Bertie's Mind Games: Fergie Feels The Pain

An exciting development – I’ve got a new job! I am the new manager of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club! Didn’t see that one coming! Funny how it happened really – this funny little bloke rang on my doorbell and said that they urgently needed a new manager to replace somebody that he can’t talk about for legal reasons (nod nod, wink wink, twitch twitch) and said that he heard that I was Berti Vogts, the famous football manager. I said that I was indeed Bertie Vogts and that I was indeed playing Football Manager (Almeria pushing for a Europa League place actually) and he said ‘Whatever’ and made me sign the contract there and then. I was a bit confused when he asked why I wasn’t wearing my tartan flat cap and kept asking me about the 1974 World Cup Final, but I was just pleased to get out of the house really.

But anyway - our first fixture is against Hearts, but I can’t be arsed going to that one. Therefore I am going to focus all my energies on our game on Monday against Manchester United. And the most important thing as far as I’m concerned is mind games. Mind games, mind games, mind games. Mind games. I’m going to out-mind game Sir Alex Ferguson, who is the manager of Manchester United. I plan to play these mind games in my first press conference, which I will hold in my back garden, next to the bins. This is my first mind game:

I have never been punched in the balls by a ‘fighting drunk’ who thought that I was a Sir Alex Ferguson impersonator. You, Sir Alex Ferguson, have been.

In fact, I don’t even look like Sir Alex Ferguson, so that’ll probably never happen to me. 1-0 to Tottenham - goalscorer Vogts (B), assist The Brain of Vogts. Here comes the second mind game:

I don’t think that X Factor winner Alexandra Burke is a man. You, Sir Alex Ferguson, definitely do think that and definitely said as much.

In fact, I think she doesn’t even look like a man – so where are all your trophies now eh? You know where you can stick your knighthood? In your bottom, that’s where (just in case that wasn’t clear). Speaking of which, here is the final mind game:

I have never driven really quickly down the hard shoulder of the M602 because I was shitting my pants. You, Sir Alex Ferguson, have said that you did so in court, so it must be true.

In fact, I can’t even drive (and I have excellent bowel control facilities) so that would never happen to me. 3-0, after you left your back line completely exposed.

Hooray for the Tottenham boys! We’ve won the mind games! This is bound to have a massive impact on the result on Monday (even bigger than the referee’s traditional interventions in this fixture), but even if not then it doesn’t really matter because we’ve got the mind games in the bag. Let’s see what so-called ‘Sir Alex Ferguson’, in all his bruised genitaled, gender-confusing, shitty-panted glory says back to that. I bet he doesn’t say anything. Therefore I win. Now here's a scouser who probably hated Manchester United, just to rub it in.

My Andy Murray Comedy Heaven

I was watching Wimbledon earlier and it occurred to me that some commentators refer to World No. 4 Andy Murray as Scottish, and some refer to him as British – some even seem to use both forms at various times. My first thought was that this is one of a myriad of examples of the complexities of nationality and identity in the United Kingdom, which is very topical; politically with the Scottish National Party’s huge success in this year’s Holyrood elections, but also in the sporting arena with the furore over non-English participation in the British Olympic football team.

However, my second thought was coming up with a brilliant joke. The joke is as follows: When Andy Murray is winning, he’s British. When he’s losing, he’s Scottish. Hahahahaha!!!! Amazing isn’t it?!?!

How did I come up with it? I’m not entirely sure myself, it was just a touch of genius really! But when you come up with a line as original, unique and unheard of as this one, it’s important to act quickly. Therefore this is my proposed plan to spread my zinging zinger as widely as possible:

1. Immediately get on with the process of getting a copyright put on my witty whimsy – possibly also to include a logo of a British Bulldog playing a drop shot whilst simultaneously dropping a jobbie on the Saltire (as I believe the Scotch would say).

2. Tweet my wizard wisecrack to sports journalists who don’t usually write about tennis (and who aren’t particularly knowledgeable about any sport, but do have Harry Redknapp’s phone number).

