit (see what I did there?) of the doubt to the manager, but after watching this guy fail consistently, I’m at the end of my tether.
At least it was heartening to see Nando get a few touches in, maybe he can rescue me from this Sissy and Crouch madness.
/me walks alone