3. Go down to the Dog and Bucket and approach the first set of baseball cap-wearer gentlemen I see (who I assume will be huge Andy Roddick fans) with my mystical mirthbag. Watch as they double up with laughter, call me ‘guv’ and insist on buying me a vodka tonic.

4. Ring the producer of a topical comedy panel show, parp my garrulous gag at them, and then gladly accept the booking for this week. On this show I shall also try out some of my developing material, like top observation ‘That Becker was a bit of a card wasn’t he?!’ and family-friendly banter like ‘Murray win Wimbledon? You cannot be serious!’.

5. Accept the offer of the same booking on the same topical comedy panel show for the same week next year, to tell the same jokes. This is on the assumption that the audience (British, Scottish or otherwise) don’t watch tennis at any other point of the year and therefore will have forgotten the previous term’s colourful clowning.

6. Ring Andy Murray’s agent and suggest a hilarious charity doubles team with me and him against Pippa Middleton and regular ‘court jester' Mansour Bahrami, umpired by Cliff. After we’ve lost a point because we’ve all jumped over the net four times, and given our tennis rackets to ballgirls, and been distracted by the sound of Sue Barker laughing really loudly, I can turn to Andy and shout ‘Oh no we’re losing – that means we’re Scottish now!’. Everyone in the crowd will scream their horsey heads off with laughter - it’ll still be funny even though I’m not even Scottish at all(!).

7. National stand-up tour, DVD, charity single (a droll ditty called ‘New Balls Please’ – a duet with Greg Rusedski), regular BBC commentary gig, monthly Metro column looking at 'the lighter side of sport', unsuccessful London mayoral election campaign, A Question of Sport team captaincy, world domination.

But now I think of it, maybe I didn’t come up with it myself. Oh and actually – it’s not really very funny is it? Certainly not funny enough to spend two weeks every year repeating it over and over and over again, all in the vain and fading hope that anybody will think I’m funny or clever. Bit of a shame that. New, more realistic plan required:

1. Retweet this post every year at the start of Wimbledon.

A Question of Sport 3000

As many of my regular readers will have noticed, I am a prolific writer. Unstoppable! Therefore, I figured it was about time I started transferring my skillz (including innovative nue spelling techniqueekz) to the small screen, as a sort of thing to do before I lose my inspiration, ethics and faculties and become a Hollywood screenwriter.

As we all know, television panel shows are entirely scripted. Every last gag, raised eyebrow and faux pas are slaved over by top-class professionals like David Baddiel’s brother and that semi-amusing cockney bloke off Match of the Day 2. The nation’s greatest panel show is, of course, A Question of Sport – no arguments there. In 2006, after 11 years of vicious war, it finally defeated They Think It’s All Over as the top sport-laughs dog, emerging with the glorious, blood-stained prize of Phil Tufnell.

But now there’s a new dog in town, and it’s got bollocks – a load of bollocks. A League of Their Own is now into its second series on Sky 1 and with hilarious japesters like wacky tax-exile Andrew ‘Frankie’ Flintoff and top, top professional soccer analyst James ‘Laugh-out-loud' Redknapp on board, Sky are poised to take over the sporting panel-based guffaw world. You only have to look at the unprecedented international success of Harry Enfield’s Brand Spanking New Show or Baddiel’s Syndrome to see just how powerful Sky have become in the comedy galaxy.

Therefore I have come up with the following proposals to save the jewel in the crown of the BBC being knocked off and falling into the sweaty hands of Corden and Murdoch:

* Moving with the times is important, and the BBC were right to completely revamp the theme tune by adding whistles – it was a gamechanger. But if you listen to young people these days all they talk about is live music, constantly watching shows like SMTV Live on their colour TV’s. Therefore I would hire a supergroup to jam an extended version of the classic theme every week (approximately 8-10 minutes long, depending on whistle solos). This supergroup would include members from hot contemporary bands like Scooch, East 17, One True Voice and Motorhead.

* Sue Barker, Phil Tufnell, Matt Dawson – it’s a dream team, I won’t touch them. But sex sells, so I would ask cheeky rugby-hunk Dawson to wear a belly bar and smouldering cricket stunner Tufnell to lick his lips really slowly every time a member of his team is taking ages on an away question. Sue’s sexy enough.

* Everyone loves the ‘Mystery Guest’ round – oh the tension! Who is it?! Who the hell is it?! However, it’s always slightly embarrassing when it turns out to be Iwan Thomas (again) or some rugby league player that blatantly nobody on the panel has ever heard of. Surely the round would be much improved by taking a 'Through The Keyhole' approach? Matt or Phil could break into the home of a famous athlete and have to guess who lives there. A pilot of this scheme has already been running in the homes of Liverpool players for several years now, so we know it works.

* I think we all remember the time when Kevin Keegan joked that he’d better get the answer to a question right or captain Henry Cooper, a boxer, would punch him! It was a great joke! So great, in fact, that every subsequent captain has used it 15 times a series whenever a boxer or big rugby player has been on their team. I would propose inviting national treasure Ricky Hatton onto the last show of the series and getting Matt to make this joke for every single question. Ricky would take this in good humour until the quickfire round, when he would suddenly turn and viciously beat Matt to a bloody pulp.

* What Happened Next should feature more tits and cocks. It should basically always be a streaker or occasionally a dog.

* Bez to randomly dance in front of the camera in the middle of questions.

* More snooker players (the biggest personalities in sport). Greg Rusedski to constantly fire big serves at the guest sitting to Phil’s left, Steve Backley to repeatedly throw javelins at the guest on Matt’s right. Horses and elephants let loose in the studio. Less lewd jokes and blue material. Cats wearing baseball caps with different Bolton players on them. A tug of war contest after every round (possibly every question? We can discuss in the production meeting). Noel Edmonds.

The words I would want viewers to associate with the show are MADCAP and PERIL. With these ideas I believe I am the man to revamp AQOS for the 21st Century and beyond into the next millenium and probably the one after that. Somebody please tell me how to email this to the manager of the BBC, who I think is called John Birt or possibly Bert John.

Roy Hodgson blows election wide open

The election campaign took a dramatic late twist last night as Fulham manager Roy Hodgson came out in support of the Labour party. Political and sports pundits are already calling the move a ‘gamechanger’, similar to some of the gamechanging substitutions that Hodgson, 62, has made in Fulham’s triumphant run to this season’s Europa League final. Today Westminster and Wembley alike are asking this question: ‘Could Roy deliver Gordon Brown an even bigger scalp than that of Juventus and Shakhtar Donetsk?’

The revelation came as many were writing off Labour’s chances of forming another government, or even surviving as a political force. But as Craven Cottage season ticket holder Paul Blocks points out, many were saying similar things about Fulham’s Premiership survival chances back in December 2007:

“I really don’t think you can underestimate ‘The Roy Effect’. If he can turn around Damien Duff’s career, then why not Ruth Kelly’s? If Roy can give Bobby Zamora the belief to look like an international striker, then surely David Blunkett can begin to believe that he’s a Labour MP rather than a bigoted tabloid columnist? He doesn’t have much time to turn it around, but anything’s possible with Roy. And he’s just a really lovely guy.’

A Labour source agrees that Hodgson has the sort of popular appeal that most political figures could only dream of. “To be honest, we had kind of given up. Roy has managed to turn Fulham into everyone’s second favourite team in much the same way that the Lib Dems are everybody’s second favourite party, so we were worried he was going to go with them just like the bloody Guardian has done. But he’s proven time and time again that he’s not worried about fashion and he loves a challenge. And ultimately he’s such a nice bloke”.

“He has that same sort of basic likeability that Blair has, which is why we brought him back into the campaign. But Blair has too much history - that whole ‘war criminal’ tag is a bit of a downer. Roy, however, barely has any bad points on his CV, even after 62 years. OK he didn’t do well at Blackburn, but once he realised it wasn’t working he pulled out of the whole situation with a lot of face-saving dignity. Unfortunately we didn’t do the same in Iraq…’

Pollsters agree that Hodgson has the ability to galvanise Labour’s support on policy areas where they were previously struggling. A Comres/ITV Sport poll taken immediately after the shock announcement saw a sudden rise in the number of voters who thought that Labour had the best immigration policy. One respondent fed back with the following:

‘Previously, I always thought of immigrants as mercenaries who would come over here, take our jobs and then go back home with all the money and skills they’d acquired. But then I thought of how Roy has been an immigrant in several countries – winning national titles in Sweden and Denmark, getting Switzerland into Euro 96, nearly getting Finland into Euro 2008… They must have all originally thought, ‘Who’s this English bloke with a weird voice who looks like an owl? What does he know? Why is he flocking over here?’ But he charmed them all with his politeness, ability and general class. So now I love immigrants so much that I’m sending away for a Russian bride.’

With May 6th fast approaching, voters have a whole new dilemma on their hands. When they’re inside the polling booths are they going to think about a fresh start under a Conservative or perhaps even Liberal Democrat government? Are they going to think about Labour’s perceived failing on faith schools, banking regulations and electoral reform?

Or are they going to think about that goal Simon Davies scored against Hamburg? The fact that Aaron Hughes has played over 50 games this season and is still willing to give more for Roy’s sake? Are they going to take the view that once 62-year-old legend Roy Hodgson is on board, it’s just hard to say no?

On May 7th, we will find out. And even if it isn’t Labour’s year, at least they’ll be able to say that Roy Hodgson made everyone feel really great about themselves. After all, he’s such a smashing chap.

'Rocketman' Glen 'Shoves' Crouch into Contention and Gives Fabio a 'Penny' for His Thoughts

‘Crouch goes. I don’t care if Bent and Defoe score 50 goals between them before the end of the season. I don’t care if Heskey leads Villa to a very unlikely title. I don’t care if there’s only one striker picked – Crouchie is going to the World Cup and that’s the end of it.’

Unfortunately for Peter Crouch, these are not the words of England manager Fabio Capello, but rather those of his international team mate Glen Johnson. ‘He can play up on his own, he can play with Rooney, with Defoe - no problem. He can do anything. He’s just fabulous.’

Johnson, affectionately nicknamed ‘The Rocketman’ by his Liverpool colleagues (‘Because I’m always ‘rocketing’ down the right wing, ha ha ha!’) was speaking to me at the inaugural Glen Johnson Shove Ha'penny Youth Shield at The Navigator Wetherspoons pub in Stoneycroft, Merseyside.

‘Yeah I think it’s a really good idea to get kids involved in this kind of stuff. Admittedly nobody’s turned up yet. I think I said 8pm on the poster I put up in the leisure centre but, you know, getting them off the streets… and into a pub - it’s a classic Shove venue isn’t it?

‘OK, I suppose they’ll probably drink here and then go back onto the street, but it’s keeping them out of trouble for a bit isn’t it? And it is very cheap. Wetherspoon’s have been very supportive to the whole Shield concept throughout.’

JD Wetherspoon’s lawyers have asked me to point out that they do not endorse the Glen Johnson Shove Ha’penny Youth Shield and do not have a corporate policy on Shove Ha’penny in general.

The fundraising event was intended to mark the launch of The Glen Johnson Foundation and although Johnson is yet to register his venture with the Charity Commission, he insists it’s an important project and that most of the proceeds will go to a charity. The foundation tackles what Johnson calls ‘the social evil of badger-baiting’ but he was less than responsive when I asked him if badgers have played an important part in his life.

‘No’, he replied frostily, ‘I’d rather not discuss this for personal reasons.’

Sensing Johnson’s reluctance to engage, I asked him why he thought the old English pub game Shove Ha'penny was the best way to engage with intimidating hooded youngsters.

‘Well you know, it’s good old-fashioned fun isn’t it? Hope the kids don’t steal the coins though! Ha ha! But seriously, it’s just a bit of a laugh, like we used to have in the old days, before Pokemon, steroids and Steven Seagal films took over. I remember back when I was in the youth team at West Ham, me and Joe Cole used to leap frog on each other all the way to the training ground from our digs. Our coach called us crazy because we lived five miles away, but I don’t think he understood what a top laugh it was! Ha ha ha ha!’ he chuckled.

‘Of course, I wrote a chapter about the sort of joker I am for my book, but I suppose nobody will read it now,’ Johnson said, lowering his head and staring into his Pear Kopparberg.

He was, of course, referring to 'Glen n Crouchie 4 eva n eva', Johnson’s homoerotically-charged memoirs, which were cruelly dismissed by critics as an ‘autoBIography’ and sold just 27 copies in the month after publication, resulting in the remaining stock being pulped soon after. The 2368-page publication surprised many by choosing to focus primarily on The Rocketman’s strong feelings for his former Portsmouth team mate Peter Crouch.

‘Look, let’s just get this clear now yeah? Me and Crouchie are good friends, that’s all. I don’t speak to him as often as I’d like to, I think he’s quite busy at Spurs now. But there’s no sexual relationship between us and there never has been, fact. As for whether there never will be... well, it’s not for me to say.’

Peter Crouch’s lawyers have asked me to assert there will never be a sexual relationship between their client and Mr Johnson.

As Johnson came back from the bar with two more bottles of Lucky, he started to complain about referees and how they were costing teams dearly in the race to finish in the top four of the Premier League this season. I asked if there were any decisions against his Liverpool team which had angered him recently and whether he felt frustrated with the injury that has restricted him to the touchline recently.

‘Oh, well, I can’t think of any off the top of my head. I don’t watch Liverpool much to be honest, but I did watch their match against Spurs the other night. Bloody disgrace - Kyrgiakos pulled Crouchie’s shirt and hauled him down in the area and the moron linesman gives a free kick to Liverpool! Same thing happened to him against Hull at the weekend. It made me think, what does Crouchie have to do to stop people pulling his shirt? I’ve decided that he should wear a bodypaint shirt instead, they wouldn’t be able to pull on his lovely tight skin – and if they tried, they’d have me to answer to. He should wear bodypaint shorts as well, just in case. I think that would be… amazing. And fair.’

And bodypaint socks?

‘Oh no, there’s no need, nobody’s going to pull on them. And after all, the fans all want to see Crouchie roll them slowly down his long, thin, sumptuous leg at the end of a match and you can’t do that with bodypaint can you? Ha ha ha ha!’

I agreed. Unfortunately, at some point during this lengthy discussion my tape recorder ran out of battery and my memory went down with a particularly vicious Pernod shot, making the rest of the evening a bit of haze. I can clearly remember a lot of tabletop robot dancing and Johnson loudly remonstrating with the DJ when he wouldn’t put ‘Mambo Number Five’ on the sound system. Luckily the DJ defused the situation, just before it could turn nasty, by pointing out that he wasn’t a DJ but rather a barman, there was no sound system and he’d turn the TV onto Sky Sports News in case Crouchie popped up at some point.

As Johnson stumbled into the minicab outside he said goodbye by bellowing ‘I’d better ‘rocket’ home, I don’t want Rafa to ‘rocket’ me in training, even if I am ‘The Rocketman’. Ha ha ha ha!’ As I wandered around looking for a kebab shop, I reflected that he was the finest brand ambassador that Timotei Shampoo could possibly have and suddenly felt sure that, with The Rocketman launching forward, England are destined for glory this summer.

Out of office autoreply

To whom it may concern,

This blog is out of the office on a potty training course. If your curiosity is urgent then please see my guest post on the topic of Friday the 13th on the excellent PonderBoxes blog on this here link: http://tinyurl.com/ycssn97 or leave a message with my personal assistant, Miss Josephina Buttocksworth.

Forever yours,

BV

xxx

Why Watson's Newsagents Milk Will Destroy Humanity

After a recent weekend visit to Mother Vogts I was awoken on a cold Monday morning by some bog-standard utterances; 'turn the fire off', that it was 'bloody freezing' and that 'the bus stop is out of use because they're still digging the road up'. So far, so familiarly annoying. However, then I was informed in no uncertain terms that 'the milk is on the turn'.

This alarmed me greatly. Practical woman that she is, I know that to my mum 'on the turn' is roughly analogous to 'we went away on holiday for a month, the stable door is broken, the cow is gone, you're not supposed to keep cows in stables are you actually, what crap farmers we are, we should probably bolt the door now... but oh look, it's left a puddle of milk behind over there by that swarm of flies'. In other words, I wasn't looking forward to breakfast.

However on this occasion the terminology was appropriate; an ill-advised sniff of the carton in question confirmed that it did reek, but it didn't completely destroy my Co-op own brand Whole Wheat Biscuits nor hideously impair my Sainsbury's Red Label Tea (none of your Basics rubbish at Vogts HQ). And indeed nor should it have done, since it was the 19th and the expiry date on the carton was the 22nd. The idea of actually using that milk on the 22nd fills me with so much dread that I'm coming out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. This sweat, incidentally, would probably better accompany some Waitrose Muesli on that day than the milk would.

The reason for this freshness catastrophe? Watson's Newagent's Milk (WNM).

For those who don't know what I'm referring to, I should state that this is not the official name of the product. Nor, as far as I know, is anybody milking newsagents. That would be unfair on them - after all, they are already feeling marginalised by being unable to flog cancersticks to kids quite as freely as before.

No, I’m referring to the kind of milk you buy in a newsagent's shop. I don't want to get into a PR war with Watson's. They look like the kind of major multinational who could bust my ass into next Wednesday, which is incidentally longer than any of their milk purchased from today onwards would last. Therefore, in the interest of fairness, I'll say right now that I believe all milk bought from corner shops is inferior bilgewater.

However it's my sad duty to confirm that on three separate occasions, from three different shops, I’ve experienced milk of that particular brand expiring prior to the stated date of expiry. It breaks my heart every time, not to mention my balls. I only ever get WNM out of convenience (usually on the way home from the pub), so it's pretty bloody inconvenient when you notice that it's stinking up the fridge when you were about to put some on your Asda Wheat Bisks (I live in South London, I can't afford airs and graces).

Why don't I learn from my mistake? When this crushing disappointment happened a few times at work they set up a Milk Club, collecting money so they could get lovely fresh milk delivered just to dribble in their hot beverages. I was astounded by the ingenuity of this scheme and yet that night came into my house, opened the fridge and took a quick swig of a WNM on its last legs. I made this face:

Where does my stupidity end? Will I continue to buy seven bananas a week even though I only feel like one every other day and they're only edible for about 3.5 of those days anyway? Will I continue to believe my friend when he says he can meet me straight after work in the pub when he is on average 36 minutes late every time? Will I vote for the same unnamed party in the next general election that I voted for in the last one, even though on average I only like two out of every 10 policy initiatives they announce? Don't get me wrong - I love fruit, friends and John Prescott but sometimes enough is enough!

I therefore resolved to storm back to SW8, get a good night's sleep and wake up the next day with a new vigour geared at changing society for the better. I could start eating kiwi fruits instead of bananas! I could start doing yoga instead of going to the pub! I could write a cutting-edge political blog, engendering a social revolution in the way my peers view language and power instead of writing a load of bollocks about advertising and Peter Crouch!

But as I settled down for the night, I remembered the fatal flaw in my plan. Last week I had cleverly planned to have some milk left in the fridge for Tuesday's breakfast. It should have been just about enough to cover my morning requirements (see above) and it was just within its expiry date. However, it was not from Somerfield, Tesco or Morrison's. I would have had an outside chance with Iceland. Watsons had foiled me again.

Social revolution over. Toast on. I'll never learn